tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9160334573328768932024-03-19T01:26:10.927-07:00Doe Ray Me Far....Learnings, musings and a vision....Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916033457332876893.post-7348104814612888122010-03-27T11:06:00.000-07:002010-07-09T20:09:35.366-07:00A sneak peak at New York-The city of form<div style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i><b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A sneak peek at New York City<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>A somber, gloomy mood on a Monday morning lit up almost immediately the moment I was told I would need to travel to the United States of America for an official conference. America was just an image so far and I hadn’t expected to visit the place so early in my career. Of course, I was excited. The excitement of the trip, the mayhem of going through the procedures of procuring the visa, making sure I had all the warm clothing and my fine thick overcoat to combat the chill winter in New York, (which I managed to forget at the security check just before boarding the aircraft), not to mention the last minute nervous breakdown until I and my overcoat took off with Emirates were enough to set the tone of the new experience I was about to discover. Whatever it is, there’s nothing like a first time experience and that’s when I realized I should document every bit of it.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>After a tiring eighteen hours of journey via Dubai, we reached New York at around 1:00 pm. I glanced out of the window expecting to see snow everywhere. The sunshine confirmed it was not to be so, for a day or two. Yes, I was a little disappointed unless I stepped out and felt the chill wind and realized it was different. I was thrilled once again and immediately surprised at how desperately I wanted this to be altogether so different from my usual experiences. We all have our preconceptions and how triumphant we feel when those match with reality! True, it seldom does.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>Without much difficulty, I managed to find my way to the hotel that was arranged for us. Roger Williams, 5 th avenue Madison Street. Throughout the trip, my eyes were all set to swallow every tiny bit of detail. It was mid February and the trees had either their branches up towards the mighty heaven or their leaves hanging like golden tresses of a witch. The grass had a different tinge of green altogether. A recurring question I had was how could the shade of green be so different from place to place? I guess it’s similar to people’s skin tone! </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>Anyways, here, the houses, the streets, the way people park their vehicles, the shops, the government offices all looked quite different except the color of the skies. The grass looked trimmed, the trees were all lined up in neat rows, the streets were spick and span, smooth, and strangely all the traffic lights seemed to be working. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #eeeeee; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsFkej_dABghVGT6-cXDbPfXljO83EHBFSA76n2gG7Vqu9Wl3JG7C6HwAesAMjH1brVZP8Yp6hNBYQHp9ypSCI-d0nD0RFXj2DD93DkJ5d3l9ySyN-B2GNrYPXq1jXHmpllTIr9OPZLNi/s1600/100_1969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsFkej_dABghVGT6-cXDbPfXljO83EHBFSA76n2gG7Vqu9Wl3JG7C6HwAesAMjH1brVZP8Yp6hNBYQHp9ypSCI-d0nD0RFXj2DD93DkJ5d3l9ySyN-B2GNrYPXq1jXHmpllTIr9OPZLNi/s200/100_1969.jpg" width="200" /></a><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>We entered Manhattan NYC, the land of skyscrapers. The streets looked narrower, the buildings even taller and the sidewalks broader. There was a strange order everywhere. Things were uniform. The most striking thing for me was the way people followed the rules of traffic. There wasn’t a human traffic regulator anywhere to be seen yet people seemed to have been regulated by some universal authority. The traffic looked like automated toys pausing and resuming activity at the flash of the red, the green and the yellow. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>It was cold and dark, around 4 degree Celsius, 5.00pm when I reached the hotel but nothing could stop me from going out again. It was a perfect damp weather when you would easily choose the cozy comforts of the hotel suit. But this was not just another place. I couldn’t afford to lose any bit of the moment.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>Completely bundled up from head to toe with my thick overcoat, ear muffs, gloves and hand warmer tucked in my coat pockets, I placed the woolen cap carefully on my tiny head, took one final look at the mirror and set off to explore the New York City.