Finally I win something!! :)

This little piece here was chosen as the best entry for the 'campus journalist' contest at IMT Ghaziabad. But unfortunately I had already taken admission at another college by the time they came out with the results and was no longer eligible. The CCMRC people who conducted the contest were kind enough to let me know that I was their first choice and I'm grateful for their gesture.

I want to leave this here- in memory of a glorious month at IMT. This post is titled

Colours of IMT-G

There are two things that you notice when you walk into IMT for the first time--a white behemoth of a building and the warm sprawling lemon green lawns that surround it. With its avant-garde architectural style and dazzling white walls, the new academic block exudes an aura of ‘new’ that is hard not to acknowledge. In stark contrast are the old fashioned red and brown brick hostels that loom in the background. A vast chartreuse football field separates the old from the new. The tall Gulmohar trees scattered around the field are approaching full bloom and shades of orange peek out from behind dark green canopies. The campus is a feast of colours.

Situated at the heart of a hot and beige Ghaziabad, IMT is an oasis in the middle of a desert. The campus is vibrant and bursting with activity at the beginning of a new term when the first years arrive, sometime in the middle of June. Suddenly there are people everywhere -- loitering the grounds, sipping cold coffee or iced tea at the Nescafe stall, clicking pictures in the amphitheater or huddled around the canvas tent haggling with the campus vendors over the price of a mattress  or a mug .Despite the heat the vendors smile, as they sell overpriced products to exasperated students.

By half past twelve people start trickling towards the mess. Red, blue and purple dance in front of your eyes, as they adjust to the dim light. The mess hall fills up in a matter of minutes. One of the first lessons that you learn as an IMTian is that -you may be late to a class, you may be late to a meeting, but you should never be late for lunch. Grab a plate and stand in line. Excitement builds as you finally approach the end of the line; but wait!..Sigh! Not potato again!

The diversity here is astounding. You meet people from every corner of the country. Over the tumult of conversation one can notice the lilt of a dozen different languages. But laughter sounds same in every language. At one corner a birthday is being celebrated. The group disperses and the hapless victim is left to wipe chocolate and vanilla icing off his face.

Dare not venture into the hostel after lunch; the somnolent yellow walls can easily lull you to sleep. For a moment eyes linger upon the forbidden ladies hostel. Pretty women dressed in alluring lilac, magenta and indigo, strut in and out of the hostel looking like proud cockatoos.

Lunch break is over. The crowd starts thinning as students scurry towards their classes hoping to get there before the professors. Before long the campus is empty and deserted. The parched tree stands alone at the centre of the empty football field. It watches silently as dark clouds gather in the distant horizon with a promise of driving away the heat. I hope the rain doesn't wash away all the colours.

A HERO WE DID NOT DESERVE

I was casually skimming through the newspaper today morning, when I came across an opinion piece. It was a eulogy dedicated to Satyendra Dubey, a project director of the NHAI who was murdered this day ten years ago, for trying to put an end to the corruption that was going on in the shadow of the GQ project. I had no idea who this guy was. Not surprising, as I had never followed the news very keenly until recent times. Even so, I was mildly aware of the day to day happenings, but this name didn't even ring a bell. I was not even remotely aware of the existence of a Satyendra Dubey. A little digging led me to this Satyendra Dubey's Story.

It felt so strange to read something that happened such a long time ago. As I read I felt a strange mix of emotions. I knew how this story was going to end. 

At first I felt angry at him for being so careless with his life. I wished I could go back and reason with him –convince him that it wasn't worth it -that we were beyond saving.I wish I could tell him that his death would change nothing.

I felt sorry for the parents who had to lose their son to an unjust, cruel world, just because he refused to turn his back on his rigid moral values. Their loss was real and no amount of ‘justice’ can fill the void that was left in their lives.Nothing make the sorrow easier.

I felt guilty to realize how incredibly short term our memories are. In the days immediately following such an incident we would raise a hue and cry, have shouting contests on TV ,even marches and protests –but this passes and this becomes another fleeting moment in time- a moment quickly wiped away from memory-and nobody remembers Satyendra Dubey anymore.

I want to leave this here. This is a beautiful, beautiful piece that came in the Indian Express a few days after Satyendra Dubey’s untimely demise. Unfortunately I was able to read this only today. http://www.indianexpress.com/storyOld.php?storyId=36601

This is dedicated to all the martyrs.Here's to all the Satyendra Dubeys, the Shanmughan Manjunaths, the Narendra Kumars. A salute to all the unsung heroes of India!!

ALL IN A DAY'S WORK!!

