Kamatchi paati- A Short story

“God has created some people with some purpose and message. If you happen to meet any, please try to read the message god has sent”.

I’m coming to my town around ten years after my higher secondary education. Returning to the places where you have spent your youth days is always splendid. The same old streets, same old ‘Krishnan stores’ where amma usually buy her provisions, the same ration shop with long queue for kerosene (most part of which is sold black), the same wine shop where next house suresh uncle goes secretly fearing ambika aunty, the old tea stall whose origin is actually a traffic signal post where we had our first puff secretly, the same cycle shop where we hire cycles and wander for hours together even without considering hot sun, the same CEO office ground where we play cricket in weekends, the same fancy stores which once was a greatest place in the world where we get sports stickers, the same ‘surya hospital’ which supplies same tablets for constipation as well as diarrhoea or any other medical diseases, the same computer centre whose ‘windows 3.1 version’ attracted us and made us once boast that we too have learnt ‘computer’, the same photo studio which hardly produced good photos at first shot, making us to visit it many times for a passport size photograph ultimately delaying our process of getting bus concession due to delayed submission of forms, the same ‘state bank of india’ where my father was and still is working (the only difference is he is promoted twice since then), the same ‘S.K.S. talkies’ which releases all “rajini kanth” films first and therefore our favourite theatre, the same church which is the only place where I have seen my science teacher Mr.Ebenezar without a cane, and hell a lot of same things………. It seemed as if except me, there is almost no change anywhere.

Looking out through the window while waiting for breakfast, I happened to see that very old yellow painted small house. That is actually the house of old lady called “kamatchi” whom we usually call as “kamatchi paati”. Kamatchi paati since my childhood memory is an old lady with bent back, long face, dark wrinkled skin, big eyes covered by even bigger spectacles, a yellow rope to ensure that spectacles doesn’t fall even when she bents, grey short hair, khaki cloth bag in hand and old torn "lunars" slippers, embracing her feet. She can be seen in green and yellow sarees on alternate days for I believe she has only two sarees to select or wear.

Kamatchi paati led her simple life by cooking for some bachelors. The customers of kamaatchi paati were very loyal to her. The secret of customer’s loyalty can be traced from the incomparable taste of hot idlis which owes a special profile of kaamatchi paati’s idli making plates (those plates possess a complex shape due to aging and infinite handling occurrences)

Kaamatchi paati had always made me and everyone nearby to think about hard work. I have hardly found her taking rest. She did everything, however difficult may be, with love and enthusiasm. She used to call me as “laddu” as I was too fat then (even now). Her affectionate calling me as “laddu” helped her to harvest some little favours from me like going to shop for her, fetching water for her etc.

She has one son and two daughters. I have never seen anyone though I have heard that they are all nearby. She sometimes can be seen very depressed. That day she might have met her grand children and her daughter in law must not have allowed them to mingle with her. During such times my mother had been her only source to outpour her sorrows.

I think I had been thinking about kamaatchi paati for a long time; my little rippling thoughts were constrained by amma’s calling me for breakfast. She had made dosas and sambar for me. I don’t know whether it is because of her excellent preparation, I like it very much; whatever may be the reason, uncaringly I started my breakfast. Amma is special for her sambar. It is famous among our relatives too. The excellent aroma emanating from the cooked mixture of vegetables with dhal and sambar powder, a collaboration of various ingredients in definite ratio can’t be compared with anything. I think with sambar, I never wish to break my breakfast. By then, with the breakfast, my thought about kammatchi paati had almost vapourized and gone. At that time, our neighbour, sheela aunty knocked the door asking my mom whether she can spare a L.P.G cylinder for her. Sheela aunty is working in A.G.’s office and her tension in getting late was explicit in her face despite her trial in hiding it under her pretty smile. Sheela aunty’s asking for gas cylinder brought me back the memories about kamaatchi paati. Kamaatchi paati had a wonderful network of people around her with whom she exchanges gas cylinders regularly. She had enough orders and she is the most inefficient lady in using L.P.G. So her cylinders empty very quickly and she was forced to depend on others. And she faced troubles even there. One of her links in the network once cheated her by exchanging a duplicate gas cylinder. She had to pay the fine for which she had to work two more hours for one week thereby making her that week’s total working hours as one hundred and nineteen.

