My wishes for Christmas
I wish a thousand Violins play
Bach on my eventual death day
I wish a thousand chocolate cakes
Smear my corpse and start to pray
I wish a heavy tumultuous cloud
Pours its share and basks about
I wish my children laugh and shout
That my centurion flame is finally out
I wish a flurry of renowned authors
Flatter me and mock my death plotters
I wish my sons and my daughters
Urge my wife to remarry her soughters
I wish my girlfriends peck my cheeks
And leave the imprints of their beaks
I wish I go with everything neat
So that I can say that death was sweet.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Celebration
In hell there was once a grand fiesta,
In the glory of Shakespeare’s evil twins,
Whose works had not only baffled many,
But had also tormented their heavenly kins!
When the clock struck twelve,
Romeo walked in, clad in pants green,
He was followed by his lethargic Juliet,
Whose acne had polished her face clean!
The Duke of Venice, arrived next,
With his retinue of black- bats,
And soon Jessica gate- crashed,
While Lorenzo flicked his Polka hats!
Brutus’s ghost trotted past,
Stabbing Caesar for the hundredth time,
And Gratiano talked and talked and talked,
While Nerissa eloped with a Negro swine!
Desdemona performed the Rumba,
While Iago dirtied his dirty teeth,
Bianca danced but received no attention,
So she stole with Othello and had a lovely treat!
Macbeth kissed the king he had stabbed,
While his lady adopted three score,
Sirrah too danced to the beat,
With Titinia’s fairies galore!
Hamlet chose to remain aloof,
While Oberon sang his black throat out,
Robin Goodfellow was also seen,
Antonio’s blood was sucked with a spout!
Portia marveled at her beauty,
While Caesar’s ate coal and died,
Cato finally grew three inches,
At hundred, this was a matter of pride!
Petruchio laughed, made merry,
Katharina slapped Tranio hard,
While he tried to win his master’s bride,
By playing the part of a flirty bard!
Montague had gone blind,
His wife was dead by now,
The old cheek showed his true colours,
By smooching another pagan’s brow!
The Apothecary too seemed different,
For he had gradually turned drunk,
Though curing a bunch of mad- caps,
Would have jolted anyone’s spunk!
But the highlight of the bash, was the Jew,
Whose shy locks had turned creamy pink,
He won the “Hell-bent Character”,
For his unbathed body wafted a terrible stink!
In hell there was once a grand fiesta,
In the glory of Shakespeare’s evil twins,
Whose works had not only baffled many,
But had also tormented their heavenly kins!
In the glory of Shakespeare’s evil twins,
Whose works had not only baffled many,
But had also tormented their heavenly kins!
When the clock struck twelve,
Romeo walked in, clad in pants green,
He was followed by his lethargic Juliet,
Whose acne had polished her face clean!
The Duke of Venice, arrived next,
With his retinue of black- bats,
And soon Jessica gate- crashed,
While Lorenzo flicked his Polka hats!
Brutus’s ghost trotted past,
Stabbing Caesar for the hundredth time,
And Gratiano talked and talked and talked,
While Nerissa eloped with a Negro swine!
Desdemona performed the Rumba,
While Iago dirtied his dirty teeth,
Bianca danced but received no attention,
So she stole with Othello and had a lovely treat!
Macbeth kissed the king he had stabbed,
While his lady adopted three score,
Sirrah too danced to the beat,
With Titinia’s fairies galore!
Hamlet chose to remain aloof,
While Oberon sang his black throat out,
Robin Goodfellow was also seen,
Antonio’s blood was sucked with a spout!
Portia marveled at her beauty,
While Caesar’s ate coal and died,
Cato finally grew three inches,
At hundred, this was a matter of pride!
Petruchio laughed, made merry,
Katharina slapped Tranio hard,
While he tried to win his master’s bride,
By playing the part of a flirty bard!
Montague had gone blind,
His wife was dead by now,
The old cheek showed his true colours,
By smooching another pagan’s brow!
The Apothecary too seemed different,
For he had gradually turned drunk,
Though curing a bunch of mad- caps,
Would have jolted anyone’s spunk!
But the highlight of the bash, was the Jew,
Whose shy locks had turned creamy pink,
He won the “Hell-bent Character”,
For his unbathed body wafted a terrible stink!
In hell there was once a grand fiesta,
In the glory of Shakespeare’s evil twins,
Whose works had not only baffled many,
But had also tormented their heavenly kins!
Nasrin- The Red Vermillion of Feminism
“If you (woman) are human, you will smash your chain to stand tall”
-Nasrin’s Jhumur
Perhaps the talk of feminism and feminist writers is not alien to us and neither is the fact that women have constantly been suppressed under the garb of Patriarchy. But even amidst this social bias, there remain arrays of beams, which will willingly tear through the curtains of darkness and help the seeds of feminism resurface and further nurture them to mould into full bloom.
What we mustn’t conceptualise fallaciously is the fact that these feminist writers are devoid of power and most of all mere expression. On the contrary, many feminist works blatantly echo the female’s trials and tribulations pertaining to the real societal scenario and reek of what is simply termed ‘rawness’.
