Friday, December 13, 2013
Dasht-E-Tanhai
Thursday, December 05, 2013
A Veil Of Colors
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=6520
A Veil Of Colors
I walked into the room quietly, making sure I didn’t disturb her. I looked at the work in progress and then looked back at her. She was wearing a green sleeveless top. Her slender left hand rested in her lap, the brush poised to strike. The music system was playing strained notes of a sitar. Raag Kalavati, it must be, I guessed.
I stepped on an empty bag of chips. She heard the sound and turned towards me. The features of that face I had come to love came into full view. That aquiline nose, those lips flush with life, the rounded jaw, even the hair tied into a disheveled bun.
“When did you come?” she asked “I didn’t notice you.”
“Just now.”
“So, how was it? The session…”
“Good, I suppose. We talked about my time at the school. The first three years I spent in Mussourie.”
She gave a terse nod and went back to her painting. It was a habit of hers. Switch on, switch off. It was back to forgetting that I was in the room at all. The evening sun was beating down on her painting. I realised I could see some streaks of colour, but nothing more. I wondered if I should close the blinds.
“Is that it? Are we done talking?” I asked. My voice must have sounded a bit testy because she immediately snapped out of her focus and looked at me.
“No. Please. Go on. Tell me.”
I couldn’t shrug off my irritation that easily. I strolled to the window and lit a cigarette.
“We spoke about my first few years in Don Brasco. My parents always thought getting me into that boarding school was the high point of their parenting efforts. All those details I had forgotten came back to me. Those initial days when I was put in Ludlow House. It was a completely new world for me. I took me a while to get to like that place. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. A lot of the new boys who came felt that way.”
She uncrossed her legs and got up, gingerly walking over to the kitchen. I took a drag of the cigarette and took a good look at her painting, now that she wasn’t blocking the way. A smorgasbord of colours presented itself to me. It was as if someone had painted an ocean of yellows and reds and most of all, blue. Waves upon waves of color overlapped over each other and fought to dominate. Blue, however, seemed destined to win. In the midst of this ocean floated two seeming innocuous, but rather large eyes. They were writhed in sad despair, shedding silent tears that filled the ocean around them. The painting was beautiful and haunting.
I wanted to kiss her, tell her that she was magnificent, that she had breathed pain and life into the canvas, that she was gifted, and that her talent was going to take her places. I did nothing like that. Instead, I went walked right past the painting and grabbed the ashtray behind the canvas dropping heaps of ash while holding onto my words.
“Tell me more.”
“Great friendships were forged in the first year. As they say, adversity bonds people together. So it did with us. Harmeet, Vijay, Anand, and …” My voice trailed off.
Silence filled the room. I could sense her eyes bearing down on me.
“Tell me, how do you know what to paint? Where do you get the inspiration for all these?”
It was my favourite question that I never got a straight answer to. There was pain and melancholy in her work, but the source never revealed itself. I was left to wonder if she had some past hurt that manifested itself. Every time I saw her work, she became more mysterious to me.
“And, Saurin?” she asked, answering my question with a question.
“You know who, Sakshi. Do you really need me to tell you?”
She paused, knowing fully well that I was talking as much to myself as I was to her.
I extinguished the cigarette and said, “Shantanu.”
“Yes, Shantanu, my best friend in school. That very antithesis of who I was. The quiet, unassuming, mysterious Shantanu, who answered in monosyllables, but read in tomes. Always first to class, always prompt with his work, difficult to indulge in our games of mischief. That Shantanu, Sakshi.”
I realised I had walked all across the room as I continued with my soliloquy.
“For months, we sat on the same bench. I copied his homework, grabbed from his plate at lunch, teased him, but he never complained. When our Christmas vacations arrived, I began packing to head home. Everyone seemed to be.”
I stole a glance at her. One look and I realized that I must have been building up a frenzy.
“But Shantanu wasn’t. He had no reason to go back, no place to go back. He had been orphaned when young and was now being supported by his uncle and aunt who had little affection for him. I felt miserable when I heard that. I made a decision then to take him along. No way was he going to spend his time alone here.”
