Saturday, March 31, 2012

the Fourth Estate delivery !!

The Fourth Estate delivery every morning to the door steps of most homes in the God's Own Country has been almost non-existent for over ten days now. Kerala is supposedly the only 100 percent literate State in our Union, and it has quite a lot to do with the news papers and men's quench for news. Most homes have a pattern of reading the news paper as well, with the alpha male in the family normally having his first go at the news and then the kids and then the lady of the house, while on her commute or maybe in the evening. But everyone invariably read something or the other out from the thin foils with the carbon imprint, imparting the so called 'news' to tease man's appetite for knowing.

The agents, who administered the home delivery are now on a strike, like most other group and organisation in the State, of enlightened masses, who knows the benefits of numbers. The news paper agents in charge of the delivery of the news, imprinted on thin foils, wants a higher share of the profit that the Management is making with the Fourth Estate and they have resolved to not performing the deliveries, unless they are offered a higher percentage of the profits.

I tried read the newspaper online for some days now, but it is not as appetizing as the thin foils which I could hold on to. The online version of news, seems so impersonal and my sacred ritual of reading the news paper or rather browsing the paper for my favorite pages, has taken a serious hit back. I am up-to-date with the issues that is making news, like the Army Chiefs bribe accusations and the Ministry of Defenses, defense taken regarding the allegation. I know the Italian tourist and the Member of Legislative Assembly from Odisha is still under the captivity of the Maoist and the State is on a negotiation to get them released. The merchant Italian Ship, Enrica Lexie, from which shots were fired, which resulted in the death of two fishermen from the Kerala coast is still lying in anchorage at the Cochin Port Trust and the Hon'ble High Court has stayed its sailing for 3 more days.

The news, I am updated about, through the TV, through the internet, through my friends regarding their areas of interest, like the news about Indian cricket team losing yesterdays T20 cricket match against the Porteas, based on the Duck-worth Lewis calculation. But the gathering of the news or rather being enriched with the events happening around me is not happening, vide the medium I best prefers.

My household have endured this strike by the newspaper delivery agents, without much complaints till now, but then there has been days when an eruption has been heard from my dad / me / or a random guest, regarding the strike. In a society where everyone is aware of their rights, very little can be done in-spite of all the eruptions, unless you want to put an end to the little discomfort yourself and be made free of the feeling of emptiness for not having read the newspaper daily.

I woke up a little earlier than usual and armed with ten rupees, without brushing my teeth or changing into a more accepted dress-code, I set off on my rickety bike to the news paper office, to buy my two newspapers and make my day have something which has been missing the last few days. There was not much of a line waiting for the paper and the guy sitting behind the desk, didn't even bother give me a second glance, when I passed him the ten rupee note and said, "oru Hindu, oru Mathrubhumi" (one Hindu, One Mathrbhumi).

Armed with my little cart filled with events around the world from the past 24 odd hours, I drove back home to be greeted at the gate with my Appa, having in his hand a copy of the two newspapers I had just bought, by paying the tenner. He looked at me and said, the neighbor who works in a newspaper has agreed to get us these two papers on his way back from office, after the night shift, till the agents call of their strike. So you needn't ride everyday in the morning to get the dailies. I tell him back, that is wonderful Appa, but in case we didn't have this alternate arrangement for getting the newspaper delivered, I wouldn't have bothered much about having to drive in the morning. I don't want to be held at ransom, by not having my newspaper delivered everyday. I would rather take up the discomfort of waking up 15 minutes earlier and go get the paper from the press, than wait for the strike to be over.

Monday, March 26, 2012

begone the days of chivalry

Exhausted and my eyes laden with sleep, I sat with my eyes closed, trying to drift to sleep listening to the bumps of the road and being rocked in the hardly cushioned seat of the bus. It had been a long day and the 3 hours back, seemed like a good time to catch some sleep, which had been quite missing this week. I felt something touching my head and I find this lady leaning on the side of the seat in front, with a toddler in hand and it was the child's dangling legs, which had made contact with me. For a moment, I looked at her, while she looked at me and I couldn't dare look at her eyes and I started staring outside, avoiding her eyes.

