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This blog will take you into the collection of gr8 thoughts by Samyak and some other writers too..
Monday 25 June 2012
Friday 22 June 2012
Letter from a Dad!
Interesting...The following is a letter to his son from a renown Hong Kong TV broadcaster / Child Psychologist....
I am writing this to you because of 3 reasons:
1. Life, fortune and mishaps are unpredictable, nobody knows how long one lives. Some words are better said early.
2. I am your father, and if I don't tell you these, no one else will.
3. What is written is my own personal bitter experiences that perhaps could save you a lot of unnecessary heartaches.
Remember the following as you go through life:
1. Do not bear grudge towards those who are not good to you. No one has the responsibility of treating you well, except your mother and I. To those who are good to you, you have to treasure it and be thankful, and ALSO you have to be cautious, because, everyone has a motive for every move. When a person is good to you, it does not mean he really likes you. You have to be careful, don't hastily regard him as a real friend.
2. No one is indispensable, nothing in the world that you must possess. Once you understand this idea, it would be easier for you to go through life when people around you don't want you anymore, or when you lose what/who you love most.
3. Life is short. When you waste your life today, tomorrow you would find that life is leaving you. The earlier you treasure your life, the better you enjoy life.
4. Love is but a transient feeling, and this feeling would fade with time and with one's mood. If your so called loved one leaves you, be patient, time will wash away your aches and sadness. Don't over exaggerate the beauty and sweetness of love, and don't over exaggerate the sadness of falling out of love.
5. A lot of successful people did not receive a good education, that does not mean that you can be successful by not studying hard! Whatever knowledge you gain is your weapon in life. One can go from rags to riches, but one has to start from some rags!
6. I do not expect you to financially support me when I am old, neither would I financially support your whole life. My responsibility as a supporter ends when you are grown up. After that, you decide whether you want to travel in a public transport or in your limousine, whether rich or poor.
7. You honour your words, but don't expect others to do so. You can be good to people, but don't expect people to be good to you. If you don't understand this, you would end up with unnecessary troubles.
8. I have bought lotteries for umpteen years, but I never strike any prize. That shows if you want to be rich, you have to work hard! There is no free lunch!
9. No matter how much time I have with you, let's treasure the time we have together. We do not know if we would meet again in our next life..
Your dad.
Scar...
From every wound there is a scar...
And every scar tells a story....
A story that says...
"I HAVE SURVIVED":)
And every scar tells a story....
A story that says...
"I HAVE SURVIVED":)
Tuesday 19 June 2012
The two identities of my face.
With one string, how two stories are tied
with one wire, how two lives are attached
filling my voice, on this musical instrument, silences laugh at me,
the two identities of my face,
the two identities of my face..
Whose favour happened on my rough life,
a light shower fell on my dry life,
I have fear someone doesn't steal tomorrow-
these stolen clouds from my sky,
(and) if someone does, it'll be a kindness
the two identities of my face...
I understand that this angel was not to bestow upon me,
I understand that we were not to get this relationship,
you look beautiful to me now o god,
don't separate me from my angel (now),
remove these suspicions..
the two identities of my face...
with one wire, how two lives are attached
filling my voice, on this musical instrument, silences laugh at me,
the two identities of my face,
the two identities of my face..
Whose favour happened on my rough life,
a light shower fell on my dry life,
I have fear someone doesn't steal tomorrow-
these stolen clouds from my sky,
(and) if someone does, it'll be a kindness
the two identities of my face...
I understand that this angel was not to bestow upon me,
I understand that we were not to get this relationship,
you look beautiful to me now o god,
don't separate me from my angel (now),
remove these suspicions..
the two identities of my face...
Something To Make You Smile...
This is a very different post today and it has nothing to do with beauty, makeup, etc. These past few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster for me. There have been a lot of positive changes, mixed with a few bittersweet occurances. Once in awhile, we all need a little bit of positive reinforcement, so I wanted to share this with all of you. Sometimes, bloggers post random things like this, and I will admit, it makes me smile. I hope that this has the same effect on you!
Think about them one at a time BEFORE going on to the next one...
IT DOES MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD, especially the thought at the end.
1. Falling in love.
IT DOES MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD, especially the thought at the end.
1. Falling in love.
2. Laughing so hard your face hurts.
3. A hot shower.
4. No lines at the supermarket
5. A special glance.
6. Getting mail
7. Taking a drive on a pretty road.
8. Hearing your favorite song on the radio.
9. Lying in bed listening to the rain outside.
10. Hot towels fresh out of the dryer.
11. Chocolate milkshake (or vanilla or strawberry!)
12. A bubble bath.
13. Giggling.
14. A good conversation.
15. The beach
16. Finding a 20 dollar bill in your coat from last winter.
17. Laughing at yourself.
19. Midnight phone calls that last for hours.
20. Running through sprinklers.
21. Laughing for absolutely no reason at all.
22. Having someone to tell that you're beautiful.
23. Laughing at an inside joke.
24. Friends.
25. Accidentally overhearing someone say something nice about you.
26. Waking up and realizing you still have a few hours left to sleep.
27. Your first kiss (either the very first or with a new partner).
28. Making new friends or spending time with old ones.
29. Playing with a new puppy.
30. Having someone play with your hair.
31. Sweet dreams.
32. Hot chocolate.
33. Road trips with friends.
34. Swinging on swings.
35. Making eye contact with a cute stranger.
36. Making chocolate chip cookies.
37. Having your friends send you homemade cookies.
38. Holding hands with someone you care about.
39. Running into an old friend and realizing
that some things (good or bad) never change.