I work in a typical IT company in Trivandrum. Agreed, my job is not the best, but at the same time it isn't the worst, either. While it does not offer much in terms of creative satisfaction, it sure beats the hell out of unemployment. The pay isn't too shabby - neither too much nor too little- but just enough to make you complain for a few minutes, every time it gets credited.

What I do, doesn't require too much intellectual application but it is exciting nonetheless. It’s all about clicking a few buttons, tapping a few keys and noting down observations in a spread sheet. But trust me it is not as easy as it sounds. From time to time they threaten to replace us with a group of well-trained monkeys but I don’t expect to see that any time soon.

Now, most of our clients are from a different part of the world, so you have re-arranged your life according to their time zone. A little bit of an inconvenience in the beginning, but you get used to it quickly. What we do is, we work from 9 in the morning to 7 in the evening. And then we sit around till its morning in America or UAE. Once our clients wake up, have their breakfast and pack their kids off to school, they come online and we get right down to business. Once we have given them all the updates, they propose a whole list of changes .We listen to their ludicrous requests all night. Some of the requests are genuinely funny and there are few things in this world that can put a smile on your face at 2 am in the morning.

I have to admit, the jet lag that follows the late night client-calls, takes some getting used to, but the whole experience is very character building. The company really encourages us to reach out to the customers. They feel that this will help to reinforce the foundations upon which our business is built. Matt and Tammy are practically family now. We refer to each other by first name .I know where they live. I know where they buy groceries. Their kids even call me uncle. For all you know we could be living in the same apartment.

Some people find the this environment little overpowering at first but the charm  of making software for rich Americans is very hard to resist and eventually they all succumb to it. Time really flies when you are having fun and sometimes days go by without you noticing. In fact work is so exciting we don’t leave until we get kicked out by security. There is this one guy who actually divorced his wife and gave his kids up for adoption, so that he could spend all his time at the office.

Our CEO is a solemn little man who,  I’m pretty sure is something of a celebrity in the US. He looks like a gentleman,  always dressed in a blazer- even when he is at the beach. Maybe, it is something important people do. Anyway,he always tells us how much the clients appreciate our grunt work and how important we are to the company and this drives us to work even harder.

Our contribution to the American healthcare industry is by no means small. I think of all the lives we have touched through our work, and I get goosebumps. My chest puffs a little and my face swells with pride.I feel like I'm doing my bit to save humanity and that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.Here lies my true calling and I think I'm going to do this till the day I die.:) .....

A Tale - not so tiny

Sometimes you can say a lot by speaking very little. What is left unsaid often speaks volumes more than what was spoken and leaves a lasting impression. This is what terrible tiny tales is all about.

Terrible tiny tales is a website that features short stories- Well, technically.  True to their name the tales are terribly tiny. To qualify as one, the story has to be less than 140 characters in length .The idea, is to compose stories that can be tweeted without compromising on the storytelling.

The rules are simple. There has to be a beginning, an end, one or more characters and things happening in between- exactly what you’d find in a regular story. But the catch here is you have to do all this in less than 140 characters. Visitors to the site can submit words to aid the writers spin their story. Each week one word is chosen, and the writers must include this word somewhere in their story.

As draconian as it may sound, it has produced some of the most imaginative works of fiction that I have chanced upon. Listen to what Prathap Suthan wrote about ‘fire’:

She was on heat. Like he was. Lips, hips and nips. What a wild night. No rubber. Full lust. Nine months bulged. Water Broke. And their fire cried.

In nine short sentences Suthan delivers such an animated picture of sex, that one can almost see their passion being kindled. To get here from the word fire takes a huge stretch of imagination.

There aren’t too many fancy techniques that you can use when you have to squeeze your entire story into 140 characters. Words become a precious commodity. Don’t expect to see too many stories that start with the familiar ‘Once upon a time’. Abstract narratives and disjointed sentences are used to make up for the lack of breathing space. But far from having a detrimental effect, I’ve noticed that it lends the tale an air of mystery.

There are sad stories, happy stories, funny stories, even surreal stories (maybe I just didn’t understand that one :P).But one thing they ‘ve all got in common is that they evoke some feeling from the reader. They linger- sometimes for a moment, sometimes for a day, sometimes long after.

This is what Shephali wrote for the word: Estranged:

She loved discovering words. The day the papers were signed, her parents taught her a new word. One word she wished she hadn’t known-Estranged.

After you read it, you can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness well up within you, for the unnamed little girl. You do not know who she is, but yet, you feel sorry for her.

Here’s another brilliant one written for the word. Rain:

One morning he left and built himself a fortress. You can’t touch me now. Determined, she became rain and kissed him.