I had always wondered about kamaatchi paati. She hardly has something to eat everyday; yet her kindness and care is incredible. She never can see anyone starving. I have many times witnessed her giving her food to beggars and later suffer due to acidity. She got a marriage order once for sweets. When she came to know that the bride’s family is too poor to conduct the marriage, she did the order without any making charges for her..

Such incredible instances have occurred to me lot many times. I, unable to avoid my curiosity once asked her neighbour how and why she is so magnanimous. I didn’t expect that my question will give me a great flashback about kamaatchi paati. I never could otherwise have known that kammatchi paati actually was a rich lady who can’t see anyone suffering and donates whatever is available. It is god’s nature to place a good amidst bad, said my intuition. Otherwise, though Mr.kammatchi paati is as nice as her, how could her son and brothers be so rude? How could they leave her alone with no physical or financial support after her becoming a widow? But difficulties she encountered made her even kind and she helped others as far as she could. That may be the reason why raju, auto driver in our street never accepts money from her whenever she goes to market.

By this time I had finished my breakfast some how. Amma went to take a pain balm, for her hands must have started aching then due to my non-stop eating. I couldn’t avoid asking amma then about kamaatchi paati. Amma, after a brief pause told without enthusiasm and with a little grief that kamaatchi paati had been asked to vacate the little house by her owner. She is too weak by now and even her business is now weak like her. She had to shift to a much more uncomfortable little house in much more remote area to make her ends meet.

I felt sorry for her because that was the only possible thing for me to do then. I later went to meet my friends. The cheer in meeting them is always wonderful. We had elaborate chat. I ate with them and amma didn’t forget to admonish me for my lousy behaviour. My short holidays were faster than any time and I was leaving for bus-station after checking my packing under my dad’s supervision. I walked through the third cross street and entered the lane which leads to main road.

Suddenly I heard an old, much familiar voice. “laddu, can you please fetch me some water”. Yes, it is kammatchi paati’s voice only and I turned back swiftly. One small boy, busy in riding his bicycle told paati, “ what paati? You always make me fetch water.” I was intelligent enough to understand that this young gentle man is the new owner of paatis “laddu” name. An elderly person scolded the boy. That must be his father. The elderly man seeing me staring them smiled and told me “this old lady is one of the greatest human in the world. She saw an orphan and has adopted the child inspite of her difficult living. I respect her more than anyone in the world”. Kammatchi paati is still busy and working for her and for many others. I wonder how it is possible for anyone to be so ideal throughout. I won’t be surprised if someone say that she is one of the so called “messiah” or messenger of god to teach the world how to live even if you are subjected to infinite tests.

She is still the same though her laddus change often. I went wordless with tears trying to explore my shaved cheeks.

“God has created some people with some purpose and message. If you happen to meet any, please try to read the message god has sent”.

A short story

Till my joining the company, everyday was new, interesting and different for me. From the day of joining, the further days are repetition of the first day like an infinite loop of ‘C’ program. Starting the day with kissing my five year old daughter, ‘roopa’, adjusting my nameplate in my cabin reading “Rahul.N, production manager”, hearing the previous shift’s problem, meeting with GM to talk sophisticated terms and targets which will never be transformed or translated to the lower levels, everything were the same everyday. I’m even used to the everyday admonishing of my wife, ‘sheela’ for coming late. In fact she is used to it.

