Whoever you are, there is only one end to life. Death. Death scares you and mystifies you, but it also piques your interest like nothing else. Man was curious about fire. He knew it would burn, but he touched it anyway, he played with it, he got hurt, but in the end, he tamed it. Man tamed fire because he was curious.
I am curious about death, I have always been. The art of living and the science of leaving. As we slowly learn the art of living, we master the science of leaving. In the mean time, every aspect of life, death and after intrigues me. I no longer ask where we go after we die, but I am curious about what happens to the body. Even as a child, I had wanted to witness a cremation. I know my intent is not perverse, so I am not guilty about it. The transformation of a human being into a… shell is fascinating. All the magic in the body, the beating of the heart, the intricacies of the brain, the utility of the stomach, the way each organ works, it is all gone, it just vanishes after death. We are literally a lump of flesh after we pass on. I saw it. It made me wonder, "that's it? That's all there is inside us?"
I witnessed an autopsy today. Three actually, one from right up close with a running commentary by the person who performed it. I could have known the identities of those persons, but I decided it doesn't matter. They were bodies on which a process had to be performed. End of story. So I was there, in the mortuary of the Gandhi Hospital, with the duty doctor standing by and three or four attendants ready to get to work on some bodies, five minutes after their lunch. But wait, I'll get to those details later. Let me tell you how I got till there.
I went to the hospital to gather some details for a story I needed, about how mortuaries are reeling under the spate of bodies everyday. Hospital management as expected, reacted with the reflexes of an arthritic hippo with an attack of Alzheimer's. I couldn't expect the information I needed anytime soon, so I decided to go to the mortuary, a few kilometres away and see for myself what the state of affairs was. I am not very glad I did, but I have no regrets either.
The smell of a mortuary is unique. It is usually the formaldehyde that assaults your senses through your nose. Then there is the…hmm, I have described the smell earlier. Well, that was how the Osmania mortuary smelled like. No, I'm not being gross; the Gandhi mortuary does have a different arsenal for our olfactory equipment. Devoid of any cold storage equipment, decomposition wins an easy battle with formaldehyde. The result is an unimaginably potent stench. I entered the premises, saw two bodies wrapped in blankets, got slapped by the smell and decided on my peg for the story – 'Gandhi hospital mort far worse than counterpart in Osmania'. I had decided to walk out and I turned round and reached the gate. But I didn't want to chicken out from some bad smell, so I turned back and boldly faced the odour. The room where the smell was coming from must be where they put the bodies, but the door was open. I peeked in, and found four men having their lunch. The shock must have showed on my face, because they all looked up, looked at each other, smiled and continued. One of them was sitting in a chair and directed me to the duty doctor. The doctor was polite and very helpful. So I popped the question, 'can I see an autopsy?' and well, he said yes.
The effect of ay horror flick is in the sound. If not for the ominous creaks, the subtle wails and the sudden screams and booms, the picture would actually look funny. So it takes two senses at least to perceive something completely. So wit was with the mortuary. The assault on my nose was indescribable. I had always prided myself on being able to detect subtle stenches in the air. There was nothing subtle about what I smelt. The kicker here is that every room had an independent and equally abhorrent stench. The transition from the office, a thin brick wall from the storeroom, that's where the bodies are stored, made my scalp prickle. I must say I felt rather proud of myself then for keeping down the contents of my stomach. I had no idea what would happen when I saw an autopsy. I had heard tales of supposedly brave men fainting at the sight of the mutilated dead, or throwing up after looking at gore. The fact that I didn't feel even an inkling of nausea surprised me. So I walked into the autopsy room, which had three tables. The body of a young man was put on the centre table. It was the newest. He had been dead less than 20 hours, died when his neck caught and broke in the bars of a window. A healthy, lean specimen, ready for an educational autopsy. On the two tables on the sides were bodies of women, burn victims. The men were ready for the job. They told each other, "Shall we begin? Lets do it, on the double, no time wasted." I understood that this was a kind of a prep up exercise. They got to work. The first few seconds of watching them with the body will tell you that they are absolutely clear that there is no life in these bodies. They were performing a process, and efficiency and speed was all that mattered. They pulled off the clothing from the bodies as quickly as possible, tugging, pulling and flipping. Salim took the centre stage, he was considered the best. The other two had already started cutting up the women. I could see the skin on their chest split clean open like a rubber suit. They were slicing into it, separating it from the rib cage. Salim called out to me, "Idhar Aao. I will tell you where the autopsy begins."
The autopsy: the first incision, a rather long one, begins at the base of the chin, right under the bone. The slice runs all the way down through the middle of the chest and the abdomen, to the beginning of the pelvis. A new scalpel is required for every autopsy, since there is a lot of cutting to do. Then the folds of skin on the left and right side are split, the scalpel slicing through muscle to expose the rib cage and the digestive system. There is still a layer of muscle on the rib cage, but most of the muscle is with the skin. It looks like two equal folds of a rubber suit. Now, salim focussed his attention on the rib cage. He takes up a saw with a plastic handle. The saw is a regular issue carpentry tool, nothing fancy. He begins sawing the rib cage vertically, two inches off centre to the right. It takes a good bit of work. Salim's skill was evident when none of the organs inside the rib cage were damaged as he sawed. Then he saws two inches off centre to the left. When he finishes, there is a four inch by 7 inch slab of rib cage detached from the cadaver. When this is removed, the human body looks like a bowl into which a vulnerable mass of organs is placed. Salim holds the group of pipes un the neck, the oesophagus and trachea among them. he slices off their connection from the neck up. Holding on to this like a chicken's neck, he simply pulls, and all the organs, the heart, the lungs, the liver, the stomach, attached to each other, are removed. The intestines are slightly non cooperative, so they are scooped up to the side, but the rest of the organs are all connected to each other, so they are easy to remove. Salim then severs the connection of the digestive system with the lower half of the body. The liver is the biggest organ inside the human body. It's huge and covers most of the organs in the lower region. He showed me lungs, the three nodes of the right lung and the two nodes of the left lung. The two parts of the liver, the vital heart, dwarfed by other organs, the diaphragm, the stomach, the intestines, the pancreas, the spleen. It was then that the smell hit me again. The smell of human blood and cut organs repels you at an instinctive level. It's not disgusting, exactly, its like a horse shying away from blood. Instinctive.
The next part of the autopsy was to take away some of the organs for evidence. Viscera, pieces of the liver, and the kidneys are usually put in containers and taken to be studied. I have remind you that there's no cold storage in this mortuary, so there were a whole lot of organs, now unrecognisable in plastic containers on shelves. So salim cut a couple fo pieces of the liver, extracted the kidneys from under the pile of organs and cut them out and then he removed the stomach. Now viscera means the contents of the stomach, or at least that's what it implies in mortuary jargon. The stomach, deflated by now, was taken to another table abd sliced open. There was some brown green stuff inside. Apparently, one can detect if there had been any trauma by looking at those contents. Salim stooped and smelt it. "No stench, but definitely disturbed," he said. Ok. He scooped a bit of the stuff with his gloved fingers and put it in another container, along with the stomach. Then we went back to the body for the grand finale. The cranium. Salim bade an incision from behind one ear to the other, running through the top of the skull. He told me that the sawing open the skull was the hardest part. I stood back to watch. The scalp, with the hair, was split back and front from the top of the head. It took a bit of tearing at, apart from repeated slicing by the scalpel. Basically, he pulled the skin like a thick latex mask, from the face, till the eyebrows. The eyes were open all the while. It should have freaked out a person. Then, the saw was back in action. Salim was right. Sawing through over half and inch of skull was tough indeed. He did an excellent job, going round the skull neatly. He then took up a chisel and a hammer. Holding the chisel on the sawed rim, he delivers two smart knocks with the hammer, and the top of the head is off, the brain exposed for all the world to see. Salim collects the brain and severs it at the base. The brain is covered in a gossamer like membrane. He holds it in his hand and explains that if there has been any asphyxiation, the brain changes a darker shade of grey, like the one I was looking at. He showed me the medulla oblongata, the two hemispheres and sets the brain aside. He explains that the empty skull will be filled with cotton, the top of the skull replaced and the scalp sewed back on. For the present, however, he pushed the scalp into the skull. The brain is a funny organ. Each organ looks different, but the brain looks like its of another species. The squiggly appearance is hardly a couple of centimetres thick. When salim sliced the hemispheres, there was just some cream coloured spongy matter inside that seemed to be made of foam. Imagine, this is what makes our thoughts, the base and the lofty. And that was about it. The organs were shoved back into the cavity in the body (the brain was shoved somewhere in the stomach region) and the skin is sewed back with thick cotton thread. Now the usual autopsy, of a simple suicide or burns case is over in 15 minutes or 20. Road accidents and homicides take a lot longer, as each injury has to be measures and detailed. Every abrasion, fracture, cut or concussion has to be recorded. This process can take over an hour. Well, thankfully, I got a simple open and shut case. Literally open and shut.
This was an experience. Not one that I would like to repeat, but something that I will keep with me for a long time. There are a hundred things that this experience awoke in me. I can recollect only a few of them and reproduce even fewer. But as a writer, I feel I can draw deeply from this experience. Witnessing an autopsy doesn't make me a man of the world, but it has definitely taken me a step further in that direction.
-Ananda
Monday, October 26, 2009
Hyderabad 13
II
Here I am, at it again. Have you ever seen a mechanic fit a tyre into the wheel hub? When you look at the tyre and the hub and the bladder, the task of putting them together seems natural and simple enough. Then the mechanic begins, with a wrench with one end flattened and edged. He heaves, pushes, tugs, and slams, stamps and wrenches. The tyre's edge sometimes bounces back out of the hub with an angry 'fwup' sound, making the mechanic swear and begin again. And finally, with a lot of sweat and a few scratches to the hub, the tyre is in place, quite innocent, as if it has been there all along, completely blending with the other parts to make it a sleek, moulded, patterned wheel, ready to hold the road with its infinite ridges.
I suppose the transition of a rookie into someone who fits in, meshes with the work is somewhat similar. While it happens unconsciously with most people, I feel every freaking tug and wrench and kick. But I know where this is going, so I'm better off than many, who only see the struggle and miss the story.
I don't know why I keep drowning whatever I write in analogies. It gets a little boring after a while, you know, it gets kind of lame. Moreover, it also sets boundaries on my style of writing. Having a particular style is not bad, but having only one style of writing is, I think, a limiting situation. Would you believe that from the time I began this paragraph to the time I wrote this word, I had already thought up two analogies? Nah, I wont bore you with them. Overkill, I believe, is the word.
Ok, let me try and get back at the question – why analogies? For starters, they are very helpful in making a point. No, that's the second part actually. The important thing is that I enjoy writing analogies. Seeing a parallel of your situation in some other, totally unrelated part of life, is actually quite a thrill, like making a discovery. It's like… there I go again, almost started an analogy. That's three analogies I thought of in two paragraphs. Let them go, more will come. I had one laddu, a puff, a cup of tea and a cup of coffee and now a piece of cake. No wonder I've been feeling tense. The cake was really delectable, though. Ok brother, I'll see you a couple of days later.
I'm back, after an excellent trip. The journey to and fro was extremely frustrating. It took 15 hours to reach vizag, and over 12 to get back. The six hours I spent in Vizag were memorable. Seeing my parents after a gap, however small the gap, warms my heart, calms my mind. I sang eight bhajans and two solo songs yesterday, for Ramesh Sir. These songs, along with the ones Ramesh Sir and Lal and a few ladies will sing, will be put in an mp3 compilation. I met the producer also. He was quite happy with what I sang. It was sheer pleasure to see Ramesh Sir so happy and proud of it all. After one song, he held my face with both his hands and looked at me a few seconds. That said a lot. I sang Mohe Sharan Me Le lo Ram and Sarathy Tu baba. Other than one line in the latter song and another line in one of the bhajans, my singing was a single take, one song after another. I had prayed for a good voice, and the prayer was answered. Hmm, I suppose it's a high priority prayer to the one who grants them. If only he'd take my job a little more seriously. I'm probably the only one freaking so much over a non complicated job that requires a minimum confidence and zeal to work.
I'm not made for employment. 'Make your own road', he said. What could that be? How could I make my own road? Where would it lead? I have no idea yet. I'm not a great judge of anything, but I know that my current skills, singing or writing, are hardly enough to go pro. Either I improve them to quantum quantities or… stick to this path of slow work, looking over my shoulder all the while.