“Shantanu protested as much as he could, but I was too dominant for him. I made him pack his bags and head to the station with me. Being on time was never our strong suit. I went over to the platform with his bags while I waited for him to buy his ticket. The train was already on the platform, ready to depart. The train horn went off – It was time to go. I looked nervously towards the gate. There was no sign of him. I ran hurriedly in search of the S3 coach that I luckily found. Our plan was to take turns using my reserved seat. I threw the bags in and went back to the door.“
“The train started to move. Just then, I saw him stumble onto the platform. I smiled and waved at him. He saw me and doubled his speed. This was not looking too good. The train had picked up quite some pace. A little longer and he was going to be at the edge of the station. I held my hand out so I could pull him in. He ran as fast as he could. His hair bobbed up and down and the spectacles on his nose threatened to fall off. But he was catching up. He was going to make it. I stretched my hand out some more. I closed my eyes to blink. When they opened again, his hand was lodged in mine. We had done it. I smiled at him and pulled harder. But …”
I took a deep breath, steeled myself and continued.
“His hand slipped from mine. I saw him drift away from me and tumble onto the station. The momentum had been too much. The fall made him tumble several times. I was told later that he had cracked his head open with the fall and the internal injuries had been too much to survive. All I remember is that look of shock on his face when he tumbled.”
“I let him down,” I said, realising my bad choice of words, fighting against the silence in the room. No answer came from her.
“Didn’t I? Have you nothing to say?” I went on, the object of my affection suddenly becoming the object of my antagonism.
“For years, I have felt…” I grasped at thin air searching for the right word.
“…. Trapped. And after all this, you have nothing to say?”
Silence as usual.
“You know, you don’t have to solve my problem. But a little empathy wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps you could tell me that my pain means a little something to you.”
The causticness in my tone was meant to hurt. I knew I had little right to be mad at her. I couldn’t expect her to drive my demons away. My helplessness manifested itself in anger over her indifference.
“Who said it doesn’t, Saurin? Not everything is expressed in words.”
She took one long look at her paintings and left the room. I fixed my gaze and looked at the paintings anew. The veil began lifting as I sifted through the canvasses. The bird in the cage, the eyes with the flowing tears, the look of pain and anguish appearing from painting to picture. A rueful smile crossed my lips. I realised I wasn’t the only one struggling to escape.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
The Final Goodbye
Tuesday, November 05, 2013
For Whom The Cell Tolls
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=6429
For Whom The Cell Tolls
An invalid man
Forever bed-ridden, talks
On his mobile phone
A face beams at mephone-world
Smiling, I pick up the phone
“Hi!” an angry voice
A flight touches down
People wake up with glee the
Phones they put to sleep
Sword ready to strike
Tense wait while the screen turns red
A loud cell phone ring
Girl gives boy her love
Girl gives him vivid photo
Permanent regret
I sNt u a msg
I knw Dat u wud luv it
Nly If u NdRstud it
She loved a good drive
She loved a good drive with gin
Knocked them down like pins
Pigs knocked off by birds
Level cleared. Pumped fist. “Hurray”
Baby cries alone
Friday, October 11, 2013
A Religion Without A God
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
My Darling Nicotine
Here is the original link to the publication: http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=6337
Also reproducing it here for your reading pleasure
My Darling Nicotine
(Sung to the tune of ‘My Darling Clementine’)
In a jiffy, I whip out one
That piece of beauty is mine
And inside it, lying softly
Is my favorite Nicotine
Chorus:
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
Oh my darling, Nicotine!
When I light up, you light me up
I love you, Nicotine
Those fried lungs, those chaffed lips,
Those stained teeth are mine
What is mine, by now is yours
As I am too, Nicotine
Chorus:
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
Oh my darling, Nicotine!
When I light up, you light me up
I love you, Nicotine
When I meet you, always with me
Is your best friend Listerine,
Your smell lingers, even when you are gone
Always with me, Nicotine
Chorus:
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
Oh my darling, Nicotine!
When I light up, you light me up
I love you, Nicotine
I love you, but you kill me
Why the loathing Nicotine?
I need to patch up, it’s time to break up
Let’s part ways Nicotine
Chorus:
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
Oh my darling, Nicotine!
When I light up, you light me up
I love you, Nicotine
How I miss her! How I miss her,
How I miss my Nicotine,
But I kissed my little children,
I forgot my Nicotine
Chorus:
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
Oh my darling, Nicotine!