The little goodness in me made me feel bad about this lady standing with a kid in her hands and holding on to the rail for balance, while I sat leisurely; that took away my dare in meeting her eyes. For she wanted the seat more than me, but then I wasn't ready to share my comfort with her. I had checked the sign above the seat indicating 'reserved for women' before sitting and I wasn't on a seat reserved for the members of the fairer sex. No women, sitting on the reserved seats for their gender, looked at her, for all of us wanted to have our comfort to ourselves. And the other men in the bus were lucky, for they didn't have to deal with a tiny leg, dangling before your eyes at such a close distance.

I remember having a conversation about women equality with my mom, when we were at our regular Sunday morning breakfast or rather blasphemy sessions, in the words of a prudent catholic in our kitchen. I had told her, women is responsible for whatever her plight of misery she says she is in, because of her sisters as much because of men. Mom wouldn't agree, but then I wouldn't agree on anything else either and we eventually had no place else to go ahead, with both our ideas and stopped in peace.

Lost in the thought of gender equality and trying to fit together the exact reply my mom had told me, I find this lady loose her balance and almost fall, when the bus hit a sudden halt. The time she looses her balance and starts falling, the first feelings in me, is not the safety of her or the kid, but a sense of shame for having made this happen by not wanting to share my comfort. Thankfully she didn't complete the fall and she stood tall again, with the kid held tighter and her fists clenched on to the rail, with more vigor than before. 

Gone are the days of gentlemen, who stood every time the lady stood and I don't think there will ever be a time, when a lady would get an extra care, on account of just being a lady from men, much less members of her own species. She talks about gender equality, and receives the special treatments conferred on her as part of vote oriented politics, like the women in the bus, who sat on the seats reserved for them. But then, deep down in their heart were not willing to trade their comfort, with a fellow sister.

((Did I offer my seat to her is left to you, my dear reader, to give shape, for the post is not about whether I did or not)) 

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

ogling at a girl's navel !!

A friends 'treat', thrown in celebration of saying adieu from 'practice of law' to join her husband working in the Middle East, gave me a much needed break from the serious faces staring from law briefs  and be in the chilled environment of a coffee lounge, wrapped around with the presence of youngsters and their loud voices.

Sitting leisurely, with the eyes half closed, sinking with the tickling of the green apple soda, making its way into me, I couldn't help but pause for a moment, looking at the six girls sitting a little away from us. I am not sure, whether I should call them girls, for they looked in their early twenties and ripe enough to be called a woman. The girls were adorned in sarees, draping the young silhouettes in style, giving themselves a false look of maturity. The lounge had this aura, that their presence had brought, an aura of life and vigor, of promises and dreams.

Spending a lion's share of every day, surrounded by people in black and white, my eyes couldn't help but ogle, though I tried not to. The friend, who was to pay for my apple soda, found my eyes wandering on to the girls, in a harmless caress and then again repeating it every other minute.

I saw a girl from the six, wearing an yellow saree rise and my eyes followed her like the pug in the Vodafone add. Her saree had moved and her navel was at the mercy of my lecherous eyes, which for a moment I enjoyed like a feast and  then something made me look away. Acting innocent, my eyes circled all the way round, back from her, to be met by the stare of  my apple soda sponsor and I had to confess with a little shame, "I saw her navel, the girl wearing the yellow saree. I couldn't help but just look when she stood up".

Saturday, March 17, 2012

time heals

Science tells me, man, in the course of his travel from 'apes' to 'men', not just lost the tail but also his thoughts grew wider, deeper and broader. He thought about things, presuming and assuming, believing briefly a presumption to be true, in search of the next level of the thought, and that has led him to where he stands today.  "From how does lightening happen", which puzzled the first members of our species, we have come all the way to lightening resistors. 

His thoughts always accompanies him, the invisible twin, sometimes mono-zygotic, some times not. Watching a game of football, the thoughts might be not about football or the way that particular game has to be played nor about the pretty lady in the stand sitting two rows ahead; but about the milk I forgot to keep back in the fridge. Making love to your beloved, ones thoughts not always sticks to the person or the neighbor damsel / hunk nor anything to do with the act, but could be found wandering about the tiny blotch of black on the ceiling. The thoughts would be of people, things, abstracts, could be of anything, but the process normally is always on, in almost all humans, except the time we call it a night and not have a dream nor a nightmare at least.