Indian psychology has a concept called the 'Hanuman Syndrome'. I'm not sure if they call it a syndrome, but the import is the same. The concept, apart from the name, borrows one particular trait that Hanuman had. The son of wind, an aspect of Siva, the boy who could leap to the sun, had no idea that he had greatness in him. He grew, he learned, but he had no idea what he was capable of. If Jambavan had not reminded him on the seashore, hanuman would never have looked face to face with his destiny. So, Indian psychologists have adopted this trait loosely, to describe a lack of self worth or self- confidence. Many might not agree with this. After all, if someone wants to do better in life and he can actually do it, what could stop him? How long can lack of confidence hold him? If a person hasn't risen in life, it must be because he simply can't. Right? Maybe, but maybe not. I will have to use a very cheesy cliché here, but I believe it is useful – "Whether you believe you can or can't, you're right." I used to smirk at this, but I have to admit, at least for the duration of my typing this paragraph, that I agree with this statement. If you are sure that you are incapable of a task, you just cannot find in you the tools to complete that task. Try it. No, you wont even try. There's hardly a whisker between thinking you can't and knowing you can't. But either way, a person is not too unhappy. He does everything he thinks he can and stays away form the tasks he knows are beyond him, in the name of practicality and sensibility. It is those who are can't make up their minds about it that suffer. Then again, is it that they can't make up their minds, or do they choose to be confused? I ask because when you remove the emotional frills, choices are actually quite simple. There are few doubts when you go back to the basic beliefs you live by and look at the new choices through them. Come on, it's not that abstract. By 'beliefs you live by', I mean the things that your dad, or anyone you implicitly trust, would have told you when you were a child. Things like, do your best, or make a god life first and then pursue your dreams, or keep your faith in God, or be patient, things will fall in place, or 'you are meant for greater things', or 'grow up' or 'just do it'. I know Nike said the last one, but it's not a bad line to live by. You see where I'm going? If what you believe still tastes good with the choice you're about to make, the choice is meant to be made. If the belief and choice don't mesh, simply discard it. Not easy, but you do it to your kid when she asks for her third candy or when he asks for that noisy toy truck. You can do it to yourself when needed. That was about not making a choice. That was the easier part. It takes more effort and a lot more courage to go through with a choice than to reject it. To say, "I am ready, I will do what I have to, I will do all I have to do" takes so much faith, so much courage. This is where faith proves almighty useful. Faith in the almighty, I mean. Our faith in ourselves is contaminated with enough doubt to make the bridge crumble mid way. Faith in God, on the other hand, can stand a good bit of doubt. Faith can help us make the choice and stick to it.
So, you dig up your fundamental beliefs, then, using those, you believe in yourself. Then you make the choice to go find your destiny and take it for a spin. It's an exciting process, even when you imagine it. Which is why most of us can imagine it and be happy without having to lift a finger. The actual process takes work, maintenance of faith and steadfast cheer. Of course imagination is easier. But you know what? A person who decides even at the outset that he can't isn't plagued as much as the person who knows he can do it and still doesn't, because of no valid reason. This second guy has to contend with pricks of his conscience from time to time and levels of frustration with his circumstances that he would never have imagined before. So I tell you, dear friend, if you know you are meant for great things, you had better start dusting the sea of your pants, after you get up of course, and then start running like the devil is chasing you. You have places to go to, a person to be. The first few yards are shaky and you will stumble, but breathe in that cool night air, that carries only the freshness of trees and the soft snores of sleeping birds. Keep running and you will find you are more ready than you'll ever be.
-Ananda
Here I am, at it again. Have you ever seen a mechanic fit a tyre into the wheel hub? When you look at the tyre and the hub and the bladder, the task of putting them together seems natural and simple enough. Then the mechanic begins, with a wrench with one end flattened and edged. He heaves, pushes, tugs, and slams, stamps and wrenches. The tyre's edge sometimes bounces back out of the hub with an angry 'fwup' sound, making the mechanic swear and begin again. And finally, with a lot of sweat and a few scratches to the hub, the tyre is in place, quite innocent, as if it has been there all along, completely blending with the other parts to make it a sleek, moulded, patterned wheel, ready to hold the road with its infinite ridges.
I suppose the transition of a rookie into someone who fits in, meshes with the work is somewhat similar. While it happens unconsciously with most people, I feel every freaking tug and wrench and kick. But I know where this is going, so I'm better off than many, who only see the struggle and miss the story.
I don't know why I keep drowning whatever I write in analogies. It gets a little boring after a while, you know, it gets kind of lame. Moreover, it also sets boundaries on my style of writing. Having a particular style is not bad, but having only one style of writing is, I think, a limiting situation. Would you believe that from the time I began this paragraph to the time I wrote this word, I had already thought up two analogies? Nah, I wont bore you with them. Overkill, I believe, is the word.
Ok, let me try and get back at the question – why analogies? For starters, they are very helpful in making a point. No, that's the second part actually. The important thing is that I enjoy writing analogies. Seeing a parallel of your situation in some other, totally unrelated part of life, is actually quite a thrill, like making a discovery. It's like… there I go again, almost started an analogy. That's three analogies I thought of in two paragraphs. Let them go, more will come. I had one laddu, a puff, a cup of tea and a cup of coffee and now a piece of cake. No wonder I've been feeling tense. The cake was really delectable, though. Ok brother, I'll see you a couple of days later.
I'm back, after an excellent trip. The journey to and fro was extremely frustrating. It took 15 hours to reach vizag, and over 12 to get back. The six hours I spent in Vizag were memorable. Seeing my parents after a gap, however small the gap, warms my heart, calms my mind. I sang eight bhajans and two solo songs yesterday, for Ramesh Sir. These songs, along with the ones Ramesh Sir and Lal and a few ladies will sing, will be put in an mp3 compilation. I met the producer also. He was quite happy with what I sang. It was sheer pleasure to see Ramesh Sir so happy and proud of it all. After one song, he held my face with both his hands and looked at me a few seconds. That said a lot. I sang Mohe Sharan Me Le lo Ram and Sarathy Tu baba. Other than one line in the latter song and another line in one of the bhajans, my singing was a single take, one song after another. I had prayed for a good voice, and the prayer was answered. Hmm, I suppose it's a high priority prayer to the one who grants them. If only he'd take my job a little more seriously. I'm probably the only one freaking so much over a non complicated job that requires a minimum confidence and zeal to work.
I'm not made for employment. 'Make your own road', he said. What could that be? How could I make my own road? Where would it lead? I have no idea yet. I'm not a great judge of anything, but I know that my current skills, singing or writing, are hardly enough to go pro. Either I improve them to quantum quantities or… stick to this path of slow work, looking over my shoulder all the while.
Indian psychology has a concept called the 'Hanuman Syndrome'. I'm not sure if they call it a syndrome, but the import is the same. The concept, apart from the name, borrows one particular trait that Hanuman had. The son of wind, an aspect of Siva, the boy who could leap to the sun, had no idea that he had greatness in him. He grew, he learned, but he had no idea what he was capable of. If Jambavan had not reminded him on the seashore, hanuman would never have looked face to face with his destiny. So, Indian psychologists have adopted this trait loosely, to describe a lack of self worth or self- confidence. Many might not agree with this. After all, if someone wants to do better in life and he can actually do it, what could stop him? How long can lack of confidence hold him? If a person hasn't risen in life, it must be because he simply can't. Right? Maybe, but maybe not. I will have to use a very cheesy cliché here, but I believe it is useful – "Whether you believe you can or can't, you're right." I used to smirk at this, but I have to admit, at least for the duration of my typing this paragraph, that I agree with this statement. If you are sure that you are incapable of a task, you just cannot find in you the tools to complete that task. Try it. No, you wont even try. There's hardly a whisker between thinking you can't and knowing you can't. But either way, a person is not too unhappy. He does everything he thinks he can and stays away form the tasks he knows are beyond him, in the name of practicality and sensibility. It is those who are can't make up their minds about it that suffer. Then again, is it that they can't make up their minds, or do they choose to be confused? I ask because when you remove the emotional frills, choices are actually quite simple. There are few doubts when you go back to the basic beliefs you live by and look at the new choices through them. Come on, it's not that abstract. By 'beliefs you live by', I mean the things that your dad, or anyone you implicitly trust, would have told you when you were a child. Things like, do your best, or make a god life first and then pursue your dreams, or keep your faith in God, or be patient, things will fall in place, or 'you are meant for greater things', or 'grow up' or 'just do it'. I know Nike said the last one, but it's not a bad line to live by. You see where I'm going? If what you believe still tastes good with the choice you're about to make, the choice is meant to be made. If the belief and choice don't mesh, simply discard it. Not easy, but you do it to your kid when she asks for her third candy or when he asks for that noisy toy truck. You can do it to yourself when needed. That was about not making a choice. That was the easier part. It takes more effort and a lot more courage to go through with a choice than to reject it. To say, "I am ready, I will do what I have to, I will do all I have to do" takes so much faith, so much courage. This is where faith proves almighty useful. Faith in the almighty, I mean. Our faith in ourselves is contaminated with enough doubt to make the bridge crumble mid way. Faith in God, on the other hand, can stand a good bit of doubt. Faith can help us make the choice and stick to it.
So, you dig up your fundamental beliefs, then, using those, you believe in yourself. Then you make the choice to go find your destiny and take it for a spin. It's an exciting process, even when you imagine it. Which is why most of us can imagine it and be happy without having to lift a finger. The actual process takes work, maintenance of faith and steadfast cheer. Of course imagination is easier. But you know what? A person who decides even at the outset that he can't isn't plagued as much as the person who knows he can do it and still doesn't, because of no valid reason. This second guy has to contend with pricks of his conscience from time to time and levels of frustration with his circumstances that he would never have imagined before. So I tell you, dear friend, if you know you are meant for great things, you had better start dusting the sea of your pants, after you get up of course, and then start running like the devil is chasing you. You have places to go to, a person to be. The first few yards are shaky and you will stumble, but breathe in that cool night air, that carries only the freshness of trees and the soft snores of sleeping birds. Keep running and you will find you are more ready than you'll ever be.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 12
Part two
I
Yes, there's a part two. And with good reason. I went home on Sunday. It was a surprise visit that exceeded expectations. Other than the 'special train' that reached vizag over three hours late, the rest of the trip was a piece of heaven. It was like saying goodbye and then bringing my parents back with me to Hyderabad. That trip will not be described or scribed. I can't do it justice yet.
Appreciation requires contentment and a certain level of happiness. It makes better sense when we think about what we appreciate. Beauty, intelligence, wisdom, skill, character, harmony…all these are things that simply fly over our radar when we are not open to them. It means that when we are busy looking at ourselves, our faults, our trivial problems, our own deficiencies, we cannot appreciate anything. I need to spell out here that recognition and appreciation are completely different. An insecure person recognizes beauty, but can only think of its impermanence or fed his own inadequacies with it. Funnily, egotism is more conducive to appreciation, than insecurity. Of course, the egotist invariably compares himself positively with every good thing he sees. So what I glean from this line of thought is that even blatant egotism is better than self-pity. Life is to be appreciated, admired and acknowledged. Self-pity leaves no room to acknowledge anything besides our own imagined inadequacies. Finally, appreciation indicates goodness. It is, after all, the recognition of good in others. And my father told me that we can recognize goodness only when we have it ourselves. So stop and smell the roses, feel the air, the weight of your steps on the ground, remember a good deed, smile at the girl who looks at you from the corner of her eye. Appreciate beauty and become beautiful.
Boredom and fatigue are irrevocably joined. I'm bored, sleepy, disinterested in my work. I want to lie down and sleep for a long time and wake up and do nothing. I shouldn't have had that lunch. Didn't eat much, but apparently, it was enough to make me feel so, so drowsy. I have work to do, lots of it, before I start working in earnest. Then I have even more work to do. I'm sleepy and bored and drunk. I want to sleep. My eyelids are drooping.
-Ananda
I
Yes, there's a part two. And with good reason. I went home on Sunday. It was a surprise visit that exceeded expectations. Other than the 'special train' that reached vizag over three hours late, the rest of the trip was a piece of heaven. It was like saying goodbye and then bringing my parents back with me to Hyderabad. That trip will not be described or scribed. I can't do it justice yet.