40. Watching the expression on someone's face
as they open a much desired present from you.
41. Watching the sunrise.
42. Getting out of bed every morning and
being grateful for another beautiful day.
43. Knowing that somebody misses you.
44. Getting a hug from someone you care about deeply.
45. Knowing you've done the right thing,
no matter what other people think.
Tuesday 12 June 2012
Building Your House
An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer-contractor of his plans to leave the house-building business to live a more leisurely life with his wife and enjoy his extended family. He would miss the paycheck each week, but he wanted to retire. They could get by.
The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go & asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but over time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career.
When the carpenter finished his work, his employer came to inspect the house. Then he handed the front-door key to the carpenter and said, "This is your house... my gift to you."
The carpenter was shocked!
What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently.
So it is with us. We build our lives, a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the building. Then, with a shock, we realize we have to live in the house we have built. If we could do it over, we would do it much differently.
But, you cannot go back. You are the carpenter, and every day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Someone once said, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Your attitude, and the choices you make today, help build the "house" you will live in tomorrow. Therefore, Build wisely!
The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go & asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but over time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career.
When the carpenter finished his work, his employer came to inspect the house. Then he handed the front-door key to the carpenter and said, "This is your house... my gift to you."
The carpenter was shocked!
What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently.
So it is with us. We build our lives, a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the building. Then, with a shock, we realize we have to live in the house we have built. If we could do it over, we would do it much differently.
But, you cannot go back. You are the carpenter, and every day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Someone once said, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Your attitude, and the choices you make today, help build the "house" you will live in tomorrow. Therefore, Build wisely!
The 4 Wives
He also loved the 3rd wife very much. He's very proud of her and always wanted to show off her to his friends. However, the merchant is always in great fear that she might run away with some other men.
He too, loved his 2nd wife. She is a very considerate person, always patient and in fact is the merchant's confidante. Whenever the merchant faced some problems, he always turned to his 2nd wife and she would always help him out and tide him through difficult times.
Now, the merchant's 1st wife is a very loyal partner and has made great contributions in maintaining his wealth and business as well as taking care of the household. However, the merchant did not love the first wife and although she loved him deeply, he hardly took notice of her.
One day, the merchant fell ill. Before long, he knew that he was going to die soon. He thought of his luxurious life and told himself, "Now I have 4 wives with me. But when I die, I'll be alone. How lonely I'll be!"
Thus, he asked the 4th wife, "I loved you most, endowed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?" "No way!" replied the 4th wife and she walked away without another word.
The answer cut like a sharp knife right into the merchant's heart. The sad merchant then asked the 3rd wife, "I have loved you so much for all my life. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?" "No!" replied the 3rd wife. "Life is so good over here! I'm going to remarry when you die!" The merchant's heart sank and turned cold.
He then asked the 2nd wife, "I always turned to you for help and you've always helped me out. Now I need your help again. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?" "I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!" replied the 2nd wife. "At the very most, I can only send you to your grave." The answer came like a bolt of thunder and the merchant was devastated.
Then a voice called out : "I'll leave with you. I'll follow you no matter where you go." The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny, almost like she suffered from malnutrition. Greatly grieved, the merchant said, "I should have taken much better care of you while I could have !"
Actually, we all have 4 wives in our lives
a. The 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it'll leave us when we die.
b. Our 3rd wife ? Our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.
c. The 2nd wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we're alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the grave.
d. The 1st wife is in fact our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure.
Guess what? It is actually the only thing that follows us wherever we go. Perhaps it's a good idea to cultivate and strengthen it now rather than to wait until we're on our deathbed to lament
One of the good short story by Chetan Bhagat
Chetan Bhagat’s Heart-touching story
Everyone will give you an opinion on how to live your life. No one, no one will give
you good advice on how to end it. Worse, they will tell you to continue living, without
any respect for individual choice. Yes, hi, I’m Gautam Arora, and after eighteen
wonderful years in Delhi, I’ve decided to end my life.
I sat with my best friend Neeraj and his girlfriend Anjali at Costa Coffee, DLF
Metropolitan Mall in Saket. The coffee is way overpriced, but considering I had a day
to live, I didn’t mind getting ripped off.
“The joke isn’t that funny,” Neeraj said, tearing open the second sachet of brown
sugar and mixing it for his girlfriend. If this girl can’t mix sugar in her coffee, I
wonder what she will be like after marriage.
“Do I look like I am joking? You are in medical college, and as a friend and someone
two years elder to me, I am asking your advice on what is the most painless, graceful
way to go. And ideally, it should be available at the friendly neighbourhood chemist,”
I said. I ordered a chocolate fudge cake. What are a few extra calories on your last
day?
