Straight from the Heart

The mosquitoes had kept me so preoccupied with their constant attacks on my exposed flesh and for a moment I had failed to hear the voice. The second time, the caller was a bit louder, apparently to attract my attention. “Woof…Arrrfff…rrrff…Hey, There,” said a gruff voice. My ears discerned that the voice came from somewhere above my head and I looked up to try and catch a glimpse of the master of the voice. Failing to discern a human being, I went back to my present occupation of fighting the mosquitoes. “Hey, I hope you are not intruding into this wedding party? I have been asked to keep a watch and seeing you, I couldn’t be sure regarding your status.” This time, I looked up once again obvious irritation writ large on my face. Whoever, had the guts to speak in this manner should better be prepared to face my wrath! Surprise! The owner of the voice seemed to be a creature with long droopy ears and covered by a golden brown furry coat. His eyes glowed in the dark but did not give the...

On my way back from London last year, I managed to bring back a piece of England with me! No, it is not the jewels that adorns the crown and the sceptre of the Queen, neither is it a piece of Chicken curry that has become the national dish of England. It is associated with a beverage that is just opposite to beer, in terms of its beneficial value and the style of its usage. Yes, It is a tea strainer that I bought from Greenwich and carried it back with me as a proud possession and as a reminder of one of the many good things that England stand for! Tea, or the English cuppa, made its way into England rather late and it was not until the Dutch and the Portugese traders had started trading in this commodity than the English East India Company decided to get into this trade. The English society has always placed great importance to tea as a beverage. The English gentleman’s game of cricket has kept an allowance for a special break in the afternoon when the tired players can rejuvenate the...

As we step into the final week Of the journey that began three months back, Some may be relieved- that the ordeal is over and done with and some may be counting the gains and the loss. Someone may be looking forward to a trip. Straight into dear hubby’s arms. Someone has fallen in love with the city And wants to build a home here. While, a few may be delighted at how, They squeezed the last penny out of the sale in the shop. But am sure all will agree to the fact That this party was great while it did last. 12 leaders from the subcontinent brought together by the invisible hand of God. And while they seldom marched in tandem. Am sure the memories will last forever, in everyone’s hearts. Back in your previous environment, When life tests your nerves and elicits the strongest sighs, Do pause, and draw out from the crevices of your heart. The gem of the moments, enacted under the London skies. Memories of C...

Behold her, rising high up in the sky. My admiration turns to a deep sigh! That’s Mont Blanc, in the distant horizon. Its snow covered peaks present picture-perfect vision. Like suitors, other peaks surrounding stand, somber face. Seeking a hand of the maiden, who’s all beauty and grace. The waters of lake Geneve` roll at the damsel’s feet. As she watches the world go by, from her heavenly seat. Memories of Chevening, London Oct ‘07

Theories of food, clothing and shelter go for a toss! The wild (??) west tries desperately to become the boss! China, India, the hydra headed dragon two-some! Spewing CO2, every tonne with ferocious venom! The west is concerned, worried too! Rising temperature; they will not feel so cool!! “It has to stop! We will show the way,” they shout. “By taking the first steps,” they vouch. They live in a fool’s paradise, in amazement, I blink! From darkness to light, is the need back home, I think. We certainly need cheap energy to light up the remote villages! That’s the way illiteracy will get consigned to history’s pages!! Memories of Chevening, London Oct ‘07

Covent Garden-I Two Chinese fellows; Played on some ancient stringed instrument. Drawn by the melodious strains- Like flies attracted to fire, An audience quickly gathered. The Korean took out his camera and began filming. The Japanese simply stood and admired. The English lady quickly withdrew her hands And out came a few charitable coins from her purse. Love oozed between the Germans- The couple was quickly locked in a passionate kiss. At London’s Covent Garden, Music entertained everyone in the mellow winter sun. Covent Garden ---II She played on the flute. Slow deliberate notes initially, Rising gradually to a crescendo. The sun peeped through the clouds, Drawn by the strains of music drifting through the breeze. One by one, she commanded everyone’s attention. By her music she hypnotized the crowded market-place. My foot automatically started to tap. People around me, enthusiastically clapped. And then suddenly- Tears rolled down my cheek as she bowed To acknowledge the ovation. At...