I don’t know why, but I actually felt happier after reading that. Through three sentences, this writer was able to make my day a little better and I felt thankful for that.

All I can say is, terribly tiny tales is terribly clever. Do check out their website, guys!

http://terriblytinytales.com/

One can’t help but agree with the bard. Brevity is indeed the essence of all wit. 

random update

This is a little something that I wrote almost a year ago .This was back when i was working with a bunch of immensely talented people, in an attempt to bring out an English midday newspaper exclusive to the city.Even though the unnamed project died in its infancy, i got a wonderful opportunity to learn the art of writing prose from seasoned professionals-to learn the tricks of the trade.This is one such piece that I'm particularly proud of.Sadly it never saw the light of the day. I came across it in my documents folder last night and I felt that it deserved a place in my blog .....so here goes...It is titled.....

An Ode to a dying river.

Nothing thrives in these waters. Amidst a dense overgrowth of weeds, patches of dark water gleam venomously. As the afternoon rays shine off the surface, the river looks treacherously beautiful, while directly beneath, several drainage pipes empty tones of raw sewage, rendering the water more poisonous than before.

It was into these troubled waters, that a school van carrying six children and a maid fell, on the 17th of February, a couple of years ago. The van on its regular morning trip to pick up children, hit a tree stump on the edge of the Karikkakom Road, which runs parallel to the Parvathy Puthanar .It lost its balance and plunged into the murky depths of the canal.

Constable Selvius Raj, will never forget that fateful day. Selvius, who had been on patrol duty at Chakkai learnt about the accident over the wireless. He immediately hurried to the spot. By then a crowd had gathered on the banks. The van had all but submerged. A handful of locals jumped into the canal in an attempt to pull the victims out of the fast sinking vehicle, as the water danced menacingly on all sides.

For a moment Selvius hesitated. He thought about his four year old daughter. The iota of doubt vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Stripping off his uniform, Selvius jumped into the water.

Once upon a time, the Parvathy Puthanar used to be a major artery that connected our city with other commercial centers of Kerala. Boats and rafts carrying grains and vegetables, all the way from Alappuzha used to ply along this route. It used to take weeks to reach Trivandrum. The ferrymen, made several stops along the way to have meals or spend the night. “Back then Chakkai and Vallakadavu used to be booming commercial centers,” says a local, who has lived on the riverside all his life. His family has owned the tile shop at Chakkai for close to a century. “To the families that lived on the bank, the canal was an integral part of their daily life.Teeming with marine life the canal sustained the livelihood of thousands.”

A huge expanse of darkness spanned out in front of Selvius; he could barely see the fallen van.“It didn’t feel like water at all. The grimy thick liquid hung heavily around my chest slowly pulling me down,” he remembers. He felt his leg disappear into the bed as he tried to gain a foothold. After several anxious moments he surfaced gulping in lungfuls of fresh air.

Among those who gathered on the banks that day, was Krishnankutty,who has been living there for close to 50 years. He relates how one of the most beautiful, man-made navigation routes of yesteryear, has been reduced to a waste dumping ground.The water, which once used to beas clear as teardrops, is now a hideous black. “We used to bathe, wash clothes and swim in the canal until 35 years ago,” says Krishnankutty. “Back then roads weren’t as developed and people relied on waterways for transport most of the time,” he adds.

As the city developed, its waste became a burden. Since its establishment the Sewage Plant at Valiyathura has been dumping sewage indiscriminately into the canal, corrupting the waters. Over time, the garbage chucked into the canal accumulated clogging the flow of water at several points. Heavy pollution has killed most of the plant life in close proximity to the water. Several huge stumps can be seen on both shores.These came in handy to pull the van out.

 Thick ropes were fastened to tree trunks on either shores of the canal,  to help the divers in their search. A proficient swimmer, Selvius Raj was finding it difficult to keep afloat.  Nauseated by the overpowering smell, wounded by something sharp at the bottom of the canal, Selvius was in bad shape. He was doing all he could not to give up and climb ashore. It was a good twenty minutes before the divers with the help of the onlookers were able to pull the van out.

The extent of damage that has been inflicted on the river can be seen if you walk along the stretch of road from Vallakadavu to Chakkai. Illegal sand mining and dredging have rendered the bed so uneven that, at some places there the canal is barren and at others the water is over five meters deep. The bed is littered with leaves, old tires, bottles,plastic, and other filth. Near Thiruvallam, where the tainted waters of Puthanar run into the Karamana River, the water turns an ominous shade.