Anjali kept quiet, her iPod plugged in her ears. She had come to the mall to shop with
her boyfriend rather than meet me. Neeraj said he only dated Anjali as her father had
given her a car and driver, which made it easy to go around. Besides, she looked ok.
She was pretty enough to invite a second stare from men, though that’s hardly an
achievement in Delhi where men’s standards can be quite modest.
“Dude, you topped your school. How much did you score in your class XII boards
again?” Neeraj said.
“Ninety two per cent,” I said.
“Ninety what?” Neeraj said as he ripped out Anjali’s earphones, “Anjali, the dude
scored ninety two per cent in commerce! Do you know of anyone who has scored that
much?”
Anjali shook her head.
“Wow, you must have studied a lot,” she said.
I nodded. I had done nothing but study in the last two years.
“No time for hobbies?” she said.
I shook my head. My only hobbies were eating three meals and sleeping five hours a
day. The rest of the time was with my books.
“With ninety two, you should be fine,” Neeraj said.
“Not according to SRCC, not according to Stephen’s and not according to Hindu, oh
what the heck,” I said as I opened my rucksack.
I gave him the special admissions supplement from the newspaper. I had snucked it
out early morning so mom and dad wouldn’t see it.
“Wow, check out Lady Sri Ram. B.Com Honours is at 95.5 per cent!” Neeraj said.
“That’s a girl’s college,” Anjali said.
“I know,” I said.
“Don’t worry, he wouldn’t have made it anyway. Anjali, why don’t you go spend
some of your father’s money,” Neeraj said and winked at me.
Anjali and I both gave Neeraj a dirty look. Neeraj air-kissed Anjali and gestured to her
to leave.
Seriously, don’t kill yourself. To us, you are still the school topper,” Neeraj said after
Anjali left.
“So what do I do?” I said, my voice loud, “stay back in school? This topper tag makes
things worse. My parents already threw a party for our friends and relatives like I
have made it big time in life. I cut a cake with the icing ‘family superstar’.”
“Nice,” Neeraj said.
“Not nice at all. All relatives congratulated my mother. They see me as the next
hotshot investment banker on Wall Street. The least they expect me to do is get into a
good college in DU.”
“There are still some colleges that you will get,” Neeraj said as I cut him off.
“But none with the same brand value. Thus, you can’t get a decent job after them. You
can’t get into the top MBA school.”
Neeraj pushed my coffee cup towards me. I hadn’t touched it. I picked it up and
brought it close to my mouth but couldn’t drink it.
“I made one tiny calculation error in my math paper,” I said, “read one stupid unit
conversion wrong. That’s it. If only...”
“If only you could chill out. You are going to college, dude! Branded or not, it is
always fun.”
“Screw fun,” I said.
“What kind of kids are they taking in anyway?” Neeraj said, “you have to be a beancounter
stickler to get ninety seven per cent. Like someone who never takes chances
and revises the paper twenty times.”
“I don’t know, I revised it five times. That stupid calculation...”
“Gautam, relax. That paper is done. And sticklers don’t do well in life. Innovative and
imaginative people do.”
“That’s not what DU thinks. You don’t understand, my father has proclaimed in his
office I will join SRCC. I can’t go to him with a second rung college admission. It’s
like his whole life image will alter. Hell, I won’t be able to deal with it myself.”
An SMS from Anjali on Neeraj’s phone interrupted our conversation. At Kimaya,
tried fab dress. Come urgently, want your opinion. Neeraj typed the reply back.
Honey, it looks great. Buy it.
Neeraj grinned as he showed me his response. “I think you should go,” I said. Rich
dads’ daughters can throw pretty nasty tantrums. Neeraj took out the money for
coffee. I stopped him. “My treat,” I said. Leave people happy on your last day, I
thought. “Of course, I take this as your treat for cracking your boards,” Neeraj said
and smiled. He ruffled my hair and left. I came out of the mall and took an auto home.
I met my parents at the dinner table. “So when will the university announce the cutoffs?”
my father said.
“In a few days,” I said. I looked up at the dining table fan. No, I couldn’t hang myself.
I can’t bear suffocation.
My mother cut mangoes after dinner. The knife made me think of slitting my wrists.
Too painful, I thought and dropped the idea.
“So now, my office people are asking me, ‘when is our party?’,” my father said as he
took a slice.
“I told you to call them to the party we did for neighbours and relatives,” my mother
said.
“How will they fit with your brothers and sisters? My office people are very
sophisticated,” my father said.
“My brothers are no less sophisticated. They went to Singapore last year on vacation.
At least they are better than your family,” she said.
My father laughed at my mother’s sullen expression. His happiness levels had not
receded since the day I received my result.
“My office people want drinks, not food. Don’t worry, I’ll do another one for them
when he gets into SRCC or Stephen’s.”
My father worked in the sales division of Tata Tea. We had supplied our entire set of
neighbours with free tea for the last five years. As a result, we had more well-wishers
than I’d have liked.
“Even my country head called to congratulate me for Gautam. He said – nothing like
Stephen’s for your brilliant son,” my father said.