When I light up, you light me up
I love you, Nicotine
Thursday, September 05, 2013
A Tale of Two Kiddies
Here is the link to the original publication: http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=6243
Reproducing the article here for your reading pleasure
A Tale of Two Kiddies
Monday, August 05, 2013
An Unexpected Visitor
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=6107
Sunday, August 04, 2013
Nine and counting
Sunday, July 21, 2013
The Game Of Life
When one
Slides down the snake
At 99
Get up again, for
A rout comes before a victory
Pray for the ladders
And brave the serpents
March, one is told
March away, for you shall win
This is the true truth
Truer than the one never told
That your fortunes aren’t yours
To govern
They bow to the whim
Of the capricious dice
Thursday, July 18, 2013
True Grit
http://www.onefortyfiction.com/archives/true-grit
In case you found it too cumbersome to go to that link, here's the story right here :)
True Grit
Friday, July 05, 2013
A Chain Of Miseries
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=6000
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
The City and Nature
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=5895
Sunday, May 05, 2013
A Day In the Life of a Street
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=5690
Monday, April 15, 2013
Quiz-E-Azam: Bollywood Quiz 2013
I have uploaded the questions at the following location for all to enjoy.
https://skydrive.live.com/redir?resid=C3FA92574D313FC4!987&authkey=!ALYjqNIjCXb8gtE
Monday, March 11, 2013
My son, the story-teller
As a father, I couldn't have been prouder to see the creative gene show some signs of emergence. And oh, purely incidental to this experience, he won the contest :)
The Boy And His Robot
by Aarush PandyaThere was a boy whose parents asked him to help around the house. He did not want to do the work himself. He built a robot to make his life easier. When the boy presses a button on the robot, the robot does the job that the picture on the button shows. For eg. If he presses the button that has a picture of toys, a sucker that is on the side of the robot sucks up all the toys and arranges them. But one time, the boy presses a button and the robot goes out of control. He makes all the things messy that he had made perfect. There is a special switch that the boy has to turn off to switch off the robot. The boy learned the lesson that he should not build another robot. He should do the work all by himself.
Friday, March 01, 2013
Housing Bubble
http://www.onefortyfiction.com/archives/housing-bubble
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Possessive Adjective
P.S> This is a story in 140 characters or less. If you know which possessive adjective is being referred to in the story, it'll all fall in place :)
Tuesday, February 05, 2013
The Elements
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=5253
Thursday, January 31, 2013
An Epic Tragedy
Thus can be summarized the story of the lone warrior, in one his greatest epics, a tragedy in cricket that will always make you grimace when you think about it. Sachin Tendulkar, on 31st January, 1999 played one of the great knocks while chasing a target down single-handedly. The venue was Chennai and the opposition was Pakistan. The target was 271 and the bowling attack fairly strong. Wasim, Waqar, Saqlain and Afridi more than make a threat when you are chasing a target of this magnitude with so much pressure on you. Predictably, the other batsmen fell in a heap, with only Mongia managing to make more than 10 runs. Sach was life then. Tendulkar was the only man who could have taken India to victory and bit by bit, with brilliant strokes and dogged determination, he began doing that. His back was hurting and he had limited support at the other end, but he batted like losing wasn’t an option. He picked up the pace after his half century and was able to take all the bowlers apart, including Saqlain. And then it happened. The one shot that all Indians wish would undone. The leading edge that went to the offside and was caught. The heroic effort would end in a tragedy, for the others in the Indian team could not put together the requisite 17 runs. The lone action hero walked away to a standing ovation, but surely with a feeling that he left the job undone. When the awards ceremony was going on, he was inconsolably locked up in the dressing room. An innings such as this would have rivaled Lara’s 153* against Australia, but in some sense, the tragedy added a sheen to it that makes it more enduring. Indeed, his 103* against England at the same venue years later seems fulfilling, but not touching in the same way.
My personal tragedy was that despite watching most of the great innings by the little man, this is one that I could not see as it happened. I was appearing for the national level entrance examinations for NCST (National center for software technology), where we were supposed to answer a series of papers through the day. Lord knows my mind was nowhere near the questions I was supposed to answer. After every paper, in the interim break, I would rush out to a payphone, insert a coin and call home to ask the score. I remember walking back to the railway station with a bunch of folks, one of whom had a radio. Tendulkar had just departed and we were subjected to the ignominy of the Indian loss after that. Tragedy begets tragedy, and mine will be being relegated to watching one of Tendulkar’s greatest innings in Youtube videos.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Friday Fun(k)
Saturday, January 05, 2013
Across The Table
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=5101
Sunday, December 09, 2012
A Trip In Time
Now that I am in Mumbai, inspiration was not hard to find. Here's a poem on walking in one's own footsteps and discovering that the world isn't quite what you expect it to be.
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=5008
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Life's a Test
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=4974
Monday, November 05, 2012
Vignettes
Friday, October 05, 2012
The Mystery Reader
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=4747
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Navrasas
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=4541
Sunday, August 05, 2012
The Dilemma of the IBCP (Indian Born Confused Parent)
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=4396
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
Monsoon City
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=4076
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
A new son-rise!