Broken hearts attracts the phrase, "time heals, you will surely forget" like flees to an open sweet. But time seldom makes one forget, but rather makes the thought disappear, for all of us live for the present, looking up ahead into our future. The memories will always be there, until the grey cells gets corrupted with age, but all that would remain before and after the corruption is only the memories, which could be triggered in a nostalgic frenzy, forming part of our present thoughts.

Travelling in a bus, passing by the side of a school, might make one think about his school or friends back then or some incidents which occurred while in school. But only when a set of conditions triggers ones memory to something from the old days, does one think about things from past, during the school. One could boastfully say, I remember all my friends from 1st grade, which in my case is quite untrue, but could be true in the case of many humans, but all that person actually does is, the images of everyone from the 1st grade is stored some place in his memory, a vault which gets opened when something triggers the word '1st grade' in him. One remembers most things from the past, but it doesn't ever mean the past is thought about through each moment he spends being alive. The memories forms a part of me, but surely it is not the force or thought which takes the center stage of a man's existence.

All the friends from 1st grade are never again alive in you, but only a few on rare occasions, when one goes riding in the joyous / painful memories of time spend as a kid attending the 1st grade. Incidents and people, unless they have a significant importance to you the person, gets stored in a place from which it is hard to be recovered or maybe gets deleted for ever. The few significant ones stays active, but is not always thought about and given life every single moment of our life.

Living this day the 17th of March, in the year 2012 after Christ, if I try remember my days from childhood with a conscious effort, I might have my thought process going through the big grounds of the school and friends filling it, but the process is limited to a select few, for my memory is corrupted to have made the insignificant ones go vanish. And of all the significant ones, about whom I remembers, not everyone is thought about, the thoughts rather glides from one side of the ground to the other with just my favorite or loathed characters making an appearance in a glimpse and then vanishing to be replaced by another and then another. The past lives in the present for brief moments and then crawls back into the place, where it had been lying dormant, before I thought about school.

Not every person who has been a part of ones life and has held some significance, one way or the other exist in each days thoughts or even each years thoughts. We all know that, even if we remember people, everyone stored in our memory, never forms a part of the thoughts right at this moment for years at a stretch. In ones thoughts, very few would live everyday and some would never be born again and some stays hidden, unless the catalyst of some nostalgic feeling is actually triggered.

The people who would always live or would always be thought about each day is the ones who are around at the present. The wife thinks about her husband everyday and his big appetite for friday night dinner, because she is going to be with him the friday evening and her life is knit closely with his, and him and his thoughts forms a part of her present or future. My grand-mom, who passed away last year had 5 kids, out of which one died when she was just some months old and grandma had some hair of the child wrapped in a soft cloth, secured in her vault. I once asked her, whether she remembers the kid who died, she said yes and had a little strain her voice answering me. I asked her, do you think about her everyday or often, is she alive in your thoughts of present, she said with tears rolling out from the corner of her eyes, "NO, in fact her thoughts haven't crossed my mind in some months. I remembers her now, when you asked me about her, a grey picture faded with time and my mind think about the soft curls she had and the way she used to cry. But my dear child, whom I brought to existence, was not even alive in me for some months. Time and again, something triggers the memory and the child lives in my thoughts for a brief moment and then her thoughts go vanishing again."

The time someone is thought about, the person thought about is alive in the mind for the moment and then expires without notice, with the thoughts wandering on to something else. When a thing or incident is thought about, the moments from the past is given the whiff of life for a brevity and then vanishes from the thoughts yet again for hours, days, weeks or years to come.

Time indeed heals, for the wounds and the way it was inflicted is not going to be part of the present thoughts for ever, it will all go into the vault of memories, surfacing only when triggered by something and then disappearing again into the vault from which it made an appearance. No man is ever going to live with the constant pain of a broken heart ten years from today, for the broken heart is not going to be in his thoughts around the clock to cause the hurt as it did the day it was broken.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

morning stroll through a serene postcard !