“Gupta aunty came from next door. She wanted to see if you can help her daughter
who is in class XI,” my mother said.
Is she pretty, I wanted to ask, but didn’t. It didn’t matter.
came to my room post dinner. I hadn’t quite zeroed down on the exact method, but
thought I should start working on the suicide letter anyway. I didn’t want it to be one
of the clichéd ones – I love you all and it is no one’s fault, and I’m sorry mom and
dad. Yuck, just like first impressions, last impressions are important too. In fact, I
didn’t want to do any silly suicide letter. When it is your last, you’d better make it
important. I decided to write it to the education minister. I switched on my computer
and went to the Education Department website. Half the site links were broken. There
was a link called “What after class XII?” I clicked on it, it took me to a blank page
with an under construction sign. I sighed as I closed the site. I opened Microsoft Word
to type.
Dear Education Minister,
I hope you are doing fine and the large staff of your massive bungalow is treating you
well. I won’t take much of your time.
I’ve passed out of class XII and I’ve decided to end my life. I scored ninety-two per
cent in my boards, and I have a one foot high trophy from my school for scoring the
highest. However, there are so many trophy holding students in this country and so
few college seats, that I didn’t get into a college that will train me to the next level or
open up good opportunities.
I know I have screwed up. I should have worked harder to get another three per cent.
However, I do want to point out a few things to you. When my parents were young,
certain colleges were considered prestigious. Now, forty years later, the same colleges
are considered prestigious. What’s interesting is that no new colleges have come up
with the same brand or reputation level. Neither have the seats expanded in existing
colleges fast enough to accommodate the rising number of students.
I’ll give you an example. Just doing some meaningless surfing, I saw that 3.8 lakh
candidates took the CBSE class XII exam in 1999, a number that has grown to 8.9
lakh in 2009. This is just one board, and if you take ICSE and all other state boards,
the all India total number is over ten times that of CBSE. We probably had one crore
students taking the class XII exam this year.
While not everyone can get a good college seat, I just want to talk about the so-called
good students. The top 10 per cent alone of these one crore students is ten lakh
children. Yes, these ten lakh students are their class toppers. In a class of fifty, they
will have the top-5 ranks.
One could argue that these bright kids deserve a good college to realise their full
potential. Come to think of it, it would be good for our country too if we train our
bright children well to be part of the new, shining, gleaming, glistening or whatever
you like to call the globalised India.
But then, it looks like you have stopped making universities. Are there ten lakh top
college seats in the country? Are there even one lakh? Ever wondered what happens to
the rest of us, year after year? Do we join a second rung college? A deemed
university? A distance learning programme? A degree in an expensive, racist country?
Your government runs a lot of things. You run an airline that never makes money. You
run hotels. You want to be involved in making basic stuff like steel and aluminum,
which can easily be made by more efficient players. However, in something as
important as
shaping the young generation, you have stepped back. You have stopped making new
universities. Why?
You have all the land you want, teachers love to get a government job, education
funds are never questioned. Still, why? Why don’t we have new, A-grade universities
in every state capital for instance?
Oh well, sorry. I am over reacting. If only I had not done that calculation error in my
math paper, I’d be fine. In fact, I am one of the lucky ones. In four years, the number
of candidates will double. So then we will have a college that only has 99 per cent
scorers.
My parents were a bit deluded about my abilities, and I do feel bad for them. I didn’t
have a girlfriend or too many friends, as people who want to get into a good college
are not supposed to have a life. If only I knew that slogging for twelve years would
not amount to much, I’d have had more fun.
Apart from that, do well, and say hello to the PM, who as I understand, used to teach
in college.
Yours truly,
Gautam
(Poor student)
I took a printout of the letter and kept it in my pocket. I decided to do the act the next
morning. I woke up as the maid switched off the fan to sweep the room. She came
inside and brought a box of sweets. A fifty-year-old woman, she had served us for
over ten years. “What?” I said as she gave me the box. It had kaju-barfi, from one of
the more expensive shops in the city. The maid had spent a week’s salary distributing
sweets to anyone known to her. “My son passed class XII,” she said as she started her
work. “How much did he score?” I said, still rubbing my eyes. “Forty two per cent.
He passed English too,” she said as her face beamed with pride. “What will he do
now?” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe his own business, he can repair mobile phones,”
she said.
went to the bathroom for a shower. I realised the newspaper would have come outside.
I ran out of the bathroom. I picked up the newspaper from the entrance floor. I took
out the admissions supplement, crumpled it and threw it in the dustbin kept outside
the house. I came back inside the house and went back into the shower.
I left the house mid-day. I took the metro to Chandni Chowk and asked my way to the
industrial chemicals market. Even though I had left science after class X, I knew that
certain chemicals like Copper Sulphate or Ammonium Nitrate could kill you. I bought
a pack of both compounds. As I passed through the lanes of Chandni Chowk, I passed
a tiny hundred square feet jalebi shop. It did brisk business. I thought my last meal
had to be delicious. I went to the counter and took a quarter kilo of jalebis.
I took my plate and sat on one of the two rickety benches placed outside the shop.