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>As I had already mentioned, the weather was damp quite immediately after 4:00 pm. The sunshine that welcomed us was nowhere to be seen. The buildings, rather the skyscrapers were mostly painted grey and red(brick), a five feet broad balcony and iron steps were all that defined an external entrance to any of the apartments, unlike our spacious verandahs. Overall there was a tinge of dullness all around unless suddenly lights lit up and a festive mood encompassed the dullness of a setting day. It was quite a transition. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #eeeeee; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzgsbVGKGSRu9S6-TUYpDDS-wHjgueFSEp-E0AnJEwdVO6hSg8MMfOpw6kHIFzyMXURmBR6OHgwuVOqJu3qtsV7Gnlhn4VjCmobjekajmMW5fJhzMVw_mG3pQiwYI2LzN3oE10SBmys0G/s1600/100_2122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzgsbVGKGSRu9S6-TUYpDDS-wHjgueFSEp-E0AnJEwdVO6hSg8MMfOpw6kHIFzyMXURmBR6OHgwuVOqJu3qtsV7Gnlhn4VjCmobjekajmMW5fJhzMVw_mG3pQiwYI2LzN3oE10SBmys0G/s200/100_2122.jpg" width="200" /></a><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>According to the recommendations of the receptionist at the hotel, I headed towards Times Square. It is something no one would want to miss, a different experience altogether. It’s nothing but a hub with shops, malls, eateries and everything else that a perfect hangout place could have. But what make it different are the lookout screens that display a host of attractive pieces apart from commercials. It’s there that you feel even the skyscrapers are walking, running, laughing and participating in all the mirth of the event. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #eeeeee; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNC6hNYY3YWmMHbsPlkOaBfAPMOYsHqHreSzH0-0iauEsJotEXFbjeqjaUjwP1svXxt6v4jpmSGA6iv8nlweZEefKM3cI5h6VpqfMytBAush5Ywp0ISIUSYiNezJyMHW7xenKOjV1f_3ED/s1600/IMG_0086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNC6hNYY3YWmMHbsPlkOaBfAPMOYsHqHreSzH0-0iauEsJotEXFbjeqjaUjwP1svXxt6v4jpmSGA6iv8nlweZEefKM3cI5h6VpqfMytBAush5Ywp0ISIUSYiNezJyMHW7xenKOjV1f_3ED/s200/IMG_0086.JPG" width="200" /></a><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>At 350 Fifth Avenue, my eyes constantly went up scanning a building that seemed extraordinary with its tip totally decked up in red and green. After asking some people, I got to know it is the infamous, Empire State Building. The view from the 86 th and 102nd floor was simply amazing. I could literally see every bit of New York City and its neighboring cities from the observatory, New Jersey, Brooklyn, Rochester and several others. The entry fees cost some $20s and with another extra $10 we received a wireless commentary that explained every bit of the view and places we could stretch our eye sight to. The beautiful Brooklyn Bridge connecting <span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattan" title="Manhattan">Manhattan</a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">and</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooklyn" title="Brooklyn">Brooklyn</a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">spanning over the</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_River" title="East River">East River</a> looked simply decked up for a bridal evening. </span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #eeeeee; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KE5FqU2-d4J2GOxzfW4H0JXy5rk1QCBVdjhgZDEotJcQde-iiElwYKeLRgU6XhKAniLhRXx6a2KrpO5oWZ9N6exKVjqfEqLF1tzZV2SUvvQ7IbAA5XNQhG-5q5jL3xIj4oiSiKqtLHl6/s1600/100_2179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KE5FqU2-d4J2GOxzfW4H0JXy5rk1QCBVdjhgZDEotJcQde-iiElwYKeLRgU6XhKAniLhRXx6a2KrpO5oWZ9N6exKVjqfEqLF1tzZV2SUvvQ7IbAA5XNQhG-5q5jL3xIj4oiSiKqtLHl6/s200/100_2179.jpg" width="200" /></a><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>Early morning next day, I took a day and night tour for $20. It included a hop on and hop off bus tour covering all of down town, up town and Brooklyn. The idea of a hop on and hop off bus tour is that you don’t need to cling to one bus that’s allotted to you. You can get down at a specific sight and spend some time there. There are busses from the tour agency arriving at specific tourist spots every half an hour. Once you are done, you can get abroad one of such busses after showing your ticket and continue your journey. It was flexible and the most convenient once for specially folks who wanted to get down whenever we saw or heard of a nice shopping complex or folks who wanted to take pics or a walk. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>One absolutely extraordinary thing about this tour was the jovial guide who entertained us with his brilliant sense of humor, detailed history of places, anecdotes and several other interesting tips. Some of his interesting tips still keep ringing again and again. He said “There’s a difference between a traveler and a tourist. A tourist is somebody who comes directly to the hotel from the airport, sets of the next day on a tour package, has meals in remarkable tourist dining halls, shops in the famous malls and has their entire trip planned out well in advance. A traveler on the other hand weights out each hotel in terms of price, comfort and convenience, talks to the local people to identify the best places for sightseeing, shopping and dining. Conducts self research and knows whether they like shopping or sightseeing better, uses yellow taxis or the metro instead of tourist busses. They wouldn’t have their meals in specific hotels. They hop in to a restaurant, order starters, taste the food pay bills and move on. They hop into another restaurant with a different cuisine to taste that and so on and so forth. I thought the later sounded better and it was quite candid of him to give that suggestion. The best way to know a place is to understand the culture and mingle with the locale. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>We reached Chruch Street Road and I couldn’t help but get down from the bus. It’s the place where once the infamous World Trade Center twin towers stood. <span class="apple-converted-space">The very site of the vacant space sent jitters through my veins. The place is a construction site now with severe attempts to bring back the two towers along with memories of the people who met with the tragedy. </span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #eeeeee; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70HA2IMf30v7HVYyiPz4MsvAyfzErbyFr724H6UikVmz_8eQ3bcx1ByTH-eKT_ko3ZRG7mLHy5oHr5le9WI74Gm-fMF5nKY_u65zximJUyaUEe3tOBYy_wWpyEyilidWfyE9z6Fto3kHP/s1600/100_1983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg70HA2IMf30v7HVYyiPz4MsvAyfzErbyFr724H6UikVmz_8eQ3bcx1ByTH-eKT_ko3ZRG7mLHy5oHr5le9WI74Gm-fMF5nKY_u65zximJUyaUEe3tOBYy_wWpyEyilidWfyE9z6Fto3kHP/s200/100_1983.jpg" width="200" /></a><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i><span class="apple-converted-space"></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>Right after this, we headed towards the Statue of Liberty in a <span class="apple-style-span">ferry</span>. The island was a conglomeration of people from all parts of the world, all bundled up to beat the winter. The history of the statue of liberty signifies the bond between France and America. In 1865, <span class="apple-style-span">Edouard Rene Lefebvre de Laboulaye, a leader of the "liberalsonce commented at a dinner party that the people of France should offer the people of America a monument as a lasting memorial to independence and</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> liberty that they cherish. France had already established this passion for freedom and liberty by supporting America in its struggle for freedom during the American Revolution. This comment did strike a chord in one of the guests present there, </span><span class="apple-style-span">Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, a successful, 31-year-old sculptor from Colmar, a town in the eastern province of Alsace, France. Later Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi designed what came to be known as the Statue of Liberty commemorating the two countries passion for freedom and liberty. A look at the </span>New York Harbor definitely gives you a bird’s eye view of a completely new world; radiant, sophisticated and one that is only born to rise higher and higher like the numerous skyscrapers. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i></i></div><div style="color: #eeeeee;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yGNacdr8gV2cFmuEXD1AnIf4BgDIETfuKzJebuOXTtZzjWQgUr690WUqh8sRdwSS-qsyFCJLzNFTsPWunmmazmeGODb126saFUngHzaPclPA4tE-gVloe3Sf0nUveRnk3x0a-KJ6IsWq/s1600/100_2051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yGNacdr8gV2cFmuEXD1AnIf4BgDIETfuKzJebuOXTtZzjWQgUr690WUqh8sRdwSS-qsyFCJLzNFTsPWunmmazmeGODb126saFUngHzaPclPA4tE-gVloe3Sf0nUveRnk3x0a-KJ6IsWq/s200/100_2051.jpg" width="150" /></a><i>The day was exhilarating and I decided to call it off and resign to the cozy comforts of the hotel. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJr4mJAbzxA16VcXQFOl_mklbVNdhiVr_dWov0tdbxmuFLe9iT2S7GUTtQ1OwbGsWpCKSmC7M5bXheVkZTbHLP333qUCaqZ_-XmaW_BTSn4t6BrW2eINsVhm3gYYO3FqARnTWqC_3jEQeL/s1600/100_2164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJr4mJAbzxA16VcXQFOl_mklbVNdhiVr_dWov0tdbxmuFLe9iT2S7GUTtQ1OwbGsWpCKSmC7M5bXheVkZTbHLP333qUCaqZ_-XmaW_BTSn4t6BrW2eINsVhm3gYYO3FqARnTWqC_3jEQeL/s200/100_2164.