The wanderer in me found myself right in the middle of lush green tea carpets touching the grey sky, with a chill making my bones grow cold and yet my feet trembling ahead, but with no idea where I was heading; yesterday, in the morning. 8 hours of watching the world pass through the window of the bus, in the darkness of the night, combined with high projectile movements of thy self, that only the back seat of a State Road Transport bus could provide, in some way didn't make me feel right that I actually endured the ordeal only for 10 minutes in a secluded courtroom, to say 8 times when my cases were called, "counter affidavit to the amended claim petition has been served and now filed".

Securing my bags in a lodge, as they call it over there in Waynad, I left for a morning walk at 5 in the morning, alone not knowing where I was headed. My cramped legs wanted the red cells to run again and when they felt enough in an hour, I got into a bus with the board "Soochiparra Water Falls". I haven't heard about the place nor have any clue where it actually is, but then the Water Falls in the name, made it seemed covered in the finest silks. The guy in the bus told me, it takes a little more than half an hour, so I had all the time in the world to do my little adventure before the Bench sat at 11.

I never made it to the waterfalls, for half an hour later a sign board appears named after the waterfall and the road too narrow to lead any other place but the falls. I got down and started on my walk again, back on the main road and along comes another bus with the board "atta mala". The literal translation would be leech ghats, which would normally keep a person away, but not me. I had time till 8 to start back and this new guy in this new bus, told it will be a 30 minute journey to the leech ghat.

The bus had under a dozen travelers, and I watched eagerly as the tea estates started passing by, thought of getting down again, but then wanted to explore what lies in the leech ghat. Women kept getting into the bus, with their basket hung behind and their lunches packed and wrapped in polythene and voices a little too loud, to my tastes.

I turned back to read the board of the bus stop and suddenly felt the bus go nose up, high in the sky and turned to see not the sky, but the tea shrubs up front,and the road never went any more and this was leech ghat. Sitting on the milestone that had zero on it, surrounded by the green and the fog, I wondered where was I? I had no clue, but the place was beautiful, like from a post card and I couldn't resist the urge to makes some few steps on the the picture framed in mind of a tea estate.

The serene green sprawled all around, with the fog curbing the visibility to a few hundred meters and not a man in sight, I offered a prayer of thanks, for the 8 hours I endured on my way to Waynad, was worthy of the few pictures I took using my mobile phone and an half an hours walk through the picturesque postcard. The grey of the heavy fog slowly turning to a golden with the first rays of the sun making dew drops appear on the tiny leaves and little warmth settling in and I wandered aimlessly lost in my thoughts about "what brought me here and where am I"

On my journey back in an hour, the bus was filled with kids, on their way to the school and they kept appearing out of all the corners and the driver gleefully obliging with his legs on the brakes. A little girl sat by my side, with her long hair parted and pleated, with a little extra talc still on her temples, looking at me through the corner of her eye. She was a little dark, not pretty but elegant the way she held on to the tiny aluminium box on her lap, sitting by my side, as if her whole life depended on it and suddenly pointed at my phone and asked me can I show it to her.

What do I show a 3 or 4 year old girl in my phone, the new applications or some pictures I have taken?

Saturday, March 3, 2012

my blog - bisected

I started with the New Year Celebrations in the year 2004, which was more or less, a diary entry, purely personal in nature. I read about this online web-log, in 2002 and it took me 2 years to finally remember it again to try it for myself, I used to write with the pseudonym Ezra and not Ousu. Guess, if I am right, it made you a tiny intellect among your peers, cause you had a blog of your own.

But, my old friend forgetfulness caught up and made me go clueless about the password to the id, and the existence as Ezra ceased one fine day . My first blog id wasnt but, the password of the latter I forgot and started the Ousu one in 2009, publishing again the initial posts by Ezra. My existence as Ezra, I think no one ever remembers, other than me.

Thanks to some friends who reads and spends some time using the world wide web, my first posts as Ousu in 2009 had 4 visitors, who were all my friends, but then they talked about the posts to me, which made it a little curious for other friends and they wanted the link. I made my blog id, my signature line and that drew in maybe 4 or 5 more of visitors to read a post or maybe just to have a general feel about it so as to get a clue about the silence I maintain in real life about personal stuff, like romance and flings. The posts were more of irregular grunts than growls, more a very personal online diary than anything else.