A Muslim couple with a four-year-old boy came and sat on the next bench. The
mother fed the boy jalebi and kissed him after each bite. It reminded me of my
childhood and my parents, when they used to love me unconditionally and marks
didn’t exist. I saw the box of Ammonium Nitrate and tears welled up in my eyes. I
couldn’t eat the jalebis. I came back home. I wondered if I should use my chemicals
before or after dinner. Maybe it is better after everyone has slept, I thought.
We sat at the dinner table. Dad had told mom not to cook as he’d brought Chinese
takeaway for us. Mom brought the soya sauce, chilli oil and the vinegar with cut
green chillies in little katoris. We ate American chopsuey on stainless steel plates. I
looked at my watch, it was 8 pm. Three more hours, I thought as I let out a sigh.
“One thing Kalpana,” my father said to my mother, “job candidates aren’t what they
used to be these days. I interviewed for new trainees today, disappointing.”
“Why, what happened?” my mother said.
“Like this boy from Stephen’s, very bright kid. But only when it came to his
subjects.”
“Really?” my mother said.
“Yeah, but I asked him a different question. I said how would you go about having a
tea-shop chain like the coffee shop chains, and he went blank,” my father said, an inch
of noodle hanging outside his mouth. My mother removed it from his face.
“And then some kid from SRCC. He topped his college. But you should have seen his
arrogance. Even before the interview starts, he says ‘I hope at the end of our meeting,
you will be able to tell me why I should join Tata Tea and not another company’. Can
you imagine? I am twice his age.”
I could tell my father was upset from his serious tone.
“If you ask me,” my father continued, “the best candidate was a boy from Bhopal.
Sure, he didn’t get into a top college. But he was an eighty per cent student. And he
said ‘I want to learn. And I want to show that you don’t need a branded college to do
well in life. Good people do well anywhere.’ What a kid. Thank God we shortlisted
him in the first place.”
“Did he get the job?” I said.
“Yes, companies need good workers, not posh certificates. And we are having a
meeting to discuss our short listing criteria again. The top colleges are so hard to get
in, only tunnel vision people are being selected.” “Then why are you asking him to
join Stephen’s or SRCC?” my mother said.
My father kept quiet. He spoke after a pause. “Actually, after today, I’d say don’t just
go by the name. Study the college, figure out their dedication, and make sure they
don’t create arrogant nerds. Then whatever the brand, you will be fine. The world
needs good people.”
I looked at my parents as they continued to talk. Excuse me, but I have a plan to
execute here. And now you are confusing me, I thought. “So should I study some
more colleges and make a decision after that?” I said. “Yes, of course. No need for
herd-mentality. Kalpana you should have seen this boy from Bhopal.”
Post-dinner, my parents watched TV in the living room while eating fruits. I retracted
to my room. I sat on my desk wondering what to do next. The landline phone rang in
my parent’s room. I went inside and picked it up.
“Hello Gautam?” the voice on the other side said.
It was my father’s colleague from work. “Hello, Yash uncle,” I said. “Hi,” he said,
“congratulations on your boards.” “Thanks uncle,” I said, “dad is in the living room
finishing dinner, should I call him?” “Dinner? Oh, don’t disturb him. Just tell him his
mobile is with me. It is safe. We were on a field trip today. He left it in my car.” “Field
trip? For interviews?” I said. “What interviews? No, we just went to the Chandigarh
office,” he said.
I wished him good night and hung up the phone. I switched on the bedside lamp in
my parents’ room. Confused, I sat down on my father’s bed, wondering what to do
next. To make space, I moved his pillow. Under the pillow lay a crumpled newspaper.
I picked it up. It was the same admissions supplement I had tossed in the bin this
morning. My father had circled the cut-offs table.
I left the newspaper there and came to the living room. My father was arguing with
my mother over the choice of channels. I looked at my father. He smiled at me and
offered me watermelon. I declined.
I came back to my room. I picked up the chemical boxes and took them to the toilet. I
opened both boxes and poured the contents in the toilet commode. One press, and
everything, everything flushed out.
“Gautam,” my mother knocked on the door, “I forgot to tell you. Gupta aunty came
again. Can you teach her daughter?”
“Maybe,” I said as I came out of the toilet, “by the way, is she pretty?”
Everyone will give you an opinion on how to live your life. No one, no one will give
you good advice on how to end it. Worse, they will tell you to continue living, without
any respect for individual choice. Yes, hi, I’m Gautam Arora, and after eighteen
wonderful years in Delhi, I’ve decided to end my life.
I sat with my best friend Neeraj and his girlfriend Anjali at Costa Coffee, DLF
Metropolitan Mall in Saket. The coffee is way overpriced, but considering I had a day
to live, I didn’t mind getting ripped off.
“The joke isn’t that funny,” Neeraj said, tearing open the second sachet of brown
sugar and mixing it for his girlfriend. If this girl can’t mix sugar in her coffee, I
wonder what she will be like after marriage.
“Do I look like I am joking? You are in medical college, and as a friend and someone
two years elder to me, I am asking your advice on what is the most painless, graceful
way to go. And ideally, it should be available at the friendly neighbourhood chemist,”
I said. I ordered a chocolate fudge cake. What are a few extra calories on your last
day?