Appreciation requires contentment and a certain level of happiness. It makes better sense when we think about what we appreciate. Beauty, intelligence, wisdom, skill, character, harmony…all these are things that simply fly over our radar when we are not open to them. It means that when we are busy looking at ourselves, our faults, our trivial problems, our own deficiencies, we cannot appreciate anything. I need to spell out here that recognition and appreciation are completely different. An insecure person recognizes beauty, but can only think of its impermanence or fed his own inadequacies with it. Funnily, egotism is more conducive to appreciation, than insecurity. Of course, the egotist invariably compares himself positively with every good thing he sees. So what I glean from this line of thought is that even blatant egotism is better than self-pity. Life is to be appreciated, admired and acknowledged. Self-pity leaves no room to acknowledge anything besides our own imagined inadequacies. Finally, appreciation indicates goodness. It is, after all, the recognition of good in others. And my father told me that we can recognize goodness only when we have it ourselves. So stop and smell the roses, feel the air, the weight of your steps on the ground, remember a good deed, smile at the girl who looks at you from the corner of her eye. Appreciate beauty and become beautiful.
Boredom and fatigue are irrevocably joined. I'm bored, sleepy, disinterested in my work. I want to lie down and sleep for a long time and wake up and do nothing. I shouldn't have had that lunch. Didn't eat much, but apparently, it was enough to make me feel so, so drowsy. I have work to do, lots of it, before I start working in earnest. Then I have even more work to do. I'm sleepy and bored and drunk. I want to sleep. My eyelids are drooping.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 11
Weakness is death, strength is life. Death is fear, life is courage. What is the secret of strength? How do you keep your courage? How does one stop being afraid all the time, some of the time? How does one simply do away with fear? Faith? Too easy to use it as a crutch. How about Simply closing your senses to the grip of fear, it's clammy touch, it's nerve grating call from just beyond your line of sight? No, that would only cement your cowardice. How can we stop from starting at every mention of a name, at every sound that sounds like something we fear? Have you ever noticed yourself when you are afraid? Everyone is, at some point, in some way. But just try looking at what happens when you get scared – first there's a minor explosion in your chest, a rush of blood that seems to travel all through your body, but which is actually rushing away from your extremities. A huff of breath like your stomach has been rudely pushed to a side. A sudden opening of your senses, your eyes dilate, your ears twitch and your skin prickles, when you feel you are aware of everything around you, the buzz of a fly, the thundering boom of your heart, the storm of your breath, the distance between you and the next step. You realise the next moment that you are not even aware of what your friend is saying to you. If you can feel your face at this moment, you will know that your skin has sagged, your mouth is gaping at an odd angle, you have sweat on your brow, over your lip. Your responses become slow, your mind is numbed, your vision is blurred, your grip is weak, your legs are wobbly, your underbelly is bursting for release. All for what? One moment in your life, an hour, two? We put ourselves through this insult, this sub-humanness, every time we are afraid. We become a cur with its tail between its legs, snarling and simpering at the same time. I tell you, all of us, without exception have been to this place. Many of us come here everyday, some even more often. Disgusting.
The solution is boring, dull, clichéd duty. We have no taste for it once we have known fear. After all, how can such a strong, personality altering phenomenon be countered by something so dull, so regular? But it is the only solution. Do your job, do what you are supposed to, grow taller than your circumstance by rising beyond any probing into your work. Then and only then does faith let you evolve from being a whinging insect. Faith at this stage gives strength to your principles. There are but two aspects to life – what you do, and what is given to you. You take care of the first and faith takes care of the rest. That is all there is to it. Any fear, however instinctive, however logical, will be no more than a cold draft. We simply shake off cold drafts, wrap ourselves tighter and get on with life. That is all fear is, aimless air out of a hole that should not exist.
I have two stories in the bag, my eyes are opening to new possibilities, I can sense some respect for the information I gathered for the recent story I did. I feel good. I decided to. I met Sai Gopal today, after a long gap. The man likes to talk face to face. Serious chap, thinks the world of hospitals is rotten to the core right now. He's done with health stories and refuses to take them even if they are within reach. "There must be someone with a fresh perspective, I've done all I want to," he said. He has grown, explored newer territory and mastered a field or two. A good example to know. It is easy to fall into a rut when you are a journalist. Once you are assigned a beat, you keep working on it, around it, and you get on a track, that keeps going. Only when you decide to shift or move higher will you do so. The scary part is that you can stop growing and still function. Once you reach a certain level of performance, command a certain amount of respect, there's nothing to push you forward but yourself. Even ambition is numbed by cynicism. Cynicism is such a quagmire. It makes you wallow in it endlessly. Even when you don't respect yourself, it makes you like yourself for being in it. You start enjoying penury, you begin to take pride in your crassness. You stop growing, period. Scary I say. That's probably the danger of having a passion for journalism and nothing else. Understand me, I say passion, not interest. You do need to be passionate about journalism, because without the fire you cant bake your stories. But fires die down, passions wane and without another passion, you are a spent force. Look up at something that will never fade, an ideal that will remain true no matter what. Goals that will stand the test of time and every obstacle thrown at it and still remain as pristine, as relevant and as desirable as ever. Do that, and you're firing on all cylinders all your life. No confusion, no guilt when you stop and smell your baby's hair and talk to your wife. You know you have something to pursue the next morning.
-Ananda
The solution is boring, dull, clichéd duty. We have no taste for it once we have known fear. After all, how can such a strong, personality altering phenomenon be countered by something so dull, so regular? But it is the only solution. Do your job, do what you are supposed to, grow taller than your circumstance by rising beyond any probing into your work. Then and only then does faith let you evolve from being a whinging insect. Faith at this stage gives strength to your principles. There are but two aspects to life – what you do, and what is given to you. You take care of the first and faith takes care of the rest. That is all there is to it. Any fear, however instinctive, however logical, will be no more than a cold draft. We simply shake off cold drafts, wrap ourselves tighter and get on with life. That is all fear is, aimless air out of a hole that should not exist.
I have two stories in the bag, my eyes are opening to new possibilities, I can sense some respect for the information I gathered for the recent story I did. I feel good. I decided to. I met Sai Gopal today, after a long gap. The man likes to talk face to face. Serious chap, thinks the world of hospitals is rotten to the core right now. He's done with health stories and refuses to take them even if they are within reach. "There must be someone with a fresh perspective, I've done all I want to," he said. He has grown, explored newer territory and mastered a field or two. A good example to know. It is easy to fall into a rut when you are a journalist. Once you are assigned a beat, you keep working on it, around it, and you get on a track, that keeps going. Only when you decide to shift or move higher will you do so. The scary part is that you can stop growing and still function. Once you reach a certain level of performance, command a certain amount of respect, there's nothing to push you forward but yourself. Even ambition is numbed by cynicism. Cynicism is such a quagmire. It makes you wallow in it endlessly. Even when you don't respect yourself, it makes you like yourself for being in it. You start enjoying penury, you begin to take pride in your crassness. You stop growing, period. Scary I say. That's probably the danger of having a passion for journalism and nothing else. Understand me, I say passion, not interest. You do need to be passionate about journalism, because without the fire you cant bake your stories. But fires die down, passions wane and without another passion, you are a spent force. Look up at something that will never fade, an ideal that will remain true no matter what. Goals that will stand the test of time and every obstacle thrown at it and still remain as pristine, as relevant and as desirable as ever. Do that, and you're firing on all cylinders all your life. No confusion, no guilt when you stop and smell your baby's hair and talk to your wife. You know you have something to pursue the next morning.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 10
X
A year has passed. 2006 was a curious phase in my life. There weren't many things that happened that year, but the things that happened left very strong impressions. The year was blur of family. I probably spent more time with my family this year than in any other. Quite appropriate, considering this year will probably be the exact opposite.
The only problem is looking at yourself, the only solution, is looking at Him. I read Prabalji's father's book, and there was a part of the book that disturbed me. There was adultery, incest, casteism, atheism and whatnot, but in a monologue by an atheist, there was a line where he says, "Devotion or belief in God is crutch used by the weak who cannot handle life." It got me thinking about the nature of faith in general and doubting my faith in particular. Do I really use faith as a crutch? Does this faith make us week sometimes? Does it ever make us crumble and give in to fatalism? If we want something, do we pay more attention to how and how much to pray for it than the work we have to do to get it? Am I like that? How are surrender and fatalism different? I think it makes sense that when you believe in a higher power to provide you with something, you don't put in your all. It's human nature, to yield to support when we find it. I don't have the answer to this one. I do know that conscience is very helpful at these times. We will definitely know when we have not done our duty to the best of our ability. But we all know that it only takes practice of a couple of times to smother conscience. What if it stops warning us after the first few instances? Fortunately at this point, I don't intend to find the answer to that last question.
Good afternoon. I saw a corpse in a drainage canal today. Caught your attention, eh? The police suspect it was a drunk who fell over. The clothes he was wearing pegs him as an auto driver. He must have been in the water for hardly a few hours, judging from the extent of wrinkles on his feet and from the way his body was still pliable. Does rigor mortis set in even when the body is under water? That was the adventure today.
Prachi is in a damp mood today. No big reason, she doesn't have anything to work on right now, and its just one of those days when you don't wake up happy. She told me that she started smoking and drinking when she was 19, after a bad break up. She had started working by then. I had lunch, she had a smoke and things were better.
Prachi came to my cubicle and said something. It didn't register the first time, so she looked at me and said, "really". Alpha had summoned me to his lair. The tip of my hair went white. I was sure he was going o chew my head off. I had read and heard many gory tales of lethal encounters that had transpired in those very chambers. Prachi was shouted at just a couple of days ago. No wonder most minions are happy to work unnoticed. But perhaps the most unfortunate of these hapless employees is Srinivas. He is usually trapped with Alpha in the toilet, no place to run, no place to hide, and having to endure blood curdling interrogation about what he's been doing. Well, he has endured but he probably simpers in his sleep. So I had been summoned to that dark lair. With my head held high, clutching my notepad with my necrotic fingers, I took a deep breath and entered.
He asked me how I spent New Year's Eve, gave me a few leads to follow, a number to call, and asked me to tell him if there were any problems. That was it. Prachi was smirking like a cat.
Three weeks. The momentous day has come, and is going, going. Time doesn't run away or fly, it flows. You can see it happen everyday. It's not a single, compact entity to go away from you. It is like a river you're swimming in. It flows. When you're thrashing about in time, you don't bother about the flow of time. You are engrossed in your efforts and notice little else. Once in a while, not when you are free, but when you have a huge pile of work to do, try to stand still and observe. You will be amazed at how time flows, surely, steadily, inexorably forward. It gently pushes at you from behind, urging you to move. Do this too long and you might even start to panic. But try it, it's a thrilling experience. I'm sure very few of us have done this, you know. I mean, who would stand around when there's so much work to be done? That's the time to thrash about, to move forward and to dig into work like no time else.
There's something that I realised today. It is actually easier to get a rapport with girls than with guys. I know how this sounds, but this is purely contextual, so hear me out. Guys relate to what you did, how much you did and how well you did it. That's the basis of introduction. In a way, an introduction is half the induction, when you are pegged and your place in the pecking order is decided. Girls on the other hand don't mind hearing about who you are, where you're from, what you're interested in and so forth. And if you do have the brass tax, they're interested enough in that too. So when you haven't made a mark yet, it's really easy to warm up to the ladies in the workplace. I guess the simple fact is that in terms of conversation, girls enjoy a wider repertoire. In spite of being the gender that needs to cover a greater percentage of its anatomy, they have markedly fewer inhibitions in conversation. This is especially true of those who pursue professions. In this case, hitherto taboo topics are not anymore, and the mind-boggling range of eternal girl talk is still very much on the table. So a guy, or a girl, comfortable with his or her asexual status in a corporate background can very easily form a rapport with the girls in the office.
Now modern and smooth as all this may sound, the purpose of conversation has been the same always – connection. Every person needs to belong in some way in where he is put. This means that he has to form a gossamer-like link with the people of that place. Very simple things like a welcome glance when you enter (once in a while) make your day a good one to go through. Of course, in course of time, these things are taken for granted, but the initial ripple of acceptance is probably the strongest encouragement. I have known friends who wrote home about this. One day, the hostel is hell on earth and the very next day, things begin looking up, all because a regular waved and grinned when you spilled your food. We never left school, none of us did.
-Ananda
A year has passed. 2006 was a curious phase in my life. There weren't many things that happened that year, but the things that happened left very strong impressions. The year was blur of family. I probably spent more time with my family this year than in any other. Quite appropriate, considering this year will probably be the exact opposite.