On a clear day in London; The world was out to catch the winter sun. On the banks of the river Thames stood an old man. Entertaining the crowd, by playing on the Mouth-Organ. He stooped a little with the weight of his age. His grey hair, fluffy and bright, in the morning sun. He entertained with a melody probably known by heart. Continually he kept playing on the Mouth-Organ. His wrinkles spoke of the years gone by. He looked smart, in a shirt with a matching blue tie. His weary old legs tapped to the tune of a song. And his feeble lungs, kept blowing at the Mouth-Organ. The wind carried the tune down the Thames edge. Disturbing the sea-gulls, who screamed, as if in rage. Amongst other artists, he was desperate to grab attention. By conjuring a melody supreme, on his Mouth-Organ. A penny to earn, was probably his dream. His numerous unfulfilled dreams were his songs’ theme. A thumbs up sign whenever he received a donation. And then, again, it was back to playing the Mouth-Organ. I stoo...

कोशिश….सिर्फ़ कोशिश… रास्ते के चौराहे पर बैठा पाण्डेय जी का, चाय बनाकर बेचने की कोशिश. इकबाल का फुटपाथ पर बैठ, जूतों को चमकाने की कोशिश. माधव का अपनी ऑटो को पुलिस की नज़रों से बचाकर, पैसेंजर से भरने की कोशिश. अनजान कोई भिखारी का, हाथों में कटोरी लिए, भीख मांगने की कोशिश. टेलीफोन को कानों से लागाये हुए, बातों की जाल में, किसी को मोह लेने की कोशिश. कोशिश......सिर्फ़ कोशिश... आख़िर आदमी कर ही क्या सकता है! कर्म ही सत्य है, कर्म ही पूजा है! हाथों की रेखाओं में कैद तकदीर का चाभी शायद भगवन ने कहीं खो दिया है! हर आदमी अब जुट गया है. कोशिश में लगा है. की किसी तरह अपनी तकदीर का चाभी मिल जाए. आख़िर भगवान् से रूठ कर बैठ तो नही सकते?

Hi Friends! I read the book that is currently creating waves because of the fact that the author has become the fourth author with links to India to have bagged the “Man Booker Prize”. It seems many of the book shops were caught on the wrong foot because of the sudden demand for this book when word spread that this had become the front-runner to win the Booker Prize. The book shops were stocked with other books tipped to be the favourite! With one of the Booker’s panel of judges apparently having gone to the extent to say that the favoured choice of the judges was another book by an Irish Writer (Sebastian Barry for the Secret Scriptures). However Arvind Adiga’s book came from behind to bag the prize because everyone apparently felt that there was “enough of Irish Literature around for some while”! Michael Portillo, who chaired the judges, likened the novel to Shakespeare’s Macbeth because of the fact that the hero realises his dreams through the route of murder! So is the book a deser...

The calendar was the last bastion to fall this morning! With the previous year having come to its end and the dawn of a new year, the calendar had outlived its utility. From a thing of value even till the last day of the previous year, it was reduced to a mere showpiece the moment we welcomed the New Year. However much one would have been tempted to leave the calendar hanging on the wall simply because of the colour and variety it lends to the wall of the room, I wouldn’t have dared to commit such a mistake. After all who would have appreciated the use of such a thing as calendars simply for the purpose of decorating the walls of a house? So, however much you admired those snow covered peaks of some undisclosed hill-station or those bikini-clad females smiling at you from the glossy pages of the calendar, every year, a new calendar adorns the walls of people and the older one is unceremoniously consigned to the corner of the attic, to be sold to some “raddi-paper waala” at a later dat...