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i>Following the guide's advice, I tasted burrito, a Mexican cuisine, some salmon, some Sushi, a Japanese delicacy and the must have Cheese cake. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #eeeeee;"><i>Also, I decided to set off to Washington DC which is only four hours by bus from New York, the day our conference in New York was over. That night, I told myself, the White House is not very far and the adventure is yet to begin……<o:p></o:p></i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916033457332876893.post-84396129560506841622009-10-14T10:44:00.000-07:002010-07-09T20:10:01.495-07:00One Wish, One Dream and A Realization<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxFAFN7qg3UJ3b9D7M1CV1g5WIJKQsElNDTanActU7KzihZT-cNFTVw0uT8ts91OPR5IPFZhg35F1aWzNsynQU48fgLv1qZ2grzPeZXEes5-q-0RoBmB5-QsDmU_Wa0f_ny-xdbgFyo2j/s1600-h/Home+library+concept.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxFAFN7qg3UJ3b9D7M1CV1g5WIJKQsElNDTanActU7KzihZT-cNFTVw0uT8ts91OPR5IPFZhg35F1aWzNsynQU48fgLv1qZ2grzPeZXEes5-q-0RoBmB5-QsDmU_Wa0f_ny-xdbgFyo2j/s320/Home+library+concept.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392513417858499362" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This evening, when I connected the Internet, I, never even for a second, thought I would end up with this. This blog is more than a piece written for my readers. My consistently inconsistent readers who either sometimes stumble upon my blog or are forced to visit it once in a while unable to resist my innumerous pleas.<br /><br />It is much much more than that. It’s an urge to be a part of an attempt, an irresistible need to resound some meager yet immensely substantial effort that not just makes me proud of some but also full of remorse for some others.<br /><br />I am talking about this slightly queer friend of mine who evangelizes the concept of a home library. I have often read and seen a library as one of the most prized possessions of the classic pages of any Victorian Novelist, the parlors of the affluent and the prudent but hardly have I ever come across a situation where it means a lifetime, a wish, a dream and also a passion that leads of an array of realizations to not just one individual but an entire family, a locality and a village.<br /><br />In Agia, a small pocket of Goalpara, Maheshwar Nath Memorial Library was inaugurated by some distinguished literary personas on 1 June 2009. The initiative taken by the family members and friends of Late Sir Maheshwar Nath was a small yet massive step towards making a difference, a perfect example of how small things make a sea of difference. From digging out old good reads to creating the library database, it was a sight, an instance of undivided enthusiasm, a passion to achieve something that’s achievable yet rarely achieved. It’s not just the result but the entire effort behind it that perhaps triggered the overwhelming response it received from the masses: the many excited people who contributed to the venture, the smiles and demand of the nascent readers, the testimonials, the self satisfaction achieved out of it and the ongoing effort that’s still driving it and keeping it alive.<br /><br />How many times have you wanted to make giant changes in the way things happen in this world? The classic statements of our school essays “eradicate poverty, combat terrorism, clean up politics” and the list goes on…..<br /><br />On the contrary, how many times have you missed your native place, contemplated about how you could make your existence felt in “my native land”?<br /><br />Following my friend’s example, how many times in a day have I cursed my unmanageable cabinets? The good old books that lie there all but to collect the shaft of dust! Could I have done something about them? Each of us may not be in a position to follow our friends example ditto but isn’t there something within our capacity that we can do and enjoy out of this effort?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916033457332876893.post-78135970622814909942009-03-20T20:22:00.000-07:002010-12-04T09:53:02.840-08:00The stories of a sapling<div style="color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxfDGUb_8I2bG8Gb82lgdKkozdaT6LU5SDSvAEqDXqmO1Pfigo8dU6QReQ0lxraJkOIRGbuy7LFvrR_iEyBvmZ3ynHOmLrxAVOyD6pavRA_lDXfOpmtptEQzMWgUO6cBW7KbBVPjU9zbo/s1600-h/sapling.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315523535171592786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxfDGUb_8I2bG8Gb82lgdKkozdaT6LU5SDSvAEqDXqmO1Pfigo8dU6QReQ0lxraJkOIRGbuy7LFvrR_iEyBvmZ3ynHOmLrxAVOyD6pavRA_lDXfOpmtptEQzMWgUO6cBW7KbBVPjU9zbo/s320/sapling.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 299px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a> </div><div style="color: white;"><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Crasikas%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Crasikas%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Crasikas%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;">"Nature sometimes sears a sapling"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><br />