My life has become more oriented to factory atmosphere. One day when roopa sat on my lap, resting her small cute head on my hairy chest, I told her,” your intellect must be as sharp like carbide coated inserts; character must be as good as the finish of fine boring; while in a company you should be flexible with others like a CNC machine and at any cost in character, you should be brittle like cast iron”. That was indeed too much for a five year old female, who then stood up and went to sheela. Holding the end of sheela’s green sari, roopa saw me with confusion. I felt sorry for troubling roopa. Many such incidents hinder me everyday. I just went into my room and shouted “let me go and relax”. I, not only shouted, but did too.

I took my bike to M.G Park on that Sunday evening. That is a peaceful park with no great attractive features except broken bench, swing stand without swing and a very old building called ‘library’ amidst trees and grasses. The park is as old as those trees. The plants around the library are maintained improperly and a gentleman called gardener is paid for that. Due to these features, it is almost empty. Thinking ‘park’ as a preserver of nature, passersby answer nature’s call also there. In a solitary mood like mine, that is a wonderful place and I found a place under a neem tree. Smooth breeze embraced me and I slept with the available comfort. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke up, I heard a grunt old voice talking behind the tree to someone.

I realized that the conversation had begun sometime back. The owner of the voice continued,” our troop was marching towards the enemy camp. It was winter and the land was marshy. We had to walk through a forest. The forest was dense with lot of danger. We still walked. I was leading the team. We had to pass through a small rope bridge built by someone sometime ago. When the bridge was full, it couldn’t bear the weight and it broke. We fell down into a marshy land. We, with greater difficulty got out of the land and were proceeding. In that dark night, we heard a helicopter approaching with a flashlight. I ordered to lie down. The light caught my last man and dropped a bomb. We lost around five men in it. We shot the helicopter down. We marched further. We walked continuously for a day. My men were tired. We saw a pond, camped there that night unaware that the enemy camp fetches water from the same pond. When our enemies came there that night, they started firing at us. We were startled initially by the assault. Our commandos were precautious and made tents hiding under bushes. Sentry posts were spotted and fired. The sentry jawans became alert and alarmed others. Within jiffies, everyone was ready with weapons at their points. We placed ourselves in such a way that we are away from the tents thereby the enemies will be firing in and around the tents only. We fired them back. After few moments, we took over the situation with three non-serious casualties. We took rest for few hours and proceeded.

The journey continued next day too. I got message to conquer a particular enemy post by that night. We reached two miles before the point. We were able to see the camp. As it was four or five hours after dusk, the enemies couldn’t see us easily. There were lots of people with them then. I sent five persons and asked them to fire continuously from one direction. Leading the front, I took the others through the other direction. We reached the camp slowly. The enemies were alert and were concentrating much on the five men only. In the mean time, we surrounded them from the back. We started firing. They were confused; but were strong. They had three times men than ours. But, my men were brave. One jawan’s bullets were over. He used his bullet less rifle and just a dagger to defend and defeat the enemy side. The heroes of our side took them aback and smashed their confidence and motivation levels. We were defeating them. But, suddenly one bomb exploded and killed most of my men. Remaining men fought for a long time. At the end of the three hours battle, I and five more men alone were there and we took control. We took the enemy point and sent a wireless message to the headquarters about the victory”.

Hearing this, my patriotic emotions went high and I arose to see the hero. I looked towards the direction of the voice. Under the magnificent banyan tree, over the grass bed, amidst ants and running squirrels there sat two old men. Everyone around were busy at their work not listening to the old brave marvel. I wonder why these people don’t care the importance of him. I think, I too must be one among them had I not come over there to take rest.

The old man was in an old but neat coat. The dark, wrinkle skinned, tall gentleman with grey tint in his moustache was talking to his friend. With an old pipe, he was still talking, ”the next stage of the war was more interesting…………..”. I went and stood before him. I told, “I was hearing your brave story. How brave and intelligent you are. I’m happy that I have met a warrior in my life. I’m really happy to hear from you. I wish to hear more of your war deeds in war.”

