Saturday, March 18, 2006

tamasoma

asathoma sadgamaya...

he could hear his mother shouting outside. her voice sounded tinny and eerily metallic bringing to mind one of the half-robot characters of the animation show he never missed. she was shouting at him because he was getting late for school. he had to get dressed soon in the crisp green and white uniform, have the buttery toast and tie his shoes. but before all that he had to take bath and be clean. clean? how could he? he was now rubbing the soap over his tiny body all over again. rubbing it hard and rough. the shards of water drops stinging his eyes and rolling down his cheeks with his tears, leaving eyes the misty red of an autumn sunset.

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"...and the samosas! you wouldn't believe how big they are! much larger than the one in old sorabji's shop", extolled viraj. sorabji was hated, though quite unreasonably by the kids in st agnes, because according to them the way he treated the 12 year old customers was not in the strictest sense of good shop keeping and was mean in calling in debts too early.

amay listened to viraj's excited chatter languorously. the languor having come from a hard but fruitful day in the life of the 12 year old which included well aimed potshots with folded paper strips at the girls side during lunch and an entertaining football match which, much to the joy of the players involved, turned into a minor brawl and rumble.

they were walking down the road from the school gate. amay was a bit apprehensive about walking so far when the bus was about to leave in 15 minutes. but viraj was insistent."viru, if we miss the bus it will be your fault entirely. it’s getting late buddy!". viraj ignored his friend’s comments and entered the bakery with the large facade that said "fun 'n bake"

mrithyorma amithangamaya...

mother was banging at the door now. amay shuddered and picked up the soap again and started to rub it with more vigor. over his hands and the hard to reach back. lather was formed and washed away with the shower. still he wasn't feeling clean. not clean enough. he looked at his hand. wasn't there a film of sliming covering it? giving a dull glow? he was marked and he could see it. so could others! he rubbed the half dissolved bar on his hands, feeling the slight sting of soap touching the innards through raw skin.

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he was amar. amar bhaiyya as he was called. he was funny, had a collection of amusing anecdote and was miles apart from the perpetually cross and sour sorabji. most important of al, he was a patient listener to the oft ill-treated (as they think) 12 year olds at the thresholds of teenage and puberty. it seemed to fascinate amay that there were grown ups in this world who did not smirk in a superior fashion when you talked to them about the meanness of teachers and the ache that they felt when a girl looked at them. the second was never uttered to any one.

he soon became a regular visitor there and always managed to sneak in time even during the lunch hour to pay a quick visit. it was on sports day that fate played spoilsport on him. the multitude of students, visitors, parents and guests were too much for the school transport to handle at one go and it was decided that they would run shuttles. amay was happy that he got an extra one hour in which he could show the football trophy he had won.

he sat on the edge of amar bhaiya's bed in the attic of the shop, which was closed for the sunday, showing him the trophy. amar bhaiya ran his hands over the trophy and remarked "it’s nice, congrats!". his hands traced a line from the top of the shield to the base nested on amay's thighs. his hands did not stop there as they slowly ran down his thighs, past the seams of his sports shorts. dirty sports shorts.

tamasoma jyothirgamaya...

his eyes fell on a small piece of marble that had broken off from the side of the tub. his hands and the whole flesh of his body were raw with the soap and constant rubbing. he didn’t feel clean. something seemed to be still stuck to him. an all pervading mist of slime, sin and dirt. try as he might, he wasn't able to remove it. maybe the rough jagged edge of the stone would help? his hands shuddered when he gasped the stone. like he had shuddered when he was bound helpless and with a rag in his mouth. gagged to fear while he was being violated.

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his father found him sprawled on the floor, whimpering. the skin on his torso and hands torn. the blood mixed with the soap and the clogged water near the drain to form a pink and white ensemble that seemed painful. he was grasping the marble piece still in his hands.

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[ as adults, we have some ways to oppose harassment. whether we do or not, is a different matter. but we can yell, scream, try to fight back physically and attempt to raise awareness about it. but what does a child do? their inherent trust in adults, their fear to question their motives and actions, and their own inability to distinguish between right and wrong often leaves them powerless ]

Friday, March 17, 2006

zarhat

[i don't know whether war is an interlude during peace, or peace an interlude during war -georges clemenceau]

i found this in amit varma's blog india uncut:

just off the corner of namak mandi, i get chatting with a gentleman named mohammad anwar, who makes and duplicates keys. as soon as mr anwar learns that i'm from india, he asks , "have you heard of sher shah suri?""er, yes," i reply."well then, you must know that he built the grand trunk road, which connects peshawar to calcutta. now, that grand trunk road, to me, is more of a truth than india and pakistan."he nods wisely here. i nod as well.


(the gt road actually goes beyond both peshawar and calcutta, but you get the point.)

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

googled!

i got this idea from google. anyone who browses google would have seen the ever changing logos. the one that changes according to the occassion.
like these:




well, from now on thats what even i'm gonna do!! as a small first step (and a giant leap for my blog) today's logo would de inspired by holi, the festival of colors


suggestions? comments? well, the comments section is always open...

metamorphosis

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

auto-mation?


it happens only in bangalore