She never knew how difficult it is to face the shudders of life. She was forever among the cozy comforts of filial embrace. All she was used to until now was the adoration and admonitions from Ma and Deta. She never understood what was going wrong but years later she had to sit, retrospect and introspect for she wanted to know the purpose of all that happened. <br />
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A Monday afternoon in St Joseph's convent, class one B, Miss Deepa writes some questions and answers on the huge black board in fat round letters and announces in her husky voice "Copy all these in your class work copies after you come back from practice. No rubbing the board. Understood?" Now, comes the divine chorus from the enchanted souls in a sliding tone "Yess, Miss", the tone keeps sliding for about eight seconds. The school bell rings and the commotion begins. The inmates of class one B disperse like a handful of wheat scattered while feeding pigeons. Miss Deepa collects her piece of chalk, the attendance register and her text book, adjusts her glasses and walks towards the staff room. <br />
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The school bell rings again, the same commotion happens but this time the children are settling back on their chairs and anticipating the wrath that is bound to fall upon them. Miss Deepa walks in, apparently after redoing her makeup, places the assortment of copies and pens on the desk, glances at the board and yells "Who rubbed the board, haan? Who? Tell me who?" The class goes numb as the seventy five odd kids stare at their teacher and then at the huge black board. Miss Deepa continues her interrogation, "Ritu did youdo this? Tell me who did this and I'm gonna beat her up black and blue. Cummon now, tell me, tell before I start slapping you." Ritu Moni thinks for a moment, and feels the stares of everyone in the class. Being the locus of attention now is the time to do or die. Ritu points her finger at her, the monitor, sitting clueless trying to understand what all is going on in the class. Suddenly, all the seventy five eyes and most prominently Miss Deepa starts scanning her. All she hears herself saying is "No, I didn't." “Who else saw her doing this?” Nipsha, the captain of the class shakes her head and mutters “I saw. She did.” Some more people in the class joins the alliance of witness against her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;">In the next two seconds, she finds herself in front of the class, with Miss Deepa exhibiting her slapping proficiency. Continuous slaps on each cheek and after every slap Miss Deepa asks, “Did you rub the board?” The answer is “No, I didn’t” Miss Deepa reiterates “Class, tell me she did” The class says “Yes, she did”. The fateful child drenched in tears, cheeks red from the slaps repeats "No, Miss, I didn't". This continues for about half an hour before everyone gets tired including the teacher. All the more tired, the poor child has to give up. Finally, she agrees “Yes” after a bit of struggle. In a triumphant note, Miss Deepa confirms,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">“So you rubbed the board huh? You were lying before weren’t you?" </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">“No, I wasn’t lying Miss” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">“You just said that you did” Slap!!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">“Yes, I said I did but I didn’t lie before” Snobs!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">“Lier! Say, you rubbed the board” Slap</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;">The bell rings, this was the last period and now it’s the time to say the final prayer and leave for home. “Well, well, the day’s over, pack your bags, the lier stays back and the rest can say your prayers” “Our father in heaven holy be your name……” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;">This was the scene that happened that day at that very moment. However, simultaneous things were happening and the writer of this piece happened to realize all these simultaneous pieces that were real significant to the incident or we may call it “accident” much later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;">The victim of her teacher’s wrath, the six year old child kept trying to understand what exactly went wrong. “Did I rub the board in spite of my teacher asking not to” After contemplating for a while, (I don’t exactly remember when), she actually remembered a vision of Nipsha, the captain of the class, rubbing the board. She was also reminded of a quarrel she engaged in with Ritu Moni that very afternoon during the practice session, the in house hooligan of the class.