The old man looked at me and smiled, “I’m pleased by your patriotism. And unfortunately, I’m a retied teacher. What I was talking is about a computer game my grandson brought home yesterday”.

Birthday- Short story

My birthday

That was December 2^nd. Even Sun was lazy to get up on that winter morning. My getting out of the cozy, soft bed was witnessed by amma (my great mother) with a cadbury’s chocolate in her hand. It is only once in a year I get a chance to chew that wonderful chocolate with my unbrushed teeth coated with nocturnal saliva. Perhaps, my mom’s confidence in my toothpaste and my regular brushing before bed would have given her enough courage to feed me so. After all, it is once in a year and that too on my birthday. Years down, the same day, I entered the world screaming which was heard by few medical professionals and my tired mom within a closed clean room.

While chewing my chocolate, amma kissed me wishing me a happy birthday. Uncared of the kiss I was concentrating on my chocolate with the fear of probable share to my sister. God bless her, she was there right in front of me wishing me again, followed by my dad. That was a nice morning. After coffee, amma came with mixture of certain powders in two three jars and asked me to take bath with those. It is supposed to have some medicinal values and when applied during an oil bath, it gives a smooth finish to my spring like hair. I went with my dad to temple; the customary ritual we follow religiously.

When I came from temple, amma had already taken bath and was preparing my favourite gulab jamuns. Wav, those small spheres were wonderfully taking bath in sunflower oil. It is fun to watch those white balls turning golden colour when entering the pan with oil. Amma held my right hand with her left when I attempted to pick one from the heap she had made. She admonished me to wait till jaggery process those edible jamuns into appreciable sweets. It is pain to sit infront of sweets without eating them. It is not an uncommon scene in our house. Whenever amma make sweets, she will prevent us the first piece by saying that it should be offered to god first. Childish queries of how god will eat those were gone by now. Gone are the days when elders can threaten me superstitiously about my becoming blind if I eat before those are served to god. Being a student in class sixth, I was matured enough and cannot be fooled so easily. It took twenty seven seconds from then to eat the first gulab jamun. Amma was fast; really I was amazed to see the tiffin readily served in dining table. How she managed to take bath, make coffee, prepare tiffin, pack lunch for all of us, get medicines for granny, prepare special sweet-free pudding for grandpa, clean utensils and make gulab jamuns all simultaneously? She also had to find dad’s missing file, answer our maid for her unnecessary questions. Oops! I was able to manage just a coffee and bath. Amma’s activeness makes me think more. I was lazy to think further and hence proceeded to dining table forgetting everything at the sight of gulabjamun.

Amma takes arithmetic tuitions at home, mostly for higher secondary classes and also for some C.A students. That was a Friday and higher secondary second year class was scheduled on that day. Amma declared a leave for her class. I saw Ranju, Kavitha, Preethi, Keshav, Vijay, Shahul and Rajesh leaving our home with a subtle joy of cancelled tuition class. When they saw me, they smiled at me. Perhaps to thank me for my birthday which won them a stress free morning. But, to be frank, amma’s class never ever have been stressful. It is always cheerful with jokes and fun and some maths in between. All of them loved amma and amma loves everyone in the world except my class teacher as she treats my soft palm very badly with a bamboo cane, a property of sixth standard class of S.M.A. higher secondary school.