The only problem is looking at yourself, the only solution, is looking at Him. I read Prabalji's father's book, and there was a part of the book that disturbed me. There was adultery, incest, casteism, atheism and whatnot, but in a monologue by an atheist, there was a line where he says, "Devotion or belief in God is crutch used by the weak who cannot handle life." It got me thinking about the nature of faith in general and doubting my faith in particular. Do I really use faith as a crutch? Does this faith make us week sometimes? Does it ever make us crumble and give in to fatalism? If we want something, do we pay more attention to how and how much to pray for it than the work we have to do to get it? Am I like that? How are surrender and fatalism different? I think it makes sense that when you believe in a higher power to provide you with something, you don't put in your all. It's human nature, to yield to support when we find it. I don't have the answer to this one. I do know that conscience is very helpful at these times. We will definitely know when we have not done our duty to the best of our ability. But we all know that it only takes practice of a couple of times to smother conscience. What if it stops warning us after the first few instances? Fortunately at this point, I don't intend to find the answer to that last question.
Good afternoon. I saw a corpse in a drainage canal today. Caught your attention, eh? The police suspect it was a drunk who fell over. The clothes he was wearing pegs him as an auto driver. He must have been in the water for hardly a few hours, judging from the extent of wrinkles on his feet and from the way his body was still pliable. Does rigor mortis set in even when the body is under water? That was the adventure today.
Prachi is in a damp mood today. No big reason, she doesn't have anything to work on right now, and its just one of those days when you don't wake up happy. She told me that she started smoking and drinking when she was 19, after a bad break up. She had started working by then. I had lunch, she had a smoke and things were better.
Prachi came to my cubicle and said something. It didn't register the first time, so she looked at me and said, "really". Alpha had summoned me to his lair. The tip of my hair went white. I was sure he was going o chew my head off. I had read and heard many gory tales of lethal encounters that had transpired in those very chambers. Prachi was shouted at just a couple of days ago. No wonder most minions are happy to work unnoticed. But perhaps the most unfortunate of these hapless employees is Srinivas. He is usually trapped with Alpha in the toilet, no place to run, no place to hide, and having to endure blood curdling interrogation about what he's been doing. Well, he has endured but he probably simpers in his sleep. So I had been summoned to that dark lair. With my head held high, clutching my notepad with my necrotic fingers, I took a deep breath and entered.
He asked me how I spent New Year's Eve, gave me a few leads to follow, a number to call, and asked me to tell him if there were any problems. That was it. Prachi was smirking like a cat.
Three weeks. The momentous day has come, and is going, going. Time doesn't run away or fly, it flows. You can see it happen everyday. It's not a single, compact entity to go away from you. It is like a river you're swimming in. It flows. When you're thrashing about in time, you don't bother about the flow of time. You are engrossed in your efforts and notice little else. Once in a while, not when you are free, but when you have a huge pile of work to do, try to stand still and observe. You will be amazed at how time flows, surely, steadily, inexorably forward. It gently pushes at you from behind, urging you to move. Do this too long and you might even start to panic. But try it, it's a thrilling experience. I'm sure very few of us have done this, you know. I mean, who would stand around when there's so much work to be done? That's the time to thrash about, to move forward and to dig into work like no time else.
There's something that I realised today. It is actually easier to get a rapport with girls than with guys. I know how this sounds, but this is purely contextual, so hear me out. Guys relate to what you did, how much you did and how well you did it. That's the basis of introduction. In a way, an introduction is half the induction, when you are pegged and your place in the pecking order is decided. Girls on the other hand don't mind hearing about who you are, where you're from, what you're interested in and so forth. And if you do have the brass tax, they're interested enough in that too. So when you haven't made a mark yet, it's really easy to warm up to the ladies in the workplace. I guess the simple fact is that in terms of conversation, girls enjoy a wider repertoire. In spite of being the gender that needs to cover a greater percentage of its anatomy, they have markedly fewer inhibitions in conversation. This is especially true of those who pursue professions. In this case, hitherto taboo topics are not anymore, and the mind-boggling range of eternal girl talk is still very much on the table. So a guy, or a girl, comfortable with his or her asexual status in a corporate background can very easily form a rapport with the girls in the office.
Now modern and smooth as all this may sound, the purpose of conversation has been the same always – connection. Every person needs to belong in some way in where he is put. This means that he has to form a gossamer-like link with the people of that place. Very simple things like a welcome glance when you enter (once in a while) make your day a good one to go through. Of course, in course of time, these things are taken for granted, but the initial ripple of acceptance is probably the strongest encouragement. I have known friends who wrote home about this. One day, the hostel is hell on earth and the very next day, things begin looking up, all because a regular waved and grinned when you spilled your food. We never left school, none of us did.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 9
After I typed in the roman numeral you see above, I had to wait a day before I could continue. It happens to all writers. Ok, I'm not a writer, but humour me. All writers feel like they want to say something once in a while. There's this feeling inside, like thumping a metal tank from the inside, with the flat of your palm. Imagine your ribcage is that metal tank. You just have to sit and get it out. You're almighty eager to find out what glorious insight into human nature that you will unveil and you sit down and start typing. It's too big to be a continuation of something, so you type in a brand new Roman numeral. And…bzt. For those who came in late, that's the sound of a television being shut off. You're looking at the screen like a hypnotised jersey cow, waiting for the picture to appear, but some guy switched off the TV with a remote control and is sniggering uncontrollably in a corner. Just another day in the life of a writer. Now this is where a poet has an advantage. The poet is full of feeling. That's what he lives on. Hey, maybe that's why so many poets are intellectually starved. That was logical and mean. Anyway, the poet can record his feelings, paint such a beautiful picture of it, without actually having to tell you anything. The writer, poor fool, has to spill his guts and tell the world what is happening, if he wants top feel any lighter. Poetry, such an expressive art, still has the luxury of mystery. A poem can skip, skirt and dance around its theme, tantalize or caress or mesmerise the reader. It can throw you a crumb or it could give you a feast. It can make you love, it can make you hate, and it can make you indifferent, but the poem will always touch you. You will feel it, no matter what. But prose, poor, boring, regular, systematic, dull, obedient, good old prose, it has to work so very hard to reach your heart. Words become neat little pawns in a paragraph. They impress you no individually, but in the way they are arranged. They have no identity. But in poetry, perch one little word on the ledge of one line of a couplet, and you have no better snare for the gullible human heart anywhere else.
Still, still. I want to be a writer. Why? Hmm, let me see… a poem flows after and sometimes before it is written. But the process in between is a piteous struggle for the poet. The poem plays its most merciless games with the poet. It teases him, jibes him, pricks and prods him, plays a million tunes with his emotions, takes him on unbelievable flights of fantasy and drops him into nadirs of mediocrity. Most heartbreaking of all is when it disappears altogether. The poet is left in abject desolation, he pines more for the poem than for the love of his life it is on. And after all this, the poet is never happy with his work. The poem always holds back a part of itself from the poet. Now that is why I cant be a poet. Why do I want to be a writer? There is a rhythm to writing, like a massage on your head. No matter what you write, even when you pause in between for a short while, there is this delicate, steady, unwavering hum in your thoughts. It lasts as long as you write. There is no abruptness when you begin to write, even when you stop abruptly. The feet of a writer are invariably on the ground, even when he writes fantasy. The simple rules that run through the veins of a paragraph pump order into the writer himself. The writer hence remains on a track, so what if the track runs over a few clouds and under a bottomless ocean. 'Limited resources, unlimited scope' is a favourite quote of any art that has discipline. Too much freedom can spoil a written word. You let a word go, and it will want to change itself, make itself important or insignificant and it will go and place itself wherever it wishes. It might work from time to time, but the mischief of a child is liked only for a short while. The word soon loses its respect and its place. There are other reasons too. Poets, lets face it aren't taken too seriously. They convey the emotion, but the writer has the facts. The ring of truth is clearer and sharper when a writer tolls the bell. And that is why I want to be a writer. When I ring a bell, I want it to be loud, I want it to be clear. When I write, I do not want to be plagued by the fear that my words will desert me. I will write, as and when the words come to me. When they do not come, I will wait patiently. I know they will not desert me, my beautiful pawns, which will come together and make magic so wondrous that a poem would have to written to applaud them. I am a writer. I love writing; to write is part of my life. I am a writer because writing is how I express myself, to see myself.
Hmm, that was satisfying. I have had a nice day so far, in spite of a long walk and the bus rides. For a while, I wanted to write about how fickle the mind is. I'm not talking about its jumping from one thought to another, but the way it jumps from one emotion to another, with such a short trigger. Well, I'll save it for later.
-Ananda
Still, still. I want to be a writer. Why? Hmm, let me see… a poem flows after and sometimes before it is written. But the process in between is a piteous struggle for the poet. The poem plays its most merciless games with the poet. It teases him, jibes him, pricks and prods him, plays a million tunes with his emotions, takes him on unbelievable flights of fantasy and drops him into nadirs of mediocrity. Most heartbreaking of all is when it disappears altogether. The poet is left in abject desolation, he pines more for the poem than for the love of his life it is on. And after all this, the poet is never happy with his work. The poem always holds back a part of itself from the poet. Now that is why I cant be a poet. Why do I want to be a writer? There is a rhythm to writing, like a massage on your head. No matter what you write, even when you pause in between for a short while, there is this delicate, steady, unwavering hum in your thoughts. It lasts as long as you write. There is no abruptness when you begin to write, even when you stop abruptly. The feet of a writer are invariably on the ground, even when he writes fantasy. The simple rules that run through the veins of a paragraph pump order into the writer himself. The writer hence remains on a track, so what if the track runs over a few clouds and under a bottomless ocean. 'Limited resources, unlimited scope' is a favourite quote of any art that has discipline. Too much freedom can spoil a written word. You let a word go, and it will want to change itself, make itself important or insignificant and it will go and place itself wherever it wishes. It might work from time to time, but the mischief of a child is liked only for a short while. The word soon loses its respect and its place. There are other reasons too. Poets, lets face it aren't taken too seriously. They convey the emotion, but the writer has the facts. The ring of truth is clearer and sharper when a writer tolls the bell. And that is why I want to be a writer. When I ring a bell, I want it to be loud, I want it to be clear. When I write, I do not want to be plagued by the fear that my words will desert me. I will write, as and when the words come to me. When they do not come, I will wait patiently. I know they will not desert me, my beautiful pawns, which will come together and make magic so wondrous that a poem would have to written to applaud them. I am a writer. I love writing; to write is part of my life. I am a writer because writing is how I express myself, to see myself.
Hmm, that was satisfying. I have had a nice day so far, in spite of a long walk and the bus rides. For a while, I wanted to write about how fickle the mind is. I'm not talking about its jumping from one thought to another, but the way it jumps from one emotion to another, with such a short trigger. Well, I'll save it for later.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 8
The office is a cold, cold place. I can actually feel the stream of cold air landing on my hands as I type. I'm waiting for the jerkin and gloves that Amma bought for me. I got in touch with two of Sai Gopal's contacts today. One, the former APJUDA president, over phone and the other, a dental surgeon in Gandhi Hospital in person. The phone call was more rewarding. Another day has flowed away, without much progress. What to do.
It is in the nature of man to detect patterns, spot symmetry in life as we see it. It's an amazing trait, really. The search for symmetry is the atom of human nature. Where and how we look for symmetry defines us. Let me elaborate, for the sheer joy of it. Imagine a detective, standing before a mountain of fact, circumstance and emotion. Imagine the master sculpture, looking at a block of stone. Imagine a loving mother, intent on making her home. Imagine the thinker, watching the world move through astounded eyes. Imagine the aspirant, watching life itself dance in the waves of the sea. They all look for symmetry. They all find it, and in the process, find themselves. Each person in this world has a world unto himself. Isn't it amazing that each of us lives in a different world and is connected by the very same thread that separates us? Even more incredible is that sometimes, we might even be looking at the same symmetry. Symmetry is the thread that separates us, the bridge that can connect us. It is a quest that is at the very core of evolution.
Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Every time you take four steps, every time you put your slippers one beside the other, every time you part your hair, every time choose a shirt, every time you laugh, every time you speak, every time you listen to music, every time you grasp someone's hand, every time you chew your food. Every single time you breathe! Do you see it? You can breathe without symmetry. Beauty, man, that's the word we use for symmetry. It's so strong we can get high on it. We stop caring if something is true, if it is symmetrical, if it fits.
Even the words we use beg to be symmetrical. Symmetry is beauty. In words and in deeds too. Even in thought, symmetry is beauty. The steady stroke of a swimmer is so invigorating, the perfect verse of a poet is such a pleasure, and when a thought is formed, with the pieces of the puzzle sliding into place, that moment when everything 'clicks' into place is exhilarating.
Happy New Year.