Anjali kept quiet, her iPod plugged in her ears. She had come to the mall to shop with
her boyfriend rather than meet me. Neeraj said he only dated Anjali as her father had
given her a car and driver, which made it easy to go around. Besides, she looked ok.
She was pretty enough to invite a second stare from men, though that’s hardly an
achievement in Delhi where men’s standards can be quite modest.
“Dude, you topped your school. How much did you score in your class XII boards
again?” Neeraj said.
“Ninety two per cent,” I said.
“Ninety what?” Neeraj said as he ripped out Anjali’s earphones, “Anjali, the dude
scored ninety two per cent in commerce! Do you know of anyone who has scored that
much?”
Anjali shook her head.
“Wow, you must have studied a lot,” she said.
I nodded. I had done nothing but study in the last two years.
“No time for hobbies?” she said.
I shook my head. My only hobbies were eating three meals and sleeping five hours a
day. The rest of the time was with my books.
“With ninety two, you should be fine,” Neeraj said.
“Not according to SRCC, not according to Stephen’s and not according to Hindu, oh
what the heck,” I said as I opened my rucksack.
I gave him the special admissions supplement from the newspaper. I had snucked it
out early morning so mom and dad wouldn’t see it.
“Wow, check out Lady Sri Ram. B.Com Honours is at 95.5 per cent!” Neeraj said.
“That’s a girl’s college,” Anjali said.
“I know,” I said.
“Don’t worry, he wouldn’t have made it anyway. Anjali, why don’t you go spend
some of your father’s money,” Neeraj said and winked at me.
Anjali and I both gave Neeraj a dirty look. Neeraj air-kissed Anjali and gestured to her
to leave.
Seriously, don’t kill yourself. To us, you are still the school topper,” Neeraj said after
Anjali left.
“So what do I do?” I said, my voice loud, “stay back in school? This topper tag makes
things worse. My parents already threw a party for our friends and relatives like I
have made it big time in life. I cut a cake with the icing ‘family superstar’.”
“Nice,” Neeraj said.
“Not nice at all. All relatives congratulated my mother. They see me as the next
hotshot investment banker on Wall Street. The least they expect me to do is get into a
good college in DU.”
“There are still some colleges that you will get,” Neeraj said as I cut him off.
“But none with the same brand value. Thus, you can’t get a decent job after them. You
can’t get into the top MBA school.”
Neeraj pushed my coffee cup towards me. I hadn’t touched it. I picked it up and
brought it close to my mouth but couldn’t drink it.
“I made one tiny calculation error in my math paper,” I said, “read one stupid unit
conversion wrong. That’s it. If only...”
“If only you could chill out. You are going to college, dude! Branded or not, it is
always fun.”
“Screw fun,” I said.
“What kind of kids are they taking in anyway?” Neeraj said, “you have to be a beancounter
stickler to get ninety seven per cent. Like someone who never takes chances
and revises the paper twenty times.”
“I don’t know, I revised it five times. That stupid calculation...”
“Gautam, relax. That paper is done. And sticklers don’t do well in life. Innovative and
imaginative people do.”
“That’s not what DU thinks. You don’t understand, my father has proclaimed in his
office I will join SRCC. I can’t go to him with a second rung college admission. It’s
like his whole life image will alter. Hell, I won’t be able to deal with it myself.”
An SMS from Anjali on Neeraj’s phone interrupted our conversation. At Kimaya,
tried fab dress. Come urgently, want your opinion. Neeraj typed the reply back.
Honey, it looks great. Buy it.
Neeraj grinned as he showed me his response. “I think you should go,” I said. Rich
dads’ daughters can throw pretty nasty tantrums. Neeraj took out the money for
coffee. I stopped him. “My treat,” I said. Leave people happy on your last day, I
thought. “Of course, I take this as your treat for cracking your boards,” Neeraj said
and smiled. He ruffled my hair and left. I came out of the mall and took an auto home.
I met my parents at the dinner table. “So when will the university announce the cutoffs?”
my father said.
“In a few days,” I said. I looked up at the dining table fan. No, I couldn’t hang myself.
I can’t bear suffocation.
My mother cut mangoes after dinner. The knife made me think of slitting my wrists.
Too painful, I thought and dropped the idea.
“So now, my office people are asking me, ‘when is our party?’,” my father said as he
took a slice.
“I told you to call them to the party we did for neighbours and relatives,” my mother
said.
“How will they fit with your brothers and sisters? My office people are very
sophisticated,” my father said.
“My brothers are no less sophisticated. They went to Singapore last year on vacation.
At least they are better than your family,” she said.
My father laughed at my mother’s sullen expression. His happiness levels had not
receded since the day I received my result.
“My office people want drinks, not food. Don’t worry, I’ll do another one for them
when he gets into SRCC or Stephen’s.”
My father worked in the sales division of Tata Tea. We had supplied our entire set of
neighbours with free tea for the last five years. As a result, we had more well-wishers
than I’d have liked.
