The one in which you look – the real you!

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Retracing back to the time, when I weighed just double my school bag, I remember my teacher asking me a question –

“What are the basic necessities of life?”

And I answered – “Food, Shelter and Clothing.”

That indeed was a simple question to answer. But when my friend, sitting next to me asked an even simpler question, I could see myself mining  deep, to bring out the hidden solid gold.

He asked – “If you were given a choice to choose one…just one…among the basic necessities, which one would you choose?????????”

After a quick, but muddled pilgrimage along the conscious and unconscious rows and columns of my mind, I came up with an answer –

“I will go for clothing!”

That was because I thought, dying without food or sleeping in the mother earth’s lap was nothing compared to the shame of roaming naked. At that moment, pride stood skyscraping than hunger and an umbrella. I imagined myself crying for food and water, begging in the streets, sleeping on railway platforms, all, but I did not care because I was wearing my favorite white shirt with the blue lines. Yea, that is what made me to opt for clothing- I wanted to be wrapped inside my favorite shirt.

It is a universal fact that no homo-sapiens loves all clothes in his closet equally. Every one has a favorite. Every one has an experience of fighting over this topic with the parents, in the childhood days, wanting to wear the favorite shirt, each time you go out with them. Nothing is a big-league to us at that point, not even the dialogs of the public, which hits the parents, bulls eye on the heart – “See the guy …I see him wearing the same shirt always. Is this the only one he has? Doesn’t his parent realize this and buy him another one…..ooooh…shame on them..!…”. All that matters is our own comfort and happiness.

As time goes on and we outgrow our clothes, we adapt to the fact that slipping into the same attire always is out of the books. But then, again we give birth to new favorites, the ones rated in the first class, and all others join the league of the second division- the ones which feel the warmth of the human skin rarely. The ones of the first class are constant visitors of the washing machine, they make love with the iron box and their threads get slim each day due to the constant work-out sessions. They get to talk with the mirror most often and are enjoyed by our own eyes.

 When asking a friend, after I saw him most of the times in his blue shirt (so is his profile picture on face book and twitter), about why he goes runs into the same one always, he said – “It makes me feel confident…makes me feel, I am Me…”. It is amazing to look at the fact that people usually have this attitude even when it comes to innerwears.

Once you realize that your favorite first class member of the closet has lost the color and freshness it owned once, you search for a new one resembling the oldie, which in many cases, goes in vain. And then comes a new one. A new favorite and the cycle go on for ever.

The size travels from S to M to XL, but the first class and the second class remains for ever, even if it is costly, or cheap, or if it was gifted by the dearest person. We are after all, humans and so the one piece of cloth which we love the most will wrap us, feel our heat and make us “THE REAL WE”…

Respect for the SIREN.

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The hair which danced to the rhythm of the racing wind across the lowered side-glasses of the car, bent down to the floor. Dust particles replaced the fragrance of the greens and speedometer started limping anti-clockwise. Wheels rested after the unlimited road-tour. The path ahead was decorated with the blinking brake lights and there I was – from the lone highway to one of the busy towns of the neighboring state as the only other-state participant of the slow race. Driving on the long and wide carpets of the plains always bored me compared to that on high altitudes of my district where the wheels always had some work to do and there is scope for gear-shifts all the time.

And now, the background music of the air-horns are suddenly overtaken by a louder one – the siren of an ambulance shooting itself through the party. I was amazed to see how quickly a way was made for the ambulance in the middle of all the traffic. A hot drop of sweat ran down my forehead watching the speed of the re-arrangement, although pulling my machine off the emergency-track wasn’t a needed move. Should say, I felt so proud and happy about the attitude of my comrades. About the importance they gave for the life of that critical-someone who was question-marked inside the van with the siren. Good Samaritans – it was midst these people that I was parked. A smile was my sidekick when I left the busy town and fled across the desert again. And when rain drops started hitting the roof above, i remembered the words of my grandma – “the rain is a good omen! “.

As minutes passed, I shifted both gear and thoughts. The old topic, but in a different situation. I remembered an incident, a couple of months back at my place. Ambulance, siren, a small town. All, but a moderate traffic. Each one of the group behaved as if he drove an ambulance, trying to fill every vacuum ahead. All that a spectator could do, was to pray for the person responsible for the siren.”Give way,…It may save a life ! “, i thought, and again, an ambulance crossed me. This time, without a siren. “Thank god”, I said to myself.

The SMALL big Human Gospel.