It is in the nature of man to detect patterns, spot symmetry in life as we see it. It's an amazing trait, really. The search for symmetry is the atom of human nature. Where and how we look for symmetry defines us. Let me elaborate, for the sheer joy of it. Imagine a detective, standing before a mountain of fact, circumstance and emotion. Imagine the master sculpture, looking at a block of stone. Imagine a loving mother, intent on making her home. Imagine the thinker, watching the world move through astounded eyes. Imagine the aspirant, watching life itself dance in the waves of the sea. They all look for symmetry. They all find it, and in the process, find themselves. Each person in this world has a world unto himself. Isn't it amazing that each of us lives in a different world and is connected by the very same thread that separates us? Even more incredible is that sometimes, we might even be looking at the same symmetry. Symmetry is the thread that separates us, the bridge that can connect us. It is a quest that is at the very core of evolution.
Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Every time you take four steps, every time you put your slippers one beside the other, every time you part your hair, every time choose a shirt, every time you laugh, every time you speak, every time you listen to music, every time you grasp someone's hand, every time you chew your food. Every single time you breathe! Do you see it? You can breathe without symmetry. Beauty, man, that's the word we use for symmetry. It's so strong we can get high on it. We stop caring if something is true, if it is symmetrical, if it fits.
Even the words we use beg to be symmetrical. Symmetry is beauty. In words and in deeds too. Even in thought, symmetry is beauty. The steady stroke of a swimmer is so invigorating, the perfect verse of a poet is such a pleasure, and when a thought is formed, with the pieces of the puzzle sliding into place, that moment when everything 'clicks' into place is exhilarating.
Happy New Year.
Hyderabad 7
Calls made, no avail. Chalo. Kya karein. Faint silver liningsbeginning to appear from strange corners. I will try and follow them,see what comes out. But yaar, again that 'something's gotta give' timeis coming closer.There's something called the 'big picture' of everyone's lives. It'slike a movie. When you show people the big picture, it's fascinating,fast and inspiring. Naturally, because the director is the Master.However, like in movies, none of the actors realise how amazing themovie finally looks. To them, the making of the movie is a process oftoil, sweat and a vague image of what it might look like. That's howwe live life, bored, frustrated, angry at times, without everrealizing our place in an amazing story. I guess the trick is to sharethe Director's vsion, look at it from his Viewpoint (I love thisword). Once we learn to do that, we fast forward bredom, skip over theunpleasantness, relive the essence of the story whenever we want andget to the end whenever it comes. If only I could see the big picture.How beautiful he must have made it for me. Man, I shouldn't miss asingle second of it.
Ramble time again. Gobbledygook, rubbish, crap, nonsense, tosh, bosh,waffle, gibberish, mumbo jumbo, garbage, gabble, twaddle, claptrap,hogwash, baloney, rot, drivel, poppycock, tripe, balderdash, bullshitand horseshit. Wow, 23 words that mean the same. I think this is theonly set of synonyms that can be interchanged any which way we want.Why do you think we use so many words for it? And why do you supposethey can all be interchanged? Accessibility, my friends. Stuff andnonsense needs to be very readily accessible in today's world. Unlessyou have a good stock of bullshit, you cant survive in a corporatemadhouse. Nothing but tripe can get you out of a tight corner.Gibberish and balderdash will help you keep low, crap and rot will getyou momentary notice. Gabble and twaddle endears you to the fairer sex(even the dark ones) and baloney charms them. Drivel, claptrap, waffleand gobbledygook are highly helpful in the daily rigour of work andbosh, tosh and poppycock helps you bulldoze those below you. What areyou if you cant share some horseshit with the guys after work? Garbageis all around, so cant but contribute. Mumbo jumbo, however, isreserved strictly for the bigwigs. There's nothing like good mumbojumbo to impress the hell out of folks. So you see, we use so much ofit in our lives, that we just cant do without it. 70% of the humanbody is made of water, and 70% of human life is made up of…well, I'msure you know by now. It's the essence of existence, after all.
-Ananda
Ramble time again. Gobbledygook, rubbish, crap, nonsense, tosh, bosh,waffle, gibberish, mumbo jumbo, garbage, gabble, twaddle, claptrap,hogwash, baloney, rot, drivel, poppycock, tripe, balderdash, bullshitand horseshit. Wow, 23 words that mean the same. I think this is theonly set of synonyms that can be interchanged any which way we want.Why do you think we use so many words for it? And why do you supposethey can all be interchanged? Accessibility, my friends. Stuff andnonsense needs to be very readily accessible in today's world. Unlessyou have a good stock of bullshit, you cant survive in a corporatemadhouse. Nothing but tripe can get you out of a tight corner.Gibberish and balderdash will help you keep low, crap and rot will getyou momentary notice. Gabble and twaddle endears you to the fairer sex(even the dark ones) and baloney charms them. Drivel, claptrap, waffleand gobbledygook are highly helpful in the daily rigour of work andbosh, tosh and poppycock helps you bulldoze those below you. What areyou if you cant share some horseshit with the guys after work? Garbageis all around, so cant but contribute. Mumbo jumbo, however, isreserved strictly for the bigwigs. There's nothing like good mumbojumbo to impress the hell out of folks. So you see, we use so much ofit in our lives, that we just cant do without it. 70% of the humanbody is made of water, and 70% of human life is made up of…well, I'msure you know by now. It's the essence of existence, after all.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 6
A rather late start today at the ramble file. There's this funny scene in many comedy movies, where a strong man pus his palm on a little guy's head, and he keeps swinging and swinging. I can see myself doing just that. I gotta change something fundamental in my approach. Wonder what it is. RK anna said that recognizing the problems is the biggest step toward solving them. The problem is coming into focus, slowly. I'm snapping at it's heels, around the edges. Once I figure out how to tackle the strong guy, I'll be rushing faster than ever.
I wanted to write today, a couple of times. I cant remember what about, but it felt good at the moment. Oh, by the way, I got a call at 1:00 last night. You know who it was. 'I'm feeling low, I have no one else to call', she says. The next hour passed in self pity, sobbing and basically a full spectrum of sorrow from a very steady pessimistic viewpoint. I was glad to go back to sleep. Of course, she was reluctant to leave, even after 2:00. I think I'll switch my phone off tonight.
I reworked the story on the Osmania hospital today, according to another one published this morning on Niloufer. I think it fits the format boss asked for, but I'll try and give it another reading.
This is now two days later. The Osmania article fell flat on its face, then flipped over and landed on its chair with a thump. "I'm your reader, help me, don't torture me," was what boss had to say about the article. Wow.
I think I'm finally beginning to learn. Another oft heard phrase comes to mind – "put aside your ego if you want to learn." Well, since ordinary human beings cant simply put it aside, circumstances dot he job for them. The boss quite effectively decimated my ego with a few choice lines like the one in the previous paragraph. So now I'm taking a longer look at my circumstances. Changing the viewpoint, so to speak. I'm a fresher. I didn't try to hide this fact, even at the beginning, but now everyone knows it and it's been established. Like boss once confided, I have a one-month probation, by which time I'm supposed to be churning out stories like the rest of the gang. Tomorrow I will reach the two-week mark of the first month. I'm exactly one story old. Two weeks, 14 days. One story. Hmm……now, GG said my career's been made, I think. Made what? Made how? You know, logic dictates that I desire the month never to be over, but I'm awfully curious about the next phase. I can't see anything at all from where I'm standing right now. Where are the stories going to come from? Where?
I just had my lunch. After no breakfast, it was a welcome meal, but lunch brings with it its own horde of problems. I have to make two phone calls, neither of which will yield a story today. I'm so drowsy after that meal that I've decided against lunch in the future. I don't have a story for the day (again) and that in itself tenses me. So I'm really drowsy, I have this nagging feeling of something left undone and I'm tense about having no stories yet. I'm a glass of milk into which a slice of lemon has been thrown in. I'd better make those calls.
-Ananda
I wanted to write today, a couple of times. I cant remember what about, but it felt good at the moment. Oh, by the way, I got a call at 1:00 last night. You know who it was. 'I'm feeling low, I have no one else to call', she says. The next hour passed in self pity, sobbing and basically a full spectrum of sorrow from a very steady pessimistic viewpoint. I was glad to go back to sleep. Of course, she was reluctant to leave, even after 2:00. I think I'll switch my phone off tonight.
I reworked the story on the Osmania hospital today, according to another one published this morning on Niloufer. I think it fits the format boss asked for, but I'll try and give it another reading.
This is now two days later. The Osmania article fell flat on its face, then flipped over and landed on its chair with a thump. "I'm your reader, help me, don't torture me," was what boss had to say about the article. Wow.
I think I'm finally beginning to learn. Another oft heard phrase comes to mind – "put aside your ego if you want to learn." Well, since ordinary human beings cant simply put it aside, circumstances dot he job for them. The boss quite effectively decimated my ego with a few choice lines like the one in the previous paragraph. So now I'm taking a longer look at my circumstances. Changing the viewpoint, so to speak. I'm a fresher. I didn't try to hide this fact, even at the beginning, but now everyone knows it and it's been established. Like boss once confided, I have a one-month probation, by which time I'm supposed to be churning out stories like the rest of the gang. Tomorrow I will reach the two-week mark of the first month. I'm exactly one story old. Two weeks, 14 days. One story. Hmm……now, GG said my career's been made, I think. Made what? Made how? You know, logic dictates that I desire the month never to be over, but I'm awfully curious about the next phase. I can't see anything at all from where I'm standing right now. Where are the stories going to come from? Where?
I just had my lunch. After no breakfast, it was a welcome meal, but lunch brings with it its own horde of problems. I have to make two phone calls, neither of which will yield a story today. I'm so drowsy after that meal that I've decided against lunch in the future. I don't have a story for the day (again) and that in itself tenses me. So I'm really drowsy, I have this nagging feeling of something left undone and I'm tense about having no stories yet. I'm a glass of milk into which a slice of lemon has been thrown in. I'd better make those calls.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 5
Amway has a phrase…yes, 'Fired Up'. I wrote well over a thousand words today, touching up the three stories I've been working on all week. All three have come up to an extent. I now have an idea of how much work its going to take to finish every story, if we want a complete one. A half baked story with little fact and a lot of quotes from boggarts will take close to twenty minutes to write. The other variety, well, that takes a while.
Distance and proximity. Two words that rule a relationship. Any relationship. What is the distance you need to show and respect? What is the proximity you can enjoy and expect? When can you stick to these two rules? When must you cross the line? Paul Reiser described a relationship as a dance, in his book coupling. I know what he means. You gotta know the moves if you want to be any good at the dance. No one is a natural. Everyone can learn this dance if he wants to. There, that's the key word, want. Unless you want to be great in a relationship, you cant. The thought of spending a day wih someone should make you tingle. It should make you play catch with the hundred ways to make that person a trifle happier, these little ideas, flitting about in a great big hall of your mind. And what a thrill when you finally catch one. You suddenly remember her favourite flower and oh, there it is, in that hedge. You conjure two of the sweetest verses you can and jot 'em down on a neat little card, saving it all day to give it to her in the evening. It can be anyone, you know. It can be a stranger you met and liked. You can think up a witty joke you want to share with the guy. Or you could buy your mom that packet of oil she'd been asking for since three days. The reaction is fleeting most of the times, but unless you think its worth it, the better stuff is beyond your reach.
If I went on like this, I could probably make this a book, you know. I mean, the three ramble books I've read so far, by Tim Allen, Bing Cosby and Paul Reiser are all the same – a bunch of stand up comedy routines, with a prelude and a short conclusion attached to make it a pretty little chapter. But, I say, but, they have something else in the book. Their wives, the love of their life. You gotta have some huge factor in your life that turns it upside down as you're living it. You can use parents in your book, because that would be a foul. That would give you too much to write about. A girlfriend is too transient a concept to grasp long enough to write a book. So I guess if I had to write a great book full of jokes, having a wife would help tremendously. Plus, you have an excellent subject and inexhaustible material for jokes. Hmm, clever old rascals, the three of them. Their books probably got their wives starry eyed for weeks, the silly things. Well, I cant marry just as yet, so I guess I'll try and collect as much material as possible and brace myself with good writing skills before the avalanche of nuptial comedy buries me, kicking and rolling in laughter.
Mridula asked me a…..an important question. She asked me if I was a reporter for the journalism or for the writing. I guess I'm here for the writing. I like words. I enjoy looking at them, seeing them, reading them. I enjoy watching the picture they draw, just for me. The best part of writing is that sometimes, you don't see the picture yourself, until you se the words you've written. Definitely writing.