When it rains the air is permeated with a stench like none other. It seeps right through your skin and settles somewhere deep within, making you sick to the bone. During periods of heavy rainfall the canal overflows its banks .The polluted water accumulates on the road, making it impossible for people to walk without stepping in it. The water enters compounds through the drains and lays waste to all the plants and vegetation in that area. Nothing survives the deathly touch of these black waters. “When people walk through these waters they develop infections. Plants wither and die,” says Suresh a local. “During the monsoon, the when the water in the canal rose, they used to open the ‘‘pozhy’ at Poonthura, emptying the excess water and waste into the sea. However that has not been done for quite some time now,” he adds.

With garbage clogging the flow of the river at many places, the stagnant water is a favourite breeding ground of a particularly large variety of mosquito. These mosquitoes leave huge boils when they bite and cause great discomfort and irritation. “Although vector control measures like fogging and spraying used to be done, none of them were too effective,” says Baby, branch president of the area. “The children are sick most of the time and there is little we can do,” she complains.

A few years ago barge mounted excavators, had tried to remove most of the filth along the canal. Not too long after, the stubborn weeds returned with a vengeance, and the canal returned to its previous state. Although the government has been announcing projects at regular intervals for the restoration of this waterway, none have taken off.

The irrigation department of Kerala has initiated yet another project, to clean Puthanar. “We have proposed a project to clean a 12 kilometer stretch up to Akulam. This will include desilting and weed removal” says R Unnikrishnan, Chief Engineer. The project is currently being retendered.

Unwillingness on the part of contractors to take up work relating to the canal is a major issue.They feel that anyone fool hardy enough to take up this task is sure to open a can of worms.“Working in close proximity to these waters is quite difficult. Besides they are often bullied by local thugs,” says Baiju, Asst Executive engineer at the Inland Navigation Department, Chakkai. The locals are not too co operative either.“They still continue to throw their waste into the canal. The last time cleaning activities were done, the locals deposited all the scooped waste back into the canal in a matter of days.”

Public Awareness is the only effective solution. Blighted by encroachments, the banks of the canal are packed with houses that do not have proper sanitation facilities. The wastes from these houses are emptied directly into the water. “The government has to develop a plan to scientifically rehabilitate these people. However, the after waste management the most serious issue faced by the state is land availability. So that might not be practical,” says the chief engineer at the Inland Navigation Department. “Every 20 houses must be attached to a separate septic tank along with a cesspool to disinfect the wastes before it is dumped into the canal,” says the Chief Engineer.

“As long the private establishments like hospitals and hotels along the banks deposit their waste into the canal the situation is not going to change,” he adds.

Nine children were fished out of the river that day. Six of them lost their lives. Most of them had developed lung infections by the time they reached hospital. Doctors say that, had the water been clean, their chances of survival would have been much greater.

Search and rescue operations continued for three hours after the van had been pulled out, due to an uncertainty about the number of children that were in the van that day. It was one o clock when Selvius finally got out of the water. It would take another week before he could get the filth of the canal completely out of his body and mind “Thousands of people, including fire force, marine enforcement, and policemen, had gathered on the banks, but only a small handful had the courage to jump,” says Selvius. “You can’t blame them. If you ask me to jump into that water again today, I probably would not,” he says.

Old wounds are all but forgotten. Silent as ever the canal seeks deliverance from its sorry plight, even today.

This article is not aimed at anyone. It is but a lament to the one of the greatest waterways of olden Travancore.

Just another evening ....

A few peanuts in hand, Rajala stands amid a flock of pigeons that are ruffling their feathers and squawking impatiently. She throws another handful of nuts into the air, sending the birds into a flurry as they try to get a peck .A smile lights up her exhausted face as a pigeon alights on her shoulder.

Behind her the brick archway of the museum gate looms silent, awaiting the daily crowd.

It is 4:00 pm and the evening is still in its infancy.

The sky looks freshly painted, and there is not a cloud in sight.

The roadside hawkers have started arranging their wares on the ground, in preparation of a long evening. A few foreigners, who are passing by, stop to inspect the goods. There is a lot of gesturing, and it is clear that neither party can understand the other.

A small crowd is starting to form around the collection of teashops, situated along the narrow lane adjacent to the museum entrance. The teashops, which have been around since god-knows-when, are a frequent hangout spot for the young and the old alike. In the evenings, you can hear their chatter over the sound of the rumbling traffic.

The traffic, increases steadily as people start heading home from their offices. One can spot several up market cars as they walk along the stretch of road from Museum to Vellayambalam. Every ten minutes or so, a BMW or Mercedes glides past, in all its regal grandeur.

A sudden gust of wind sends leaves showering down to the pavement. Caught in a beam of sunlight filtering through the branches, they are a pretty sight.