Even that day’s school hours were great. Yes!! our class teacher was absent and the period was converted to P.E.T. (Physical education and training), the one period for which we long for Wednesdays and occurs only 50 minutes in a week. Getting a P.E.T on that Friday was a real surprise. In fact, I took it as a birthday gift from god. P.E.T periods are always fun. One group of guys will play football with a tennis ball, hurting each other toes. Another group will sit and chat under the age-old banyan tree. There will still be one group who got to library in P.E.T periods, who were called as elite group by a bunch of teachers who really didn’t know that they were sick stupid who don’t know what to do in P.E.T periods. I was in the football team; not because I’m a Ronaldino but because of my mass grown by mom’s food, I can get enough uncontrollable momentum and foul opponent team. The diameter of my tummy was big enough to stop at least two strikers of opponent team. Still, I was a true sportsman. Please don’t ask, “Who said so?” To be frank, except me, no one. To make others at home say so, I had a witness. Yes, my spotlessly clean white shirt was then red with mud. Before reaching home for the second course of remaining gulab jamuns, I had to sit through two more periods in that cage like classroom. Ramu told that one day he will become the headmaster of this school and will announce complete second half of Friday as P.E.T periods. That statement was worth only a giggle and we were very much used to it. Such type of statements was quite common among us. One-day Vijay told that he would become education minister and abolish exams; one day Siva told that he would become prime minister and would at least remove “thirukkural” (famous set of ancient two line poems compulsory in any curriculum which involves Tamil as a language).

Completely exhausted, I returned from school where amma was waiting eagerly in front of my home for second half of birthday celebrations. Amma must be little sad with the colour of the shirt. She didn’t express, but I was smart enough to understand it in that weary look. She was already upset by my previous day’s dirty shirt. She took extra care to wash and iron it for my birthday and that too is gone now. Common, nothing was possible for previous day’s shirt. Even after washing with the best washing machine of the world, the maximum possible tidiness was the one that was achieved. Hey, now I know everyone would be eager to know about that world’s best washing machine. Its nothing but, me. Ha, ha! I know that it is a bad joke and only Sandip will laugh for it as he is also famous for such bad jokes, which are usually poorer than the one stated above. Ah! Nice to mention about Sandip here. Sandip wanted to give me a treat for my birthday. He took me secretly when everyone at home was sunk in the serial at 8:30 p.m. The monochrome ‘Weston’ TV was centre of attraction for lot of people in our neighbours list and literally there would be struggle for the back row. Many a times, our family members wont get a seat in the hall for that particular serial.

Well, about Sandip’s treat; we walked to the corner M.K. stores at the end of street, which was as bright as a 100 watts Philips bulb. The “M.K.stores “ board was enough illuminated by the streetlight. Entering M.K. stores, Sandip proudly took out an one rupee coin out of his khakhi trousers. He bought a packet of groundnut for 50 paise and the rest of the money was completely spent for two candys (each worth 25 p). Sandip was proud when he offered his treat. Finishing the great treat from my friend, I returned home for dinner. Routine followed then. Dinner, Panchatantra stories from granny, multiplication tables from grandpa and a cup of milk from amma… Followed by our brushing with pepsodent and then to bed to welcome the new day.

Suddenly I was startled. Yes, my cell phone was ringing. After snoozing the alarm, which rang at 7:30 a.m, the past one-hour was spent in the sweet memories of my sixth standard birthday. The cell phone displayed “P.L calling”. I picked up the phone with haste. “ Hey Hari, Selvam here”, grinned that cacophonous voice on the other end. Yes, Selvam is my project leader. His dark gigantic figure came in front of me even in those sleepy eyes. Selvam told that we have a meeting with an important client and he asked me to come to his home so that both of us can go together. I said ‘OK’ before which the phone was already cut. I got up and refreshed myself. Entering my bulk body into a set of formals and partly hanging myself with a ‘Zodiac’ tie, I started. Casually, I tore of the daily calendar to see December 02.

Afterall, It is my birthday.