That's not all though. You tend to run out of things to write about after a while, really, you do. There are always things going on around you, but it starts to slip through your fingers after a while. The only way you can stop this from happening is to keep your grip on the pulse of life. The only way to do that, is to be in the thick of things, living life, not some of it, all of it. That's what being a journalist is all about. The average joe can choose the angle he wants to experience and accept. The journo has no choice. He has to look at every angle, he has to cover every angle, he has to experience every part of the story. Yeah, I know, pretty dramatic. But it's kinda true, you know. There's a certain pride in it. There's a rightful swagger in a person who can say, "I know more about it than you do." The humility in such a person is true. So that's what I'm after, in this office, out on the street, among peers and betters.
-Ananda
Distance and proximity. Two words that rule a relationship. Any relationship. What is the distance you need to show and respect? What is the proximity you can enjoy and expect? When can you stick to these two rules? When must you cross the line? Paul Reiser described a relationship as a dance, in his book coupling. I know what he means. You gotta know the moves if you want to be any good at the dance. No one is a natural. Everyone can learn this dance if he wants to. There, that's the key word, want. Unless you want to be great in a relationship, you cant. The thought of spending a day wih someone should make you tingle. It should make you play catch with the hundred ways to make that person a trifle happier, these little ideas, flitting about in a great big hall of your mind. And what a thrill when you finally catch one. You suddenly remember her favourite flower and oh, there it is, in that hedge. You conjure two of the sweetest verses you can and jot 'em down on a neat little card, saving it all day to give it to her in the evening. It can be anyone, you know. It can be a stranger you met and liked. You can think up a witty joke you want to share with the guy. Or you could buy your mom that packet of oil she'd been asking for since three days. The reaction is fleeting most of the times, but unless you think its worth it, the better stuff is beyond your reach.
If I went on like this, I could probably make this a book, you know. I mean, the three ramble books I've read so far, by Tim Allen, Bing Cosby and Paul Reiser are all the same – a bunch of stand up comedy routines, with a prelude and a short conclusion attached to make it a pretty little chapter. But, I say, but, they have something else in the book. Their wives, the love of their life. You gotta have some huge factor in your life that turns it upside down as you're living it. You can use parents in your book, because that would be a foul. That would give you too much to write about. A girlfriend is too transient a concept to grasp long enough to write a book. So I guess if I had to write a great book full of jokes, having a wife would help tremendously. Plus, you have an excellent subject and inexhaustible material for jokes. Hmm, clever old rascals, the three of them. Their books probably got their wives starry eyed for weeks, the silly things. Well, I cant marry just as yet, so I guess I'll try and collect as much material as possible and brace myself with good writing skills before the avalanche of nuptial comedy buries me, kicking and rolling in laughter.
Mridula asked me a…..an important question. She asked me if I was a reporter for the journalism or for the writing. I guess I'm here for the writing. I like words. I enjoy looking at them, seeing them, reading them. I enjoy watching the picture they draw, just for me. The best part of writing is that sometimes, you don't see the picture yourself, until you se the words you've written. Definitely writing.
That's not all though. You tend to run out of things to write about after a while, really, you do. There are always things going on around you, but it starts to slip through your fingers after a while. The only way you can stop this from happening is to keep your grip on the pulse of life. The only way to do that, is to be in the thick of things, living life, not some of it, all of it. That's what being a journalist is all about. The average joe can choose the angle he wants to experience and accept. The journo has no choice. He has to look at every angle, he has to cover every angle, he has to experience every part of the story. Yeah, I know, pretty dramatic. But it's kinda true, you know. There's a certain pride in it. There's a rightful swagger in a person who can say, "I know more about it than you do." The humility in such a person is true. So that's what I'm after, in this office, out on the street, among peers and betters.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 4
Saturday
There. Now you know what day of the week I'm talking about. It's a really novel method, typing in the date, time and the title of what one is about to write. Wonder why I rarely use this method of writing. Oh, hats right, I never know what I'm writing about, I usually don't know what day of the week it is and c'mon, who cares what time it is?
Today was an interesting day. The end of the day still saw me put zilch into the report basket, but I saw quite a bit. I went to the Osmania hospital, that zenith of Hyderabadi medical achievement. My second look into the hospital did nothing at all to help me get usd to my first look. The same half dried pan-spit on all the walls without exception, that same smell, a combination of human excrement, old linen, mild spirit and traces of blood. As I was walking along, I chanced on a story. Keeps your shirt on, I gave up the info to a fellow reporter. After I had filed half the story. Ah, forget it. Well, its about a farmer who claims he owns land on which the new international airport road in Shamshad Nagar is being built. He drank quite a bit of a chemical that is supposed to make roses look brighter. He was conscious when I came in, but quickly lost it when they started pumping fluids form out of his body. The story here, for me, is that none of the family members were surprised that he actually did it. And, none of them believed he might actually die. So it was like this media stunt they pulled, with tens of policemen standing around them.
Well, after that, I took a more detailed tour of the place. I saw the Acute Surgical Ward, the Emergency Operation Theatres and a few other rooms. All the rooms are the same. Neither the security nor sanitation changes by even a iota from room to room. The most telling part was when I saw footprints and drag prints of blood that had not been wiped in the more than two hours that in was in the hospital. The stains were right outside the heath inspector's room. The room adjoining the emergency operation theatres section is where the patient is first looked at. The rubber sheets on the bed have so much crusted blood and antiseptic ointment that it was dyed another colour by it. I had had enough of that floor.
Then I had an interesting chat with the Resident Medical Officer. He just finished his lunch and was so busy picking his teeth that he gave me his left hand to shake. "We are insignificant saar," he said between yawns. He also magnanimously agreed that the hospital was dirty. Of course, he had his theories to explain the situation – "The hospital is too close to the old city. You know, so many muslims keep coming. We have a floating population of a thousand people everyday. All the muslims have this pan habit. So if we clean it today, within one day it is same. Too difficult to maintain." And so the hospital is spit on, from the inside and out.
The next foray was to the mortuary. Now that is quite an experience. The smell is not what I would call foul. Oppressive or extremely pungent is a better way of describing it. By rule, one can go to the mortuary only with the permission of the HoD, but no one objected when I slipped in to take a look. There is so much fluid on the floor, man. That was the autopsy room. It had three bodies on three metal beds. A huge bundle of soiled cotton and gauze lay in one corner of the room. One body had just been done with and was being wheeled out, to make place for the latest body, one of a drunk with no legs. My eyes turned to the cold storage. There's a gulch that runs along the base of the metal storage cupboards. There was blood and water in this gulch. I cant for the life of me understand why a body that's being cold storaged would leak.
Ah well, after that little adventure, I came back and began working on my descriptive story of Osmania. Couldn't get very far, so I'm back to rambling. Well, I'm back. Boss thought since tomorrow is a holiday, I could sit back and write up that piece for his perusal. I did, and he said we could work on it on Monday. He asked me to be more observant and try to gather more details henceforth. Be a reporter, I believe he meant to say. What doesn't bend at 10 wont bend at 25. the amount of resistance my body is putting up against work and learning a new skill is unbelievable.
I bet I wont be able to learn to ride the bycicle or swim or any of the little skills I picked up as a kid. While it's kind of freaky on one side, it also helps you understand the older generation better. If I were born in the 60s and saw the computer for the first time in my fortieth year, I wouldn't be comfortable using such a complicated gadget.
Merry Christmas. It's the 25th, Jesus was born, Sudhir was born on this day. Had a comfortabletime at Bhargavi's place yesterday. After a good movie, we all went home and had dinner and slept. I showed Zahed some of this stuff. After the friendly lines like 'you should write a book', he came up with this - "I have this unshakable belief that You and Vikram will do extremely well in life". Wow. You knwo Zahed, you can hear, and see what he says. I slept well. I wished Sudhir, had a heavy breakfast in Bhargavi's place, took Zahed's bike and came back to the room. Sudhir sounded happy to hear from me. He was quite excited about the fact that he'd been getting birthday wishes and no sleep all nigh.
Ironically, I have no outside assignments today, when I have a bike I can use. I reworked the traffic story and hope it will be used. I did some work on the cell phone story. Made a gram of progress on the Osmania hospital story. And now we wait for something to happen.
This bit of rambling has been more descriptive of what I've seen, than the usual fare of wat I feel. Strange, I cant recall or recount how I felt when I saw those things ont eh Hospital or on the way I spent Sunday. Wonder why. The regular undercurrent of wanting to do well at work and a bit of anxety about the next day was still there, but little else registered.
-Ananda
There. Now you know what day of the week I'm talking about. It's a really novel method, typing in the date, time and the title of what one is about to write. Wonder why I rarely use this method of writing. Oh, hats right, I never know what I'm writing about, I usually don't know what day of the week it is and c'mon, who cares what time it is?
Today was an interesting day. The end of the day still saw me put zilch into the report basket, but I saw quite a bit. I went to the Osmania hospital, that zenith of Hyderabadi medical achievement. My second look into the hospital did nothing at all to help me get usd to my first look. The same half dried pan-spit on all the walls without exception, that same smell, a combination of human excrement, old linen, mild spirit and traces of blood. As I was walking along, I chanced on a story. Keeps your shirt on, I gave up the info to a fellow reporter. After I had filed half the story. Ah, forget it. Well, its about a farmer who claims he owns land on which the new international airport road in Shamshad Nagar is being built. He drank quite a bit of a chemical that is supposed to make roses look brighter. He was conscious when I came in, but quickly lost it when they started pumping fluids form out of his body. The story here, for me, is that none of the family members were surprised that he actually did it. And, none of them believed he might actually die. So it was like this media stunt they pulled, with tens of policemen standing around them.
Well, after that, I took a more detailed tour of the place. I saw the Acute Surgical Ward, the Emergency Operation Theatres and a few other rooms. All the rooms are the same. Neither the security nor sanitation changes by even a iota from room to room. The most telling part was when I saw footprints and drag prints of blood that had not been wiped in the more than two hours that in was in the hospital. The stains were right outside the heath inspector's room. The room adjoining the emergency operation theatres section is where the patient is first looked at. The rubber sheets on the bed have so much crusted blood and antiseptic ointment that it was dyed another colour by it. I had had enough of that floor.
Then I had an interesting chat with the Resident Medical Officer. He just finished his lunch and was so busy picking his teeth that he gave me his left hand to shake. "We are insignificant saar," he said between yawns. He also magnanimously agreed that the hospital was dirty. Of course, he had his theories to explain the situation – "The hospital is too close to the old city. You know, so many muslims keep coming. We have a floating population of a thousand people everyday. All the muslims have this pan habit. So if we clean it today, within one day it is same. Too difficult to maintain." And so the hospital is spit on, from the inside and out.
The next foray was to the mortuary. Now that is quite an experience. The smell is not what I would call foul. Oppressive or extremely pungent is a better way of describing it. By rule, one can go to the mortuary only with the permission of the HoD, but no one objected when I slipped in to take a look. There is so much fluid on the floor, man. That was the autopsy room. It had three bodies on three metal beds. A huge bundle of soiled cotton and gauze lay in one corner of the room. One body had just been done with and was being wheeled out, to make place for the latest body, one of a drunk with no legs. My eyes turned to the cold storage. There's a gulch that runs along the base of the metal storage cupboards. There was blood and water in this gulch. I cant for the life of me understand why a body that's being cold storaged would leak.
Ah well, after that little adventure, I came back and began working on my descriptive story of Osmania. Couldn't get very far, so I'm back to rambling. Well, I'm back. Boss thought since tomorrow is a holiday, I could sit back and write up that piece for his perusal. I did, and he said we could work on it on Monday. He asked me to be more observant and try to gather more details henceforth. Be a reporter, I believe he meant to say. What doesn't bend at 10 wont bend at 25. the amount of resistance my body is putting up against work and learning a new skill is unbelievable.
I bet I wont be able to learn to ride the bycicle or swim or any of the little skills I picked up as a kid. While it's kind of freaky on one side, it also helps you understand the older generation better. If I were born in the 60s and saw the computer for the first time in my fortieth year, I wouldn't be comfortable using such a complicated gadget.
Merry Christmas. It's the 25th, Jesus was born, Sudhir was born on this day. Had a comfortabletime at Bhargavi's place yesterday. After a good movie, we all went home and had dinner and slept. I showed Zahed some of this stuff. After the friendly lines like 'you should write a book', he came up with this - "I have this unshakable belief that You and Vikram will do extremely well in life". Wow. You knwo Zahed, you can hear, and see what he says. I slept well. I wished Sudhir, had a heavy breakfast in Bhargavi's place, took Zahed's bike and came back to the room. Sudhir sounded happy to hear from me. He was quite excited about the fact that he'd been getting birthday wishes and no sleep all nigh.