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><b><i>Flashback 1: <o:p></o:p></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">"Copy all these in your class work copies after you come back from practice. No rubbing the board. Understood?"</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white; margin-left: 0.5in;">“Yes Miss”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i>The school bell, the commotion and the practice session.</i> <i>This practice session was the rehearsal going on for a group performance on the Superior’s feast day. She was a part of this and so was Ritu Moni with whom she had a quarrel a couple days ago. With whom does Ritu not quarrel? Nipsha was viewing the entire rehearsal from the threshold of the class. She wasn’t selected for the performance. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i>Miss Deepa comes back from the staff room with other teachers. “Girls, let’s practice how to leave the stage at the end of the dance, ok? Prathna, you lead the first line, the next line, Nabonita you take a turn and then bow and them go to the center of the stage and then turn back, Archita, while she goes to the center of the stage, the rest come exactly to this point, not a step back not a step front. Exactly at this step, every one remembers this or I am gonna beat you up black and blue. Let’s set and go!” <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i>Just as the performance is over, some kids miss the instructions and receive their well deserved raps, smacks and whacks. The fateful child of the day was one of them. Ritu’s yet to set her quarrel with her……<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: white;"><i> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Flasback 2</span>: "Who rubbed the board, haan? Who? Tell me who?" The class goes numb as the seventy five odd kids stare at their teacher and then at the huge black board. Miss Deepa continues her interrogation, "Ritu,did you do this? Tell me who did this and I'm gonna beat her up black and blue. Cummon now, tell me, tell before I start slapping you." Ritu Moni thinks for a moment, and feels the stares of everyone in the class. Being the locus of attention now is the time to do or die. She thought, “Strike while the iron is hot.” </i><span style="font-style: italic;">Ritu points her finger at her, the monitor, sitting clueless trying to understand what all is going on in the class.</span> </div><div style="color: white; text-align: left;"><br />
Years later, the fateful child, was able to join the dots.... <br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916033457332876893.post-6381632604175166122008-11-26T06:24:00.000-08:002008-11-26T06:27:19.960-08:00The fleet of imagination!<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman';"><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">How fast can the fleet of the mind be? The very thought takes you on a tour to a whole lot of impressions encrypted within the folds of consciousness. To conjecture the speed of this fleet, has been a challenge for me while I have tried painstakingly to trace the track of my thoughts. While I was trying to think how fruitless my contemplations are at the moment and how any soul treading upon my blog may think what a waste of effort this post might be, I stumbled upon the value of imagination in today's world. </span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">No doubt all creativity and innovation that the current world craves for is a corrolary of imagination, but what gives it a value is the conviction and the ability to prove it in terms of concrete numbers or revenue if I may say. Imagination is no longer a matter of delight: it's not a suspension of disbelieve, it's not a representation of reality where reality was a matter of subjectivity. It's numbers, today!<br /><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I can never deny that the way Aristotle represented reality through epic and poetry; through mimesis and cathersis are innovation. Nor can I say that what Shakespeare developed with the universal sentiments of love, sacrifise, revenge and hatred are not innovation. The blend of poetry, music, dramatics and emotions was what created and sustained a genre for about a century and gave it the well deserved immortality. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">However, today, we no longer sit back amazed, and wonder about the excelence of creativity. We grab it, we grab a couple of others and we call that an ideating cycle. We weight that, tear that apart into numbers and squash that to bring it on an equilibrium plain for scalability's sake. Afterall, only if they come to the same platform do they compete. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Competition, an overarching phenomenon.<br /><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Data. We are encouraged to look at data from a hundred different creative ways, so it brings forthe innovation. But we don't have a clue how to look at things beyond data. Do we? How do we imagine given the situation? </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'll come back to my fleet of imagination...</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0); font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div></div></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916033457332876893.post-84831531438544711362008-06-30T01:06:00.000-07:002010-12-04T09:54:32.520-08:00Love....<div style="background-color: black; color: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I love thee to the depth and breadth and height</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.</span></b><br />
</span></div><div align="center" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br />
</div><div align="center" style="background-color: black; color: white;">I have always asked myself what exactly this strange feeling is. It is perhaps the predominant theme of most creative works (not including the sas-bahu soaps which include more of hatred and deception than love). It perhaps is the fountain of Shakespeare's classic thoughts or the ripples of Yeat's romantic chords. The profundity of its extravagance perhaps flows down the depth of emotions but again what is this indispensable emotion? Why does it pick and choose people? Why is it painful and yet so indispensable and why is it so confusing, always landing you up in some dilemma or the other? What is love all about? Is it a fact or fiction? How subjective is our perception when it comes to perceiving something as encompassing as the very concept affection?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7BZbxI6-a-KexKv6426-XGjZBn1StGMNkWak6U-C4I_MtRq8xbxpp4nXhT7bKPRLXZNDt4YBFX_S9YOnjydhH2k5SmP4gsnrCDVUZbsRTBxhWOxLliuCEr4tBZmtuBrMm1WK0yC2s0-Q/s1600-h/lovebirds2.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217923641650193202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7BZbxI6-a-KexKv6426-XGjZBn1StGMNkWak6U-C4I_MtRq8xbxpp4nXhT7bKPRLXZNDt4YBFX_S9YOnjydhH2k5SmP4gsnrCDVUZbsRTBxhWOxLliuCEr4tBZmtuBrMm1WK0yC2s0-Q/s320/lovebirds2.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Nietzsche says, 'There are no facts, only interpretations.". But how will anybody explain the universality of thoughts associated to something as subjective as the very concept of love. No doubt every fact or interpretation (whatever you call) begets exception but how do you explain the emotions attached to a parent and a child. Is that an over generalization or a stereotype, a construct to which we associate a position. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Are we slightly getting very theoretical? Lets see if that helps in our probe into this very mundane yet pristine concept.<br />
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Of late I have been cracking my head over a question without any success. Let me see if this blog brings in a convincing answer. You love your parents, your kith and kin...this can be explained...after all they have done all they can for you, you are attached to them since the time you were born...quite understandable but how do you explain the affections that proclaim you for one fine person you meet one fine day and simply lay all you have at stake? Hold on, here, I am not talking about the different variations of this love. Didn't get it? I mean the very utilitarian love that of course is transient. Let me explain with an example. Bubly meeting Bunty one sunny day, falling in love and announcing the downfall of Bunty before he realizes that it was his bike that she was in love with would be an ideal example. You are most welcome to come up with other corollaries of this variety. Without getting into a lot of tangents lets return to our point.<br />
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<br />