Nilay means home or abode and he is completing our home in many ways. Big Brother Aarush led the welcoming celebrations with a shower of kisses and hugs and sweet words for the little one. He has always been a bhai in the house and now he gets to be Aarush bhai for real!
Saturday, May 05, 2012
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=3928
Friday, May 04, 2012
Incomplete
Friday, April 06, 2012
Horn, OK, Please!
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=3757
Thursday, April 05, 2012
A Ton Of Joy
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=3765
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Rain In Spain
http://www.onefortyfiction.com/archives/rain-in-spain
Friday, March 09, 2012
Face-Off
http://www.everydaypoets.com/face-off-by-parth-pandya/
Monday, March 05, 2012
Survivor Series
Someone give me a T-shirt which says ‘I survived the England and Australia tours’. I deserve it. And so do the countless souls who have braved the gut wrenching times that the past two tours have presented. When your team is team is performing like world champions, you can’t wait for the next match to happen. We’ll show you – yes, we will. We have the uncanny Zaheer Khan – he will make you dance to his tunes. We have the supporting cast of bowlers to die for. We have a captain who can do no wrong. We have batsmen who can butcher bowling attacks. Big Three, Big Five – heck we have the Big Eleven. Foreign shores – we are on our way. We have conquered everything in our past recently, we have proved we are good travelers outside. Win a match you ask? We will win the series – all past ills will be cured, Tendulkar’s name will go up at Lords. What can go wrong? Adrenaline clouds judgment and makes hindsight look obvious. What started off as a limp in Zaheer’s follow through after a few over and two wickets was metaphorically the hamstring injury that Indian cricket suffered with (and is still struggling with) for both the series. The chips fell apart spectacularly after that – a bowling attack without venom spent innings after innings giving away runs, and the batting attack could simply not deal with the swinging ball. Greats such as Tendulkar and Laxman were looking like schoolboys at times. Tendulkar’s 100th ton’s appearance as an albatross around his neck began in England and it threatens now to consume the twilight of his career. Dravid was to spark brilliantly in England; plowing his way at workmen centuries that weren’t enough to avert a whitewash. Yes, it was a series win after all – but not by the team that were the purported favorites. The team’s bizarre team selections were only beginning to show – taking a half fit Zaheer and a half fit Sehwag over someone will perhaps lesser talent but better physical state was a sign of times of come. The joker in the pack from the selection committee was bringing in a RP Singh to play a test match when he had just returned from consuming sufficient margaritas in Miami.
That was England, one thought. Australia would bring in different results. After all, our batsmen are lords there. Tendulkar, who was getting standing ovations in the last tour there was definite to score his ton of tons here. And in typical Tendulkar fashion, he started well in the first two matches, only to fall to his greatest nemesis – Sachin Tendulkar. That Sachin Tendulkar, who inexplicably shuts off shop mentally and treats each ball like a landmine. That Sachin Tendulkar, who allows bowlers and opposition captains to get his wicket when they are least expecting to get it. What happened to the rest, you ask? Sehwag flashed and got out, because that’s the only way we bats. Pity that all that flashing was not getting any runs. Gambhir gave good slip fielding practice. Laxman was half a second slow in his reflexes. Dravid, the great wall, gave a generation of his followers the intense heartbreaks by getting bowled again and again. The bowlers had little by way of impact and barring Kohli in the last two matches and Umesh Yadav in patches, the test series was a goner. Another whitewash. The ODIs were not much better, barring the last rather incredible chase by Kohli and India, but we would have to kid ourselves if we thought we deserved to be in the finals. A time down in the dumps, rife with internal fighting and with a captain who did not even know that India had any chance of qualification, before the Sri Lanka game was always headed home in a hurry.
Why, they ask me? My friends, colleagues, curious onlookers, once followers of cricket. Why do you still follow? I don’t have any cogent answers other than the fact that I must be a glutton for punishment. Cricket lovers – true cricket lovers, not the ones enamored by the IPL tamasha, are like that. When you have followed your team through thick and thin (mostly thin, when it came to the test arena) over two decades, you don’t abandon ship so soon. When you have followed your favorite cricketers when they turned in world-class performance year after year against great bowling attacks, and in fact have raised their level to take your team to the top of the test world, you don’t stop following them at the sign of the first leak in the boat. You sit through it – you learn that cricket, as in life, is about the ups and downs and while frustrating, it is a rite of passage to stick through it. True passion isn’t all joy, it is a sweet debilitating pain – like getting stuck on 99 centuries, lying in agonizing for that one final hurrah.