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Between racing east-west to conquer his elbowroom on the big blue marble, every human gets a chance to call up the gray- haired past with his toy-mates. It is hard to escape the general conclusion that kids outgrow their toys. A worn out one is out of the list any time and a new one finds its place.  And to moan the expense of a lost toy always goes off page, once age takes a big leap. Even the unblemished of all the ones left, will be hidden in the dark. The pile grows bigger and bigger as time goes by. Then, the process of getting rid of these takes shape. Some are thrown off to the roadsides, into the bigger heap of the public, some are passed on to the successors of the family, some are donated to the orphanage, some are even recycled, but the majority lay hidden in the boxes which never see daylight. The mini-remote controlled red car with the heavy wheels, the green farm tractor, the bike with the side-stand and the yellow school bus have all been part of the workshop box.
Standing on this perilous edge of the present, between the past and the future, a chance to open this hidden treasure recaps the most wonderful time of each one’s life. A time, when every tension of the planet was hidden from our eyes, every relation was that of support, every face had a smile and wounds’ were limited to the elbows and the knees, not the heart. A real red car may have replaced the old remote-controlled one, but the joy one finds in the old one is beyond the thickness of the wallet. A smile to oneself will be a sure shot on seeing this, and so are stories of your childhood which will spring in from every direction. About how you cried all day long to own the yellow school bus, and how your dad, after falling for all the tears, bought you the then-most-wonderful gift. It may take half a lifetime for you to find this unnoticed treasure, but it will always take its shape and find you at some point, and make you realize that the most unimportant of things, sometimes proves to be the sweetest. Growing up is a universal truth, but there is, inside all humans that childish part for which toys are always a weakness. This story is not the isolated act of a madman, but surrounds each one of us. The green tractor and the yellow school bus will all hit the road once more. And in between the entire race, it can make a difference- a big difference, and if not, at least a SMILE, a real one.

The Mangoose – Snake Harmony !

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The roof no longer exists for many of the technologies of the past. Testing it over and over to the point of zero-error does stay, but for a while. The forgotten tiny pores have grown to become potholes. A new class has strengthened outside the walls of the industry to fill their own wallets out of this noose. And yet the cycle goes own with the realization that these are all necessary components of the basket. There always has to be that Mr.Y or many like him, to row against the tide of technology,or at least try and expose the pores to the naked eyes of the common residents of the planet. And that in turn will make the industry man Mr.X to go for the sellotape and the scissors. And the common man, who is the spectator decides weather Mr.X has done the repair and pushes the technology to the direction he wishes. So that means Mr.Y has no chance to rest back on his chair after his new technology has hit the public. He awaits for the return smash from Mr.Y anytime because hitting an ace does not always work out. He has to put on the dirty jacket himself and hit against the wall to the point where he realizes that the ball no longer comes back to him. To the drafts here, let me add scenes from ‘The Italian Job’ which gives a real taste of the wine. The heroine, whose profession is, testing the safes, although not till the last, plays Mrs.X and her dad, a thief, fits into Mr.Y. The secure lockable box- the safe, which is the technology portrayed above, has been one of the victims of the X’s and Y’s through history to the modern times. The supermodels, ones announced ‘unbreakable’ by creators, have been emptied and that in turn led to better ones, with modified technologies. The Y’s, along with the rare sweetness of popularity and money,have always been victims of heavy blows, the involvement of the judiciary, the back foot movement or the big quits. But in all such cases, there has been substitutes on the field to replace the retired oldies, who spells technology better and thinks beyond white collars. And so, the game is all alive. A better move is always at the search and so is the one who moves it. And to you, Mr.X and Mr.Y, – May be you are two roles of the play , but you both exist in harmony.

it was a drop of ink from the clouds this time,….! not rain !

“Ready to publish your first blog? Click here ”
I read this and I was.
Where I was is less important than where ma eyes hit. I was looking at tiny less dirty drops of rain hitting the comparatively dirty concrete. My less fortunate thoughts had no interest to graduate after the so called high school level..The wheels of a vehicle that passed by was spitting liquid…The sparrow that would usually visit us at this time had got married to a rainbow and has vanished…The black clouds above has lost the effect of the fairness creams…yea..now, the rain gets stronger…the lord almighty is pissing from the heavens with more power…he is disposing all the wine he had at the late night party yesterday with his disciples..the grapes for the wine had come from Judas’ vineyard which he bought with thirty silver coins. It was given on lease to saint Peter, who felt that cultivating grapes was tougher than fishing…Between describing all this less known tales, the lord almighty has almost emptied his bladder…
And I could resist it no more…I wanted my share of the heavenly purified wine on my head2013-05-31-17-03-18-1235399198…my heel hit the slush and a drop of rain hit my forehead….
Thanks 2 the rain and you who sits at the office at infopark, who made me write !