Ironically, I have no outside assignments today, when I have a bike I can use. I reworked the traffic story and hope it will be used. I did some work on the cell phone story. Made a gram of progress on the Osmania hospital story. And now we wait for something to happen.
This bit of rambling has been more descriptive of what I've seen, than the usual fare of wat I feel. Strange, I cant recall or recount how I felt when I saw those things ont eh Hospital or on the way I spent Sunday. Wonder why. The regular undercurrent of wanting to do well at work and a bit of anxety about the next day was still there, but little else registered.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 3
Yesterday
Ok, just finished reporting to my boss the deeds, or lack thereof, of the day. He was busy, fortunately, so gave me polite advice not to trust journalists, as they're all jackals, considering the competitive scenario. He then bid me khuda hafiz and turned to his hp flatscreen monitor. And I'm back to my desk.
My desk is in a cublicle and shares space with three other desks. The cubicle is a custom made product of Iceland, in collaboration with sadistic corporate giants in India. I'm sure there's a camera somewhere recording the symptoms of the slow onset of hypothermia. The disappearance of the previous resident of this desk is still a mystery, but I bet the cameras caught him in his death throes, his teeth still chattering six feet under.
I'm taking a look around now. Habiba is not here, probably her day off today. Srinivas and Mridula share the cubicle with me. The guy is a whip of a man, but his serious spectacled face has seen many a byline within the ten months he's been here. The girl is a charmer. No airs about her, loves cricket, is endearingly clumsy sometimes and is one heck of a reporter. Good sense of humour as well.
The first person I met in the editorial was prachi. She's a feature writer from massourie, who worked for the Hindustan times in delhi. Very amiable and quite cool. There's a touch of tough stuff in her, but she doesn't call on it often. Then there's puromita, another sub. She's quite pretty, and I haven't spoken a word to her since I came here. Not even a wish. Sheesh.
Today
Another day at work. Yes, the day's at work, not me. The story I'm supposed to be sniffing around about is regarding bad connectivity of cell phones, like when they cut the call in the middle f a conversation, or when the signal suddenly goes away on a holiday, or when you have to yell so hard your voice sounds half way to the next city and the anyone on the other line still thinks you're whispering. All this in spite of paying through the nose every month. Hardly value for money. Now see, it was so easy to tell you the problem in words like this. Btu no. I gotta make a report of it, make it just boring enough to be interesting. As a report. Any more boring and it loses its readability. That's the challenge of news, to keep your opinions to yourself and if they do happen to surface, they should be only a flavor in the story.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. He was a good little boy, ad everyone in his little world loved him. They told him that he was the best, that he had his little flaws, but that he was still the best. They laughed at all his jokes, they let him alone when he was cranky. They praised hi every time he showed them a trick. The little boy loved everyone there, but he knew something wasn't quite right. He knew he wasn't the best. He knew he was far from it, and that he was getting farther by the day. But by now, he was quite full of the donuts everyone gave him, and just didn't want to try any harder at his jokes or his tricks. Then one day, everyone told the little boy he wasn't so little any more, that because he was the best, he had to go and be the best.
The little boy who was not so little any more was worried. He knew that the time had come when everyone would know he wasn't the best. He was sure everyone else would laugh and everyone would be sorry.
Ok, too much whining. I just took a walk to the hindu office a coupla km away. Met a very good journalist by name Sai Gopal. He's been in the field for a short while, but he's done a lot. My immediate boss (henceforth to be referred to simply as boss. Alpha boss will be alpha.) has great regard and a lot of praise for him, as does sudhir. Sai G is a great guy. He briefly told me that it was going to be hard, but that how high I go need be no less than how high I want to go. Clichés all, but when I saw the guy say these things, I saw many days of solid work and learning. 'continuous learning experience', termed it. He warned me to stay off office intrigue. I didn't need that one, but well, its helps to keep it in mind. He suggested that I keep a keen eye on the vernacular papers. There might be a lot to draw from them as time goes by, not to mention a picture of the city they give the ready. He also told me never to give up on reading, that the words I read ages ago will come floating back into sentences I write today. "Keep in touch", he warned.
Today is a zilch day. No stories, no ideas even. Just a brief meeting with a couple of bureaucrats in an organization one approaches only for statistics at the state level. It's still a start, I told myself. As I've been telling myself for the past week, tomorrow is another day. Now, another bit of observation that might be helpful – I get sluggish when I sit down for over 10 minutes. Up to 10 minutes is fine. Any more and I get sluggish and I simply can't move out, or do anything. Solution, start moving even before I get into the office. Make an appointment earlier in the day and get to that place first. Finish with the place and then come to the office. Hmm, not a bad idea. All I have to do is tell the boss. Ok. I need to dress like a journo from now on. Enough formals. I'm going to buy jeans and a good woodland shoe and get the look. Its part of getting into the groove.
The cell phone story I was working on needed some stats from the airtel guys. Naturally, their pr system and company policy was thicker than whale blubber, so I was groping with my hands in goop, with no solid info. However, the pr voice of airtel, as you may remember, is rediffusion. I spoke to a guy from that office. He was quite friendly, but this being a zilch day, he didn't give me much. But the guy seemed one of those bona fide pr guys, and offered to buy me ice cream some day, before his wife came back home. Ahem, I assure you, there's no pun in ice cream. He said he was under her mercy when she was home, that's all. Cute. The guy talks good urdu and went high funda for a while. I held my own with passable hindi, and voila, we both have a contact each in hyderabad. I wonder if he knows the contact is mutually useless.
After this phone call, I hit it off with srinivas, the 10month old journo in our cubicle. We sit back to back. He turned around, and explained the 'daily rigour' as he termed it. How every journo has to submit two ideas a day in the morning, work on them during the day and file them in the evening. Yup, two stories a day. Even dc doesn't do those many a week. Of course, its not a rule, just a challenge in a dog eat dog world. Some days it doesn't happen, no biggie. If it happens only on some days, it's a biggie. Another thing, copy's not personal stuff, so its quite common to have peeps read over your shoulder, like srinivas just did. What the heck, nothing incriminating.
TOI prefers two kinds of news – trends and negatives. Write about the newest trends in any field, and they will salivate over the copy. Give a negative angle to any story and you've hit a six. Write about the latest negative trend that's afflicting the city, and you've struck the mother lode of your career. Well, it's 7pm now, and that's what I've seen and learned so far in the day.
All this writing makes me wonder about what it is that makes someone write diaries or memoirs. What urges them to put everyday bits and pieces in writing. Well, there could be the megalomaniacs, who cant see their own deeds, however trivial, go unrecorded. Then there could be the observers, who cant let the magic of their world fade away. That's how many great parts of history came to be written. They write about themselves as well, only to make their lives a humble canvas on which the ceaseless dance of time is laved with gentle strokes of indelible words. Then there are the meek, who use a flow of words as a child uses the folds of a comforting blanket. The blanket is hugged when the child is sad, it can stand a kick or two when he's upset. Without exception, it is let go of when the child grows up. I don't feel like a megalomaniac right now, and I'm definitely not making any history by being the most non productive guy in the office, so I guess I'm rambling in the dark to keep the monsters under the bed from getting me.
-Ananda
Ok, just finished reporting to my boss the deeds, or lack thereof, of the day. He was busy, fortunately, so gave me polite advice not to trust journalists, as they're all jackals, considering the competitive scenario. He then bid me khuda hafiz and turned to his hp flatscreen monitor. And I'm back to my desk.
My desk is in a cublicle and shares space with three other desks. The cubicle is a custom made product of Iceland, in collaboration with sadistic corporate giants in India. I'm sure there's a camera somewhere recording the symptoms of the slow onset of hypothermia. The disappearance of the previous resident of this desk is still a mystery, but I bet the cameras caught him in his death throes, his teeth still chattering six feet under.
I'm taking a look around now. Habiba is not here, probably her day off today. Srinivas and Mridula share the cubicle with me. The guy is a whip of a man, but his serious spectacled face has seen many a byline within the ten months he's been here. The girl is a charmer. No airs about her, loves cricket, is endearingly clumsy sometimes and is one heck of a reporter. Good sense of humour as well.
The first person I met in the editorial was prachi. She's a feature writer from massourie, who worked for the Hindustan times in delhi. Very amiable and quite cool. There's a touch of tough stuff in her, but she doesn't call on it often. Then there's puromita, another sub. She's quite pretty, and I haven't spoken a word to her since I came here. Not even a wish. Sheesh.
Today
Another day at work. Yes, the day's at work, not me. The story I'm supposed to be sniffing around about is regarding bad connectivity of cell phones, like when they cut the call in the middle f a conversation, or when the signal suddenly goes away on a holiday, or when you have to yell so hard your voice sounds half way to the next city and the anyone on the other line still thinks you're whispering. All this in spite of paying through the nose every month. Hardly value for money. Now see, it was so easy to tell you the problem in words like this. Btu no. I gotta make a report of it, make it just boring enough to be interesting. As a report. Any more boring and it loses its readability. That's the challenge of news, to keep your opinions to yourself and if they do happen to surface, they should be only a flavor in the story.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. He was a good little boy, ad everyone in his little world loved him. They told him that he was the best, that he had his little flaws, but that he was still the best. They laughed at all his jokes, they let him alone when he was cranky. They praised hi every time he showed them a trick. The little boy loved everyone there, but he knew something wasn't quite right. He knew he wasn't the best. He knew he was far from it, and that he was getting farther by the day. But by now, he was quite full of the donuts everyone gave him, and just didn't want to try any harder at his jokes or his tricks. Then one day, everyone told the little boy he wasn't so little any more, that because he was the best, he had to go and be the best.
The little boy who was not so little any more was worried. He knew that the time had come when everyone would know he wasn't the best. He was sure everyone else would laugh and everyone would be sorry.
Ok, too much whining. I just took a walk to the hindu office a coupla km away. Met a very good journalist by name Sai Gopal. He's been in the field for a short while, but he's done a lot. My immediate boss (henceforth to be referred to simply as boss. Alpha boss will be alpha.) has great regard and a lot of praise for him, as does sudhir. Sai G is a great guy. He briefly told me that it was going to be hard, but that how high I go need be no less than how high I want to go. Clichés all, but when I saw the guy say these things, I saw many days of solid work and learning. 'continuous learning experience', termed it. He warned me to stay off office intrigue. I didn't need that one, but well, its helps to keep it in mind. He suggested that I keep a keen eye on the vernacular papers. There might be a lot to draw from them as time goes by, not to mention a picture of the city they give the ready. He also told me never to give up on reading, that the words I read ages ago will come floating back into sentences I write today. "Keep in touch", he warned.
Today is a zilch day. No stories, no ideas even. Just a brief meeting with a couple of bureaucrats in an organization one approaches only for statistics at the state level. It's still a start, I told myself. As I've been telling myself for the past week, tomorrow is another day. Now, another bit of observation that might be helpful – I get sluggish when I sit down for over 10 minutes. Up to 10 minutes is fine. Any more and I get sluggish and I simply can't move out, or do anything. Solution, start moving even before I get into the office. Make an appointment earlier in the day and get to that place first. Finish with the place and then come to the office. Hmm, not a bad idea. All I have to do is tell the boss. Ok. I need to dress like a journo from now on. Enough formals. I'm going to buy jeans and a good woodland shoe and get the look. Its part of getting into the groove.
The cell phone story I was working on needed some stats from the airtel guys. Naturally, their pr system and company policy was thicker than whale blubber, so I was groping with my hands in goop, with no solid info. However, the pr voice of airtel, as you may remember, is rediffusion. I spoke to a guy from that office. He was quite friendly, but this being a zilch day, he didn't give me much. But the guy seemed one of those bona fide pr guys, and offered to buy me ice cream some day, before his wife came back home. Ahem, I assure you, there's no pun in ice cream. He said he was under her mercy when she was home, that's all. Cute. The guy talks good urdu and went high funda for a while. I held my own with passable hindi, and voila, we both have a contact each in hyderabad. I wonder if he knows the contact is mutually useless.
After this phone call, I hit it off with srinivas, the 10month old journo in our cubicle. We sit back to back. He turned around, and explained the 'daily rigour' as he termed it. How every journo has to submit two ideas a day in the morning, work on them during the day and file them in the evening. Yup, two stories a day. Even dc doesn't do those many a week. Of course, its not a rule, just a challenge in a dog eat dog world. Some days it doesn't happen, no biggie. If it happens only on some days, it's a biggie. Another thing, copy's not personal stuff, so its quite common to have peeps read over your shoulder, like srinivas just did. What the heck, nothing incriminating.