A Conversation
Friday, February 17, 2012
A Little Short
Monday, February 13, 2012
Ups and Downs
Sunday, February 05, 2012
A Long Prelude
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=3252
Friday, January 13, 2012
Deity On Bose Marg
Towering above you.
Sinewy arms,
Sparkling eyes,
And glistening beads of sweat.
I am here
and I am your God
peddling my religion
of cool
I am here
And I intend
To make you in My image.
Come, follow me.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
The Illusion
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The Insomniac
Cigarette stubs litter
Like petals from a withered flower.
Comrades in his surrender,
Waiting for sleep
To come and claim him.
Monday, December 05, 2011
The Raconteur
In deference to the request that the Spark team has, to ensure enough and more people see their magazine, here's a link to the poem. Please visit the link below to read it.
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2847
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Collateral Damage
In a lover’s tiff.
A mug, shattered to pieces,
That once shared, a message in ceramic,
“Love Endures”
Friday, November 25, 2011
Hum Intezaar Karenge
I was an ‘I was there’ moment for me that would translate into an ‘I wasn’t there’ moment for my son; but I am sure he’ll understand when he grows up.
I rushed down to the hall downstairs, switched on my laptop, headed to my list of streaming sites that I trust to bring me the telecast, and cozied myself into my sofa seat, ready for the inevitable. Since updating my Facebook status while cricket goes on has become a regular habit since the World Cup, I posted the following: “I have nails to bite and I am biting them. He has 99 centuries and he is on 94. Hmm, 99.94 :)”
I have enough cricket-crazy friends on my Facebook list to not have to explain the significance of that number. I wrote that, clicked enter, and shifted to the window with the live feed. Ravi Rampaul, the one who produced a brute of a delivery to get Tendulkar’s wicket in the World Cup game, played a similar hand. Ball pitched just short of length, and bouncing just a tad more. Tendulkar, who had batted beautifully until then, decided to hit a trademark backfoot punch. Wrong choice of shot. The celebrations of Rampaul and Sammy would not have endeared them to Indian fans, but hey, they had every right to rejoice.
One mistake and the interminable wait extends. With Tendulkar out of the ODI series against the Windies, the onus shifts to MCG and the Boxing Day game. I know that Australia is one of Tendulkar’s favorite opponents, but a tour of Australia should not have had this landmark to contend with. More drama added to this tale.
I frequented some news articles on the missed opportunity, and as with any Tendulkar article, you realize that he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. People, who would scarcely score a run in gully cricket, call him selfish and playing for records and hogging place in the team; never mind that he still remains one of the top scorers in the team. People who don’t know in swing from out swing believe that he remains incapable of scoring another ton, never mind that he has scored 99 before this. 99! If your mind doesn’t jump everytime you read that statistic, it is simply because nothing Tendulkar does will ever be good enough. He sets a benchmark and keeps excelling it. That single-minded pursuit of greatness, without losing his humility is a very rare cocktail, one which has brought him thus far.
When will century no. 100 happen? I don’t know. At the start of the World Cup, I had posted on Facebook that my dream was that Tendulkar would score a century in the final at Wankhede; his 100th, and then India would lift the cup. That came very close; yesterday was very close, and perhaps there are a couple more heartaches along the way. Nonetheless, watching the man play is a blessing that we should enjoy, without getting lost in the absolute numbers. Sometimes, a straight drive hit right between the stumps and the bowler, is worth its weight in gold. Century no. 100 will happen. Until then, ‘hum intezaar karenge!’
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
A Look Back, As We Look Ahead
The documentary itself is as comprehensive as can be made when trying to describe a five thousand year history in six hours. It is over-romanticized at times and it is often amusing to see a westerner romanticize it thus. But I’ll take it - I’ll take his waxing over Chandragupta Maurya and Madurai, his gloating on the greatness of India’s past and relevance in the world. As India strives to seek its place at the top in this modern world, it is good to know where we came from and what really makes up our DNA. Our surge towards modernity and progress is simply building upon our rich foundations.
Monday, September 05, 2011
Yaksha Prashna
Read on: http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2393
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Poet
blue thumb
pressed to his forehead.
Those smudges of ink
are residue
from the act of creation.
Like dried clay
in a sculptor’s hand
once the wheel has stopped spinning.
Friday, August 05, 2011
Non-Resident India
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2151
Thursday, August 04, 2011
The Seven Year Glitch
My tiny yet loyal group of readers; those who choose to be silent and those who let me know what they feel - thanks for sticking by! Onwards then!