“Even my country head called to congratulate me for Gautam. He said – nothing like
Stephen’s for your brilliant son,” my father said.
“Gupta aunty came from next door. She wanted to see if you can help her daughter
who is in class XI,” my mother said.
Is she pretty, I wanted to ask, but didn’t. It didn’t matter.
came to my room post dinner. I hadn’t quite zeroed down on the exact method, but
thought I should start working on the suicide letter anyway. I didn’t want it to be one
of the clichéd ones – I love you all and it is no one’s fault, and I’m sorry mom and
dad. Yuck, just like first impressions, last impressions are important too. In fact, I
didn’t want to do any silly suicide letter. When it is your last, you’d better make it
important. I decided to write it to the education minister. I switched on my computer
and went to the Education Department website. Half the site links were broken. There
was a link called “What after class XII?” I clicked on it, it took me to a blank page
with an under construction sign. I sighed as I closed the site. I opened Microsoft Word
to type.
Dear Education Minister,
I hope you are doing fine and the large staff of your massive bungalow is treating you
well. I won’t take much of your time.
I’ve passed out of class XII and I’ve decided to end my life. I scored ninety-two per
cent in my boards, and I have a one foot high trophy from my school for scoring the
highest. However, there are so many trophy holding students in this country and so
few college seats, that I didn’t get into a college that will train me to the next level or
open up good opportunities.
I know I have screwed up. I should have worked harder to get another three per cent.
However, I do want to point out a few things to you. When my parents were young,
certain colleges were considered prestigious. Now, forty years later, the same colleges
are considered prestigious. What’s interesting is that no new colleges have come up
with the same brand or reputation level. Neither have the seats expanded in existing
colleges fast enough to accommodate the rising number of students.
I’ll give you an example. Just doing some meaningless surfing, I saw that 3.8 lakh
candidates took the CBSE class XII exam in 1999, a number that has grown to 8.9
lakh in 2009. This is just one board, and if you take ICSE and all other state boards,
the all India total number is over ten times that of CBSE. We probably had one crore
students taking the class XII exam this year.
While not everyone can get a good college seat, I just want to talk about the so-called
good students. The top 10 per cent alone of these one crore students is ten lakh
children. Yes, these ten lakh students are their class toppers. In a class of fifty, they
will have the top-5 ranks.
One could argue that these bright kids deserve a good college to realise their full
potential. Come to think of it, it would be good for our country too if we train our
bright children well to be part of the new, shining, gleaming, glistening or whatever
you like to call the globalised India.
But then, it looks like you have stopped making universities. Are there ten lakh top
college seats in the country? Are there even one lakh? Ever wondered what happens to
the rest of us, year after year? Do we join a second rung college? A deemed
university? A distance learning programme? A degree in an expensive, racist country?
Your government runs a lot of things. You run an airline that never makes money. You
run hotels. You want to be involved in making basic stuff like steel and aluminum,
which can easily be made by more efficient players. However, in something as
important as
shaping the young generation, you have stepped back. You have stopped making new
universities. Why?
You have all the land you want, teachers love to get a government job, education
funds are never questioned. Still, why? Why don’t we have new, A-grade universities
in every state capital for instance?
Oh well, sorry. I am over reacting. If only I had not done that calculation error in my
math paper, I’d be fine. In fact, I am one of the lucky ones. In four years, the number
of candidates will double. So then we will have a college that only has 99 per cent
scorers.
My parents were a bit deluded about my abilities, and I do feel bad for them. I didn’t
have a girlfriend or too many friends, as people who want to get into a good college
are not supposed to have a life. If only I knew that slogging for twelve years would
not amount to much, I’d have had more fun.
Apart from that, do well, and say hello to the PM, who as I understand, used to teach
in college.
Yours truly,
Gautam
(Poor student)
I took a printout of the letter and kept it in my pocket. I decided to do the act the next
morning. I woke up as the maid switched off the fan to sweep the room. She came
inside and brought a box of sweets. A fifty-year-old woman, she had served us for
over ten years. “What?” I said as she gave me the box. It had kaju-barfi, from one of
the more expensive shops in the city. The maid had spent a week’s salary distributing
sweets to anyone known to her. “My son passed class XII,” she said as she started her
work. “How much did he score?” I said, still rubbing my eyes. “Forty two per cent.
He passed English too,” she said as her face beamed with pride. “What will he do
now?” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe his own business, he can repair mobile phones,”
she said.
went to the bathroom for a shower. I realised the newspaper would have come outside.
I ran out of the bathroom. I picked up the newspaper from the entrance floor. I took
out the admissions supplement, crumpled it and threw it in the dustbin kept outside
the house. I came back inside the house and went back into the shower.
I left the house mid-day. I took the metro to Chandni Chowk and asked my way to the
industrial chemicals market. Even though I had left science after class X, I knew that
certain chemicals like Copper Sulphate or Ammonium Nitrate could kill you. I bought
a pack of both compounds. As I passed through the lanes of Chandni Chowk, I passed
a tiny hundred square feet jalebi shop. It did brisk business. I thought my last meal
had to be delicious. I went to the counter and took a quarter kilo of jalebis.