Gayatri- short story

That was a rainy Thursday night. The whole S.K.S apartments including watchman at officer’s colony, Annanagar was sleeping. Any normal person would do the same at 1:00 A.M. And Gayatri was still awake with wide-opened eyes and heart full of joy. The joy over flew through her mouth as a gentle smile. Her parents were sleeping then leaving Gayatri alone to enjoy. With the assistance of light-splitting night lamp, she was smiling at Rahul’s photograph. Rahul is of course smart enough to be enjoyed. The red colored T-shirt he wore went wonderfully with his fair skin. The T-shirt and why, even the hairstyle of Rahul is Gayathri’s selection. Gayathri miss Rahul too much; obviously he too. There was no one to ask her the reason for sudden joy at Thursday night. Had there been any, Gayathri would have easily told that she is going to meet Rahul the next evening. Unlike every day’s prayer “Let sun come late”, she looked at east for the dawn to come soon. She even hated why ‘second’ is so slow or why 60 minutes an hour, why not 30 or 20 minutes. She somehow with great difficulty passed the night.
Friday morning Gayathri was on wheels. She was smiling and hence her brushing was easier. She was dancing while bathing. She was smiling and doing funny things. Her mother asked, “hey gayu, what happened to you?”. Gayathri, “I’m very happy today mom”. “You have gone crazy”, replied mother.
She rushed to office in her new ‘scooty pep’. Gayathri is working in a software company in tidal park. Today traffic didn’t irritate her; hot sun didn’t trouble her. Gayathri was entirely in a different world. She can think only about Rahul and nothing else. She parked her vehicle and entered her office.
She was quick at work. Every ten minutes, her seeing the time went automatically. Her colleagues asked, “what happened to you gayathri?”. You haven’t taken lunch and you are thinking something else and laughing.” The reply for that also is a smile.
Gayathri is a programmer in the software company and she has joined the company only few months back. Professionally, she may be a software programmer, but most of the people she has met had thought her as a model. Five feet seven inches tall, fair skinned, beautiful gayathri is not just a female of 65 kgs. She is known for her intellect. She is solely responsible for the success of company’s latest project.
There sits gayathri in her cabin in front of a clock. As soon as it struck five, she got up. With fast steps of frequency higher than the normal, she reached her scooty in no time.
She missed her evening tea and just drove to Besant nagar beach. She had asked Rahul to come there only. Gayathri is first to reach the place. With lots of expectation hidden in her small eyes, Gayathri was tensed in waiting for Rahul. After ten minutes, a white colour “Indica” car passed near Gayathri and Rahul got down from the rear. Gayathri didn’t even notice who drove the vehicle, but was just looking at Rahul. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt and khakis. That was Gayathri’s selection for his previous birthday.
In that evening, with that dress, Rahul looked even smarter. His smile never leaves him till he lives. He rushed towards Gayathri, embraced her and kissed her. Gayathri left no place in Rahul’s face for kissing. Suddenly, Rahul asked Gayathri, “ Why don’t we live together like before”. Gayathri’s smile became volatile. Tears gushed through her narrow eyes. With tears on her cheeks, Gayathri replied “dear son, after my divorce with your dad, court allows me to meet you only on Friday evening. What shall I do my love?”.

New Friends at IIT hostel

We always crib about their michievious invasion at our rooms. Now its time to exclaim at their mutual love. (Shot by one of my hostel friends in IIT madras)

A music concert

28/09/07

Today evening, I attended a Hindustani concert organized by IIT madras music club. The concert was by Smt.Lakshmi Shriram, wife of a respected faculty in IIT madras. Last week, the same music club had organized a flute concert by famous artist Smt.Mala Chandrasekhar witnessed by single digit crowd. Hence, with no great expectation about the audience, I entered the MBA seminar hall, which to my surprise was packed with people. A mischievous thought crept into my mind “How come so much crowd for a not so famous person, especially after such a poor attendance for Smt.Mala Chandrasekhar. I thought, perhaps the vocalist might have invited all of them to attend and fill the hall”. I can't stop thinking stupidly; so I accepted and digested my thoughts and settled in a nearest cushion chair dressed neatly in a romantic red fabric. The stage was too big for the three, vocalist, harmonium player and the tabla player. The vocalist, who have already crossed her thirties was a tall lean figure draped in a dung coloured silk sari. The harmonium player, who was around 50 covered himself in a purple coloured kurta and pajama (if surf excel marketing get hold of him, they may use his kurta to show the whitening power of their product by labeling it as “before washing with surf excel”). To avoid my acrid criticism on whiteness, the tabla player sat there inside his saffron coloured kurta.