TOI prefers two kinds of news – trends and negatives. Write about the newest trends in any field, and they will salivate over the copy. Give a negative angle to any story and you've hit a six. Write about the latest negative trend that's afflicting the city, and you've struck the mother lode of your career. Well, it's 7pm now, and that's what I've seen and learned so far in the day.
All this writing makes me wonder about what it is that makes someone write diaries or memoirs. What urges them to put everyday bits and pieces in writing. Well, there could be the megalomaniacs, who cant see their own deeds, however trivial, go unrecorded. Then there could be the observers, who cant let the magic of their world fade away. That's how many great parts of history came to be written. They write about themselves as well, only to make their lives a humble canvas on which the ceaseless dance of time is laved with gentle strokes of indelible words. Then there are the meek, who use a flow of words as a child uses the folds of a comforting blanket. The blanket is hugged when the child is sad, it can stand a kick or two when he's upset. Without exception, it is let go of when the child grows up. I don't feel like a megalomaniac right now, and I'm definitely not making any history by being the most non productive guy in the office, so I guess I'm rambling in the dark to keep the monsters under the bed from getting me.
-Ananda
Hyderabad 2
This is now later in the day. There has yet been no improvement in the situation. Anyway, lets try and detail some observations of the available positives and negatives in sight. First section – how am I as a writer? My strengths are good, expressive language, almost nil spellos and grammatical errors in copy. Weaknesses, total lack of technical jargon in any sphere of activity. Inability to write a simple report, in the inverted pyramid style that is the basis of journalism. How about a feature then? A lack of necessary details that go into making a feature. So on the whole, I write witty emails really well. Hmm, call me pessimistic again, but I just don't think that's a really great job profile to carry around. Unless I can find a way to convince people to let me write their private mails, I wont have a steady job. In the same vein, how bout a comparative study of my peers. Quite an ego, eh? Haven't published a single report yet, and event the one that's probably going to be published is almost entirely written by Mir Ayoob sir. Chalo even then. Every reporter around, my immediate boss included has flaws in his language. The sub editors are busy in this office. Like habiba, a gentle sub editor pointed out, "none of them, ok, maybe some, but most of them, don't follow the basics of inverted pyramid style reporting. We have to do it for them, including all the spelling checks, etc. you write and leave it, I'll take care." Nice person.
But what to do with language when you're a reporter? You cant even wipe your arse with it. That reminds me. Yesterday, I was in the urinal, and guess who comes in to take a leak (big leak, considering his size), the most exalted one himself. We had a quiet time, comfortable in each other's company, a steady tinkle in the background. Then I opened the tap to wash my hands, hygiene at all times. There was no water. So after he pissed off, he was really pissed off about it. He asked me to call the housekeeping hotline, took a disgusted look at his hand and packed off. It felt good to smile that day. (Oh, I washed hands in the water in the bucket)
Wokay. So now what are my future plans? I will try and somehow meet sai gopal, my lord, in the morning tomorrow, get some good stuff and start visiting hospitals all around the city. In the mean time, I will also try and get money for my bike. If that clicks, things will be a lot quicker, I hope. I will also buy a map as soon as I can. But immediate work is to contact saigopal tomorrow and start on my beat. I wonder if getting a beat and starting to work on it will in any way give me good direction and a verve to work. I used to imagine that I was a freelance sort of guy, who could work in any area for a story of his choice. That bit of naivety is gone now. Contacts are your everything if you hope to publish a story. Without contacts, you are reduced to moving around endlessly, with nothing to show for it.
I have to start reading and you know, making myself a better man. Only when I work among well informed people do I realize how very behind the times I am. I still find it difficult to read the papers in the morning. The moment I open the page and begin, it feels like I'm reading a college text book. There is this in built urge to try and get all the information I read by heart. I try and curb that instinct, and nothing at all registers. I…whoops. My boss just asked me to write down my name. So it might be safe to expect a byline. Ananda, will be my nom de plume. I wonder if I should add Venkateswaran the next item onwards.
Ananda.
But what to do with language when you're a reporter? You cant even wipe your arse with it. That reminds me. Yesterday, I was in the urinal, and guess who comes in to take a leak (big leak, considering his size), the most exalted one himself. We had a quiet time, comfortable in each other's company, a steady tinkle in the background. Then I opened the tap to wash my hands, hygiene at all times. There was no water. So after he pissed off, he was really pissed off about it. He asked me to call the housekeeping hotline, took a disgusted look at his hand and packed off. It felt good to smile that day. (Oh, I washed hands in the water in the bucket)
Wokay. So now what are my future plans? I will try and somehow meet sai gopal, my lord, in the morning tomorrow, get some good stuff and start visiting hospitals all around the city. In the mean time, I will also try and get money for my bike. If that clicks, things will be a lot quicker, I hope. I will also buy a map as soon as I can. But immediate work is to contact saigopal tomorrow and start on my beat. I wonder if getting a beat and starting to work on it will in any way give me good direction and a verve to work. I used to imagine that I was a freelance sort of guy, who could work in any area for a story of his choice. That bit of naivety is gone now. Contacts are your everything if you hope to publish a story. Without contacts, you are reduced to moving around endlessly, with nothing to show for it.
I have to start reading and you know, making myself a better man. Only when I work among well informed people do I realize how very behind the times I am. I still find it difficult to read the papers in the morning. The moment I open the page and begin, it feels like I'm reading a college text book. There is this in built urge to try and get all the information I read by heart. I try and curb that instinct, and nothing at all registers. I…whoops. My boss just asked me to write down my name. So it might be safe to expect a byline. Ananda, will be my nom de plume. I wonder if I should add Venkateswaran the next item onwards.
Ananda.
Hyderabad 1
Wow. I have no idea what to do, I'm sleepy, I feel sluggish and unmotivated. Not totally, mostly. What a feeling, not to feel anything good or bad completely, but just enough to make your life difficult.
I've been given the health beat by the bigwigs. "The universe conspires to give you what you want", I believe is the saying. I can see the pattern, but I'm not sure how to tap into this conspiracy. The job I have is very difficult for a fresher to get. I wasn't exceptionally good in the interview, so I have Sulekha to thank for the job. I also got the best possible boss to work under, Mir Ayoob Ali Khan. Everyone who knows him unanimously agrees that he's a gentleman. Fine. And now, I've been given the best possible beat a fresher can hope to get. I also have two really good contacts – one a former veteran of the beat, and another a very senior doctor in a huge hospital. One is like a walking, talking guidebook to how its done, and the other is a potential sacred cow. As I see it, NIIMS has the least amount of problems as far as infrastructure and stuff are concerned. So I can keep the neurologist in good humour for quite a while, while he gives me the dope on other institutions. I could do the same with most other hospitals, use one to get stuff on the other. Wah, that is the ultimate in strategy, and the nadir of stereotyped thinking. I am so darned conservative, always thinking in the box, in clichés, circles, two dimensional, looking at a single angle. I have no idea how to get out of this. That said, I smell something quite big in Sai Gopal. Other than the relieving fact that he seemed happy to speak to me, there's also the fact that he said "I'll give you all the contacts and numbers". That's manna, man. Man oh man! The other contact, the neurologist, is Vasudevan's brother in law. Practically family. Vasu's cool with me, and he wants good stories for himself also, so the doc will be more than forthcoming. I don't think I'll have any major difficulty in keeping his name out of the papers for a while. If the information is technical, I can get the quote from another neurologist. Hey, I just remembered, I know two of the best radiologists in the world – joga rao uncle and his wife. I gotta get in touch, man. I will also work on the hatke stories on Sundays, and churn out stories like a mutated journalist monster with nimble hands and a razor sharp, keen, incisive mind. Whoa, said noah. Stories do not drop on one's lap. They have to be planted, nurtured and left to mature on their own time, under the constant and watchful eye of the journalist.
The thing is, I don't ever remember having written these many words this quickly. A bigger surprise s the rush of contentment that I feel, like a chain smoker finally getting a fag after three days and nights. Imagine that first drag, deep into the lungs, that you let go only reluctantly. This is my first drag in a long, long while.
Its been almost a week since I got here. What have I done? A good bit of moving around, work to the casual observer. I know better. Its not work that I did this week, its dumb work. What an intelligent journalist can do with double the number of phone calls and less than half the number of one on one meetings, I have taken six whole days to do. I have filed exactly two stories, after having typed them thrice each, neither of which have been chosen for print. Call me pessimistic, but I just cant look at that as a great first week.
Man, I might as well wear a bull head mask and start chewing my cud for all the useless, boring, tiring, food-less running around that I did. Time for a quick resolution, triggered by sudden emotion, without any support of a plan – 'Enough dumb work. I will be professional henceforth'. That felt good. I still have no idea what I have to do.
Meeting GG was unarguably the best part of these few days. As usual, I imagined a power-packed conversation where I offer my eternal allegiance and he hands me the reins of the cultural u turn of India. I also had a few choice things to ask of him, like 'please let me keep this job' or 'please, please, let me publish just one story before I get the sack'. I went, I saw, he conquered. He inquired about my health, where I was staying, how I was doing and (insightful man) gave me two bananas. I hadn't had any breakfast. I didn't feel like asking him anything at all. Took theertham, left the place, spoke to appa and amma, and I was ready for another moo day.
I've been given the health beat by the bigwigs. "The universe conspires to give you what you want", I believe is the saying. I can see the pattern, but I'm not sure how to tap into this conspiracy. The job I have is very difficult for a fresher to get. I wasn't exceptionally good in the interview, so I have Sulekha to thank for the job. I also got the best possible boss to work under, Mir Ayoob Ali Khan. Everyone who knows him unanimously agrees that he's a gentleman. Fine. And now, I've been given the best possible beat a fresher can hope to get. I also have two really good contacts – one a former veteran of the beat, and another a very senior doctor in a huge hospital. One is like a walking, talking guidebook to how its done, and the other is a potential sacred cow. As I see it, NIIMS has the least amount of problems as far as infrastructure and stuff are concerned. So I can keep the neurologist in good humour for quite a while, while he gives me the dope on other institutions. I could do the same with most other hospitals, use one to get stuff on the other. Wah, that is the ultimate in strategy, and the nadir of stereotyped thinking. I am so darned conservative, always thinking in the box, in clichés, circles, two dimensional, looking at a single angle. I have no idea how to get out of this. That said, I smell something quite big in Sai Gopal. Other than the relieving fact that he seemed happy to speak to me, there's also the fact that he said "I'll give you all the contacts and numbers". That's manna, man. Man oh man! The other contact, the neurologist, is Vasudevan's brother in law. Practically family. Vasu's cool with me, and he wants good stories for himself also, so the doc will be more than forthcoming. I don't think I'll have any major difficulty in keeping his name out of the papers for a while. If the information is technical, I can get the quote from another neurologist. Hey, I just remembered, I know two of the best radiologists in the world – joga rao uncle and his wife. I gotta get in touch, man. I will also work on the hatke stories on Sundays, and churn out stories like a mutated journalist monster with nimble hands and a razor sharp, keen, incisive mind. Whoa, said noah. Stories do not drop on one's lap. They have to be planted, nurtured and left to mature on their own time, under the constant and watchful eye of the journalist.
The thing is, I don't ever remember having written these many words this quickly. A bigger surprise s the rush of contentment that I feel, like a chain smoker finally getting a fag after three days and nights. Imagine that first drag, deep into the lungs, that you let go only reluctantly. This is my first drag in a long, long while.
Its been almost a week since I got here. What have I done? A good bit of moving around, work to the casual observer. I know better. Its not work that I did this week, its dumb work. What an intelligent journalist can do with double the number of phone calls and less than half the number of one on one meetings, I have taken six whole days to do. I have filed exactly two stories, after having typed them thrice each, neither of which have been chosen for print. Call me pessimistic, but I just cant look at that as a great first week.
Man, I might as well wear a bull head mask and start chewing my cud for all the useless, boring, tiring, food-less running around that I did. Time for a quick resolution, triggered by sudden emotion, without any support of a plan – 'Enough dumb work. I will be professional henceforth'. That felt good. I still have no idea what I have to do.
Meeting GG was unarguably the best part of these few days. As usual, I imagined a power-packed conversation where I offer my eternal allegiance and he hands me the reins of the cultural u turn of India. I also had a few choice things to ask of him, like 'please let me keep this job' or 'please, please, let me publish just one story before I get the sack'. I went, I saw, he conquered. He inquired about my health, where I was staying, how I was doing and (insightful man) gave me two bananas. I hadn't had any breakfast. I didn't feel like asking him anything at all. Took theertham, left the place, spoke to appa and amma, and I was ready for another moo day.
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