I don't remember taking part in much writing competitions nor ever winning a prize except an old faded certificate, attesting that I have won a short story writing competition in my first standard. How much ever I try remember, I actually don't remember anything like that. And if I remember right, some friends during my 3rd and 4th standards, used to ask me to write their letters to school for them, which I happily did. I guess that is the first time someone made me feel they think, I could write. Not with the grace of a poet nor with the mystery in phrases, but give some word or the other, to a thought and make my hands scribble it.

From the letters to school, for a permission or an explanation or a leave letter to this weblog as Ousu, it has been quite a long journey with periods of absolute non-writing and now to a little sense of consistency, thanks to some friends I met here in this blogger world.

After my last breakup and getting drunk over the new found independence and sleeping around to compensate for the time spend in being chaste; I thought about re-igniting my old habit, for suddenly I found a lot of time at hand. The time kept reserved for a girlfriend who practically lived with you, got erased from my days and I found myself with time in hand and started pecking at the blog again in January of 2011.

Reading my posts over the years, I find a lot of difference in the way I write. From being a boasting diary entry, I feel I did travel a bit recently, into writing about abstracts I keep thinking, indulging into personal stuff every once in a while. But if you ask me, whether I grew as a writer, I have no clue. The posts though have become a little more regular, thanks to some friends from the blogger world, both writers and readers, who actually read what I write and at times think about it and leaves a comment.

I don't think, my blog has the grace of the sentence, nor it was much thought about a thing. The content as well, until quite recently wherein I started trying with writing about abstracts or my thoughts. An online diary was the easiest thing to write for an irregular diary writer, who has got a box full of diaries from way back in 96. But just like in my blog, only the box is full, not the diaries, for there are some years with just the diary and nothing in it. In the same lines there are at times nothing in my posts, like my this post, which talks about nothing of much significance or like adieu my dear, which is yet again a diary entry with an effort to make it structured.

Friday, March 2, 2012

adieu, my dear

A familiar anticipated  number flashed on the mobile screen a good Sunday afternoon, some weeks back. The call was a little early; early by a day. It was the girl with whom I spend quite some time in my second year in college, who remained a friend after we split ways like about 5 years ago. We were quite close, but then I am not the greatest to be a boyfriend and we parted. We stayed friends, against most of her friend's wise words and quite close at that as well. She rode waves, into and out of relations for a brief time and couple of years back told me, I was the reason she took refuge in the new life style. Some months back, when I was packing my bags from Hyderabad, she called me up to say about being into a serious relation. I felt happy for her, or did I...aaah!

The call was awaited, for she was getting home, but then that was a little after and not the time the phone rang, with her name and face book profile picture spread all across the screen. The conversation was exactly not something I anticipated to happen now, maybe after a couple of years. She was short, but crisp, "we can't continue speaking to each other", and I didn't feel like asking her why and told her "yeah" and hung up. A little later the ego felt sad for not having its words to have been heard, with just the "yeah". Sat up straight and text her "deleting you from my phone and the online accounts" and then went ahead and did that.

I am not the greatest of birthday remember-er, for I keep forgetting most and I never remembered hers; thanks to a calendar.exe in my phone, which reminded birthdays, I was faring good in remembering of late. Couple of weeks back I am reminded in the morning, "Ms. X's birthday". I thought about wishing her and realized I didn't have the number and got into living the day, where she didn't belong; and the day turned to days and then weeks.

Driving home today evening from work, I remembered her and the birthday. Then dawned our last conversation, which loomed around the idea that old boy friends have no space in a serious relation, which was very true, if one may ask me. For the pangs of possession is something most humans feels, and it tends to be a little more hidden in men, if you may ask me, but they sure have it, the more, if the relation is comparatively new. And she wanted things to be ideal for her and just asked that, but I wanted it to end brutish, with my ego telling her about deleting the phone numbers and the accounts. At times, I am bloody so cruel. Maybe I too was acting possessive in that text, not wanting the great understanding we have to come to an end; for I called her at all odd times, with some new things I read or thing I thought and she always listened patiently.

Some people stay with you for life, and she surely would for the devotion she showered the time we were together and later as friends. I would certainly miss that, but then it can't happen, if she has to have an immediate life.
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