I took my plate and sat on one of the two rickety benches placed outside the shop.
A Muslim couple with a four-year-old boy came and sat on the next bench. The
mother fed the boy jalebi and kissed him after each bite. It reminded me of my
childhood and my parents, when they used to love me unconditionally and marks
didn’t exist. I saw the box of Ammonium Nitrate and tears welled up in my eyes. I
couldn’t eat the jalebis. I came back home. I wondered if I should use my chemicals
before or after dinner. Maybe it is better after everyone has slept, I thought.
We sat at the dinner table. Dad had told mom not to cook as he’d brought Chinese
takeaway for us. Mom brought the soya sauce, chilli oil and the vinegar with cut
green chillies in little katoris. We ate American chopsuey on stainless steel plates. I
looked at my watch, it was 8 pm. Three more hours, I thought as I let out a sigh.
“One thing Kalpana,” my father said to my mother, “job candidates aren’t what they
used to be these days. I interviewed for new trainees today, disappointing.”
“Why, what happened?” my mother said.
“Like this boy from Stephen’s, very bright kid. But only when it came to his
subjects.”
“Really?” my mother said.
“Yeah, but I asked him a different question. I said how would you go about having a
tea-shop chain like the coffee shop chains, and he went blank,” my father said, an inch
of noodle hanging outside his mouth. My mother removed it from his face.
“And then some kid from SRCC. He topped his college. But you should have seen his
arrogance. Even before the interview starts, he says ‘I hope at the end of our meeting,
you will be able to tell me why I should join Tata Tea and not another company’. Can
you imagine? I am twice his age.”
I could tell my father was upset from his serious tone.
“If you ask me,” my father continued, “the best candidate was a boy from Bhopal.
Sure, he didn’t get into a top college. But he was an eighty per cent student. And he
said ‘I want to learn. And I want to show that you don’t need a branded college to do
well in life. Good people do well anywhere.’ What a kid. Thank God we shortlisted
him in the first place.”
“Did he get the job?” I said.
“Yes, companies need good workers, not posh certificates. And we are having a
meeting to discuss our short listing criteria again. The top colleges are so hard to get
in, only tunnel vision people are being selected.” “Then why are you asking him to
join Stephen’s or SRCC?” my mother said.
My father kept quiet. He spoke after a pause. “Actually, after today, I’d say don’t just
go by the name. Study the college, figure out their dedication, and make sure they
don’t create arrogant nerds. Then whatever the brand, you will be fine. The world
needs good people.”
I looked at my parents as they continued to talk. Excuse me, but I have a plan to
execute here. And now you are confusing me, I thought. “So should I study some
more colleges and make a decision after that?” I said. “Yes, of course. No need for
herd-mentality. Kalpana you should have seen this boy from Bhopal.”
Post-dinner, my parents watched TV in the living room while eating fruits. I retracted
to my room. I sat on my desk wondering what to do next. The landline phone rang in
my parent’s room. I went inside and picked it up.
“Hello Gautam?” the voice on the other side said.
It was my father’s colleague from work. “Hello, Yash uncle,” I said. “Hi,” he said,
“congratulations on your boards.” “Thanks uncle,” I said, “dad is in the living room
finishing dinner, should I call him?” “Dinner? Oh, don’t disturb him. Just tell him his
mobile is with me. It is safe. We were on a field trip today. He left it in my car.” “Field
trip? For interviews?” I said. “What interviews? No, we just went to the Chandigarh
office,” he said.
I wished him good night and hung up the phone. I switched on the bedside lamp in
my parents’ room. Confused, I sat down on my father’s bed, wondering what to do
next. To make space, I moved his pillow. Under the pillow lay a crumpled newspaper.
I picked it up. It was the same admissions supplement I had tossed in the bin this
morning. My father had circled the cut-offs table.
I left the newspaper there and came to the living room. My father was arguing with
my mother over the choice of channels. I looked at my father. He smiled at me and
offered me watermelon. I declined.
I came back to my room. I picked up the chemical boxes and took them to the toilet. I
opened both boxes and poured the contents in the toilet commode. One press, and
everything, everything flushed out.
“Gautam,” my mother knocked on the door, “I forgot to tell you. Gupta aunty came
again. Can you teach her daughter?”
“Maybe,” I said as I came out of the toilet, “by the way, is she pretty?”
Sunday 10 June 2012
Rukna Nahi hame - DID Little Masters - Sad track
Rukna nahi hame ek pal bhi rah mai.
Chalna hai humko to manzil ki chah mai.
Likhnege naam hum apna SITARO Me.
Penchanege sabhi humko hazaro mai.
Tootenge na hausale ye kabhi.
Hum hai mile rasto se abhi.
Manzil hame khud hi pehchane gi.
Chalne to do bas zara.
For MP3 download click
http://freshmaza.com/filedownload/6941/93566/Dance-India-Dance-Lil-Masters--Title-Song---FreshMaza-Com-.html
For MP3 download click
http://freshmaza.com/filedownload/6941/93566/Dance-India-Dance-Lil-Masters--Title-Song---FreshMaza-Com-.html
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