Inside the seminar hall, with black board background, the lean vocalist was singing with one of her folded legs perpendicular to the other, in a typical pose of Hindustani recital, allowing the big bellied tambura to rest in between. The pure sound of “shrudi” crawling out the moments following the vocalist’s slender finger plucking the stretched strings of tambura filled the air; a joyous feeling also spread along, like a fragrance of ‘cycle brand’ incense sticks in the study room, or like a tint of elachi in the evening tea. The ambience was softened by the cool breeze spit by the 2+ ton A.C machine. In the cozy cool atmosphere, I think even the dead skin of animals stretched in tabla also started hibernating; not yielding to earnest efforts and hammering of tabla player. The fine technology in the A.C started sucking more air than it pumped resulting in lack of air for harmonium. The harmonium player forced it to inhale and vibrate the swaras; I think poor harmonium was suffering from asthma like my ‘appa’; it was really suffering to breathe between its bellows.

Smt.Lakshmi was singing wonderfully; her beautiful vocal cords strainlessly reaching the fine gamakhas and swaras; I sat spellbound for some time. The nuance and finesse in her undertaking the greatest art was really appreciable. I don’t know anything about Hindustani music, other than my cousin’s bhajan “Krishna na diwani”, bhimsen joshi’s one old album and title song of “om namah shivaya”, I haven’t heard much to mention about. Normally, whenever I hear some good carnatic music, say by Sanjay subramoni or Aruna sairam, I imagine myself singing with them. Believe me, with shut mouth and complete silence in yourself and in pure imagination you can really feel like producing great music; silence is that much powerful. But, in this occasion, when I tried to imagine, my mind conflicted with my conscience, “stupid, don’t even imagine that you can twist your vocal chords like this”, such a powerful delivery in the decent silent crowd, generating heat to beat the A.C.

However, despite her great delivery, I felt some sense of incompleteness. Well, as an idiot, incapable of expressing my views in the technical terms, I would like to compare her with masters like Bhimsen Joshi or Abdul Karim khan. Well, she’s definitely not equivalent to great men like Joshi. It would be a sin in my part even if I attempt comparison. Had she been at least 1% equal to them, she would have been proportionately famous like them, about which I think she’s not. But, since I don’t have any other choice, I shall continue comparing. I would say that Joshis swaras and brigas are like a free turbulent flow; like a rocket piercing the blue sky challenging newtons gravity with its escape velocity. Whereas Smt.Lakshmi’s flow is like an intermittently choked flow, may be like electron flow in a high resistance wire. Something, something was missing. I dare not to identify as shrudi, may be something else failing to fill the gaps. I felt her like a new cyclist driving zig zagly without balance in a supposedly straight line. I may not reflect the reality as whatever I’m detailing is based on a emotional impact she made on my mind.There is a reason in my describing it as an emotional touch; I found Hindustani music sinking in my emotions than the carnatic music. Well, I would like to take an anology, if I take an investment brochure, I may dwell upon the better performing sectors, share market prices etc; but if the same thing is handled by my handsome nephew ‘ayush’, he would have wondered about the advertisement and bar graphs and would appreciate only those soft unimportant aspects. Similarly, I, an idiot in the technical details of Hindustani can’t enjoy the core Hindustani music, but can attempt to talk only about the boundary impacts it generates. I was telling that the vocalist was lacking some inexplicable details. But, so what? A humble music lover like me is like a hungry beggar; quite contented with any food, whether a swiss chocolate or previous day’s food demanding bio-degradation. It’s good to be an innocent hungry music lover like me, because

1. you are happy with any music you listen to
2. your expectations are either nil or very low
3. any music appears new and above all
4. You can’t find any technical mistakes in any music.