So how do we explain this exuberance of emotions that suddenly strike us and sabotage all our logical processes? Can we ever explain that longing to see somebody and the efforts put in to make that person smile? What is it that rips our hearts apart when we part? Don't you ever feel the pounding of your hearts, that silent rhythm within which makes you curse yourself? More worse is when these emotions start yielding expectations. At this point, let me alert you that neither I am ending up giving you a flow chart of the consequences nor do you need them. All I am doing is thinking aloud the intricacies of this strange intoxicant that has borne myths and mythologies and persisted in multifarious manifestations challenging the magnanimity of time and space.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: lucida grande;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">While talking about this classic theme, love, I am almost tempted to evoke the cosmic energy by bringing in the night decked with moonshine, the dawn crowned with dew drops. But I resist the temptation to do so. I refrain, not because it may seem clichéd to some but because I cannot dare to duplicate something so beautifully done by the harbingers of love in poetry, fiction and music.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">This post is nothing but an aimless meandering; it reminds me of Prufrock’s ‘mermaids singing one to one’. Also, pray do not condemn me if my writing seems jargon of superfluity. </span></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">As I have already said, it is an escape from commonplaceness, a distance from the conversational mode that distorts words for the sake of simplification. This escapism is what I guess keeps these strange emotions, which we call love, alive. Call it an abode or a sojourn you have to seek its refuge at least ones in your lifetime. Why else do you think Heathcliff says "</span></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">You said I killed you--haunt me, then! </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> .</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916033457332876893.post-57653110355907025852008-04-11T06:00:00.000-07:002010-07-09T20:07:43.598-07:00Flipping through my thoughts...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRsQLt7xGdwJ6kmY8PB1jdm1pxLeT6BXeDcQCjRoLy560e5tOShJfEj6TdGtu2mwPOVBf7TJr9KOI9aCwLmAcN7wBVV7uH7KIWR0oHTD1pZ3hH-56I5fNKsQBknjTya5UTfvZRXiwFyw8/s1600-h/180px-Buds.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRsQLt7xGdwJ6kmY8PB1jdm1pxLeT6BXeDcQCjRoLy560e5tOShJfEj6TdGtu2mwPOVBf7TJr9KOI9aCwLmAcN7wBVV7uH7KIWR0oHTD1pZ3hH-56I5fNKsQBknjTya5UTfvZRXiwFyw8/s320/180px-Buds.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187991699380136946" border="0" /></a><br />Life has always put me in positions where I have had to struggle. You start thinking that everything is going fine and something else comes up that makes you feel doomed. You start pulling up your sleeves with full enthusiasm leaving all your frustrations behind and you fall into another pit hole that reminds you where your place is. Somehow it is strange that in spite of all the positive thoughts, all wisdom we are flooded with, we can't help feeling helpless. Well, my use of this overarching pronoun 'we' may not be very convincing for some but I do think that most people will agree and come up with something like, "Friend, this is life."<br /><br />Well, yes, this is life indeed and there are always two sides of a coin. No wonder life appears tough but that is how we grow. For a bean to sprout there has to be a crack. To put that scientifically, for a bud to shower its splendor to an onlooker's eye, the scales have to fall off leaving "horizontally-elongated scars <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>. It reminds me of a chick that hatches from an egg, the blades of grass that replace the dead ones after a shower, crowned with silver drops and the sense of relief after weeping to the heart's content.<br /><br />Disappointments are part of life, in no way can we get away from their overreaching influence. So how do we stay composed is the question. Coming from someone established as a panic queen this might sound strange but this is the consistent fruit of my persistent contemplations. To elaborate, after every crisis gets resolved, I promise to remain calm and composed and handle pressure well in the future...not that I look forward to a crisis... Probably, this post is an attempt to remind myself of my promise, as I always say every narrative is an attempt to formulate the writer's thoughts.<br /><br />The plaintive tone of the first line of my blog might sound very demoralizing and I can't thank you enough for being with me untill the last line. I promise to come back with a cheerful tone in my next post and assure you that my promises are not always meant to be broken. <img src="file:///C:/Users/rasikas/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" /><img src="file:///C:/Users/rasikas/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-1.jpg" alt="" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12699972539082283662noreply@blogger.com2