Rambootan salesman, Johnson, is occupying his regular spot outside the Kanakakunnu gate. He doesn’t seem to be having a profitable day as his cart is still three fourths full. He is cheerful, nonetheless.

The bus-stop just outside Kanakakunnu is vacant but for a middle aged woman. She looks anxious. Perhaps she is waiting for someone.

A little further along the street, a couple haggles with an auto driver over a fare. In the distance an unfamiliar Tamil song blares out of a loudspeaker.

Few people notice the model of an aircraft that has been on the roadside, for as long as anyone can remember. The old Navy sea-hawk model has stood the ravages of time. As always, it remains unnoticed, a shadow in the background, as the world flashes past before it.

The traffic signal, before Keltron, turns red, and vehicles come to a screeching halt. People honk impatiently. A hapless old man gets caught in the middle as the lights suddenly turn green. They curse and swear at him.

Its 5:30 now and the sky sports a bluish-orange hue.
What are we, but mortals bound by time.

For a stretch of road and a wonderful evening spent.

Thank you.

NOW WHAT?!!

Back when I was still a cherubic little boy with little knowledge of the world and its ways, life was mostly simple. Worst, you had to deal with multiple, yes or no questions and a lot of stupid faces. If that wasn’t enough, you could always count on someone else to take care of whatever was bothering you, just by bawling at the top of your voice. However, things started to change over time, and I was expected to tie my own shoelaces, and brush my own teeth. With passing days, life became more and more bothersome, as responsibilities were heaped onto my back without any sign of benevolence.

13 yrs later I walked out of school, thoroughly unsure of what I was going to do, as people around me drew elaborate plans about their future. I was the only one without a clue. I wasn’t too keen on writing the medical entrance. Although I do not cringe at the sight of blood, pulling someone’s entrails out, somehow did not appeal to me. Then there was law. Well, you know what they say about lawyers---they have no conscience. I intended to preserve mine. Engineering, seemed to be very much in vogue, and there were more institutes offering the course, than there were applicants. 4 years?? …piece of cake!!! Too bad, I got the wrong flavor!!!I appeared for every single entrance exam one could possibly register for, only to get creamed by each and every one of them. With my rank, I couldn’t afford to be too picky. Off the list, SCT seemed to be the least disreputable, and so I applied. Well….appearances can be deceiving. It didn’t take me long to discover that I had landed myself, in one of the most godforsaken places on the planet.

4 years have gone by; I’m not any closer to being an electronics engineer than I was when I began the course. Apart from a few genuinely sweet people, most of the teachers in our college, are disgruntled with life in general, and are just looking for a chance to screw you over. And with a university that’s even more messed up, you’ve got a surefire recipe for disaster! All these years, I have wondered what prompted me to make this distinctly wrong choice. Maybe it was the illusion that all engineering graduates end up in well paying jobs, with a lot of benefits, and a good contingency plan. Maybe, that was what urged me to go against my better judgement. I refused to listen to that little voice that has always whispered encouragingly into my ear guiding me the right way. With just the right amount of attendance and only a handful of back papers I’ve somehow managed to stumble along. My inability to keep pace with my mates, during project discussions and other academic activities, subjected me to condescension from my peers. We barely have 6 months left in college and almost everyone is looking to augment their bachelor’s degree with something more, and I’m still stuck with 3 uncleared papers.

Despite the occasional story about a physician who left to become an author or an attorney turned singer, the overwhelming majority of unhappy people choose to stay miserably stuck largely out of pride. The idea of having wasted all these years, in pursuit of that coveted degree isn’t as scary as disapproval from people we love and care about. Rather than fear of wasting the degree this is what prevents us from making the jump.

Writing as a career has yet to find the mass acceptance in India. It is considered as an offbeat career that is supposed to be done in your free time or as a hobby. I’ve always been very passionate about writing. Somewhere in the corner of my brain I’ve often toyed with the idea of writing professionally, but not having enough confidence in my abilities, it never materialized. Once I’m done with college, I seriously intend to take up writing as a full time profession. This time however, I’ll have a B-tech degree to bolster my resume. After all a B-tech degree has to amount to something; not everybody has one!Even though,I may not do anything related to my field of specialization ,a few years down the line,I’ll still be an electronics engineer….a shitty one at that, but an electronics engineer nonetheless!

So far in life I’ve had this abiding belief that everything happens for a reason. The key is to find the lessons. Maybe this was how it was meant to be. I have a feeling everything is just going to snap into place. Well, if they don’t, I suppose, I could always return to SCT as a janitor!