I’m happy in being dumb in music. After all, I can appreciate the musician wholeheartedly instead of finding faults. After enjoying the aalapana, meera bhajan and kabhir bhajan, I left the auditorium longing for the next opportunity to listen some good music.

A book review

A book review

I wanted to do some light reading and after half an hour thorough search, found the thinnest book of IIT library between two other fat books. I was reading Nirad Chaudhri's "Three Horsemen of the New Apocalypse". This is the first book of Nirad Chaudhri for me; though this was written in his ninety ninth age. For that matter, owing to my very poor reading habit, any book I read will be my first book of that author's. Usually, whenever I start a book, I open a dictionary before opening the preface of the book. Unfortunately, this book was opened when I was traveling and handicap without a thesaurus.

I thought it is a light novel and tried with enthusiasm. First few chapters of the book were very vague to me as I had no clue what the book is about. But one good thing about the book is that the author in every chapter explained all the meanings of the important word he uses and also the meaning he applies in the chapter. The three horses in the book represent individualism, nationalism and democracy and its influence in the fall of western civilization. In the initial few chapters, the author talks about his ideas, assumptions and lot of quotations from French books. There lies significant reference to the great "Pascal's" quotations. I was really amazed when the author talked about second law of thermodynamics and evolution of universe in a placid way.

The short book crisply dotted lot of aspects of decadence of western civilization. However, the author has quoted his earlier publication to fill many of its pages. While Chaudhri discusses about the factors of society and culture influencing the decadence of the civilization, I more or less felt like an usual old man's lament "in our days it was like that.. and the current generation have ruined". Of course, it is not nice in my part to make such an abrupt comment as the author have stated after his years of observation. But, still the reason for my comment on the author geriatric behaviour is because of his generous reference to India's culture in terms of its Hindu undivided family etc. If someone goes through his book, he/she may get a feeling that India's cultural decay doesn't demand so much worry as that of the western civilization. In fact chaudhri's observation on people's poor attitude towards family, sex, money etc is applicable to India also. In fact, I was expecting the author to charge on India's loss of tradition due to western civilization and also to discuss the question of how to preserve the tradition under the influence of western domination, which itself is under decadence. Chaudhri's reference to Bengali women and Hindu family gives me a feeling that Chaudhri loves India close to his heart. But a great lover should be equally pained by the decadence of its families and society. The author was discussing about sexual harassments, robbery, poor democratic government, crime etc. in Britain to a greater extent and lesser reference to India.Though there was one complete chapter to discuss the decadence of India, i felt it was not comparable to authors description of britian. Author accused people and culture of Britain than the government for England's decadence whereas somewhat reverse case for India.

One great thing about the book was the interest it creates in reading. I was actually disappointed when I understood that I was venturing into some serious discussion by Chaudhri. The artistic way of the great scholar's account on western civilization mixing individualism, philosophy with the early twentieth century history is great. One very evident fact bubbling through out the book is the author's vast knowledge in the area of the topic under discussion. The author's account gives a feeling that this topic is close to his heart and one could feel his personal emotions peeping out.

Another specialty worth mentioning is the language used. It is not a book where the author tried to vomit all the words he had mugged from websters. He used a very simple language, but difficult words decorate the passage only in appropriate places, driving the full impact the author expected. It is a boon for people like me as it is difficult to look at the dictionary ten times for a single line. Similar style I have appreciated in R.K.narayanan's works too; very simple yet powerful with tough words coming in between only in appropriate locations. I would like to point out a concept of strengthening mechanism in metallurgy. In metallurgy, it is a general practice to introduce some obstacles inside a metal to decelerate the micro level material movement, thereby increasing the strength of the material. Similarly, the tough words in appropriate places strengthen the image of the reader on the greatness of the author.

If you are interested in one century old history and also interested to talk about western civilization, it is a concise and interesting material to read.

My favorite lines in the book

"it is one of the disputable fact of history that friendship between nations is fragile, while hatred is ineradicable. In respect of strength, love can never be equal to hatred".