For centuries, society has had a tussle with these feminists and we do know of occasions when the subject of feminism has been evocative enough to conjure lurid images of communal rioting and many other forms of social evil, stemming from the sinister minds of many out there, amidst us. There have been innumerable controversies surrounding the mindsets of these feminist writers, which if rationally contemplated on, depict only the truth and nothing else. It is not their usage of imagery, but their conceptualisation of the truth that causes this pandemonium.
The topic of Indian feminism is incomplete without an analysis of one of India’s newest, most difficult and sinisterly raw feminist writer, Dr. Taslima Nasrin. An MBBS from the Dhaka medical college, Nasrin grew up in a state of affairs that challenged her sense of autonomy and mere expression. Oppression played the key protagonist, backed by lurid viciousness that intricately bound together with the author’s contorted life to make it inescapable. Childhood too was lost somewhere in the murky undergrowth of social evil and so was the mere fun of being a lady in the traumatising and persistent condition of life that wasn’t anything but black.
Nasrin’s personality is like her writing- rather vague. It reeks of the horrific indignance of a feminist coupled with the golden eye for detail. It symbolises the unravelling plethora of individual stimulation and the bittersweet brew of pessimistic optimism. In short she befits Rushdie’s comment “…a difficult woman and an advocate (horror of horrors) of free love, Nasrin has conjured tears by reconstructing and rearticulating her experience of humiliation”
Anybody who has read Taslima Nasrin would agree that not only is her thought process bare and wild, it is speckled with innumerably vast attempts at seeking love as a revolutionary concept. Thus, her depiction of the Indian woman is par a single role like a daughter or sister or wife, rather it exceeds all others by acting as an arbitrary platform for the female to protest through the mighty power of words and most of all mere raw expression.
When I read Nasrin’s controversial Shodh the feeling that came over me was not that of an extensively researched and remoulded soap, but of a dismally true picture of the Indian woman, that felt as if it demanded my sympathy and awe.
Shodh revokes the hues of social evil, telling the tale of young Jhumur and her repressed autonomy and love. While she bears the fruit of a faithful husband, his consistent rebuttal leaves her shattered, dangling between the doldrums of abortion. Thus sets in a tale of Jhumur’s indignant perseverance and most of all the bittersweet vengeance of her questioning love in the most vividly defined and detailed narration, bound by intricate instance and difficult humanism.
Dr. Nasrin is truly an epitome of stoicism and spitefulness. Not an escapist- a feminist.
-Nasrin’s Jhumur
Perhaps the talk of feminism and feminist writers is not alien to us and neither is the fact that women have constantly been suppressed under the garb of Patriarchy. But even amidst this social bias, there remain arrays of beams, which will willingly tear through the curtains of darkness and help the seeds of feminism resurface and further nurture them to mould into full bloom.
What we mustn’t conceptualise fallaciously is the fact that these feminist writers are devoid of power and most of all mere expression. On the contrary, many feminist works blatantly echo the female’s trials and tribulations pertaining to the real societal scenario and reek of what is simply termed ‘rawness’.
For centuries, society has had a tussle with these feminists and we do know of occasions when the subject of feminism has been evocative enough to conjure lurid images of communal rioting and many other forms of social evil, stemming from the sinister minds of many out there, amidst us. There have been innumerable controversies surrounding the mindsets of these feminist writers, which if rationally contemplated on, depict only the truth and nothing else. It is not their usage of imagery, but their conceptualisation of the truth that causes this pandemonium.
The topic of Indian feminism is incomplete without an analysis of one of India’s newest, most difficult and sinisterly raw feminist writer, Dr. Taslima Nasrin. An MBBS from the Dhaka medical college, Nasrin grew up in a state of affairs that challenged her sense of autonomy and mere expression. Oppression played the key protagonist, backed by lurid viciousness that intricately bound together with the author’s contorted life to make it inescapable. Childhood too was lost somewhere in the murky undergrowth of social evil and so was the mere fun of being a lady in the traumatising and persistent condition of life that wasn’t anything but black.
Nasrin’s personality is like her writing- rather vague. It reeks of the horrific indignance of a feminist coupled with the golden eye for detail. It symbolises the unravelling plethora of individual stimulation and the bittersweet brew of pessimistic optimism. In short she befits Rushdie’s comment “…a difficult woman and an advocate (horror of horrors) of free love, Nasrin has conjured tears by reconstructing and rearticulating her experience of humiliation”
Anybody who has read Taslima Nasrin would agree that not only is her thought process bare and wild, it is speckled with innumerably vast attempts at seeking love as a revolutionary concept. Thus, her depiction of the Indian woman is par a single role like a daughter or sister or wife, rather it exceeds all others by acting as an arbitrary platform for the female to protest through the mighty power of words and most of all mere raw expression.
When I read Nasrin’s controversial Shodh the feeling that came over me was not that of an extensively researched and remoulded soap, but of a dismally true picture of the Indian woman, that felt as if it demanded my sympathy and awe.
Shodh revokes the hues of social evil, telling the tale of young Jhumur and her repressed autonomy and love. While she bears the fruit of a faithful husband, his consistent rebuttal leaves her shattered, dangling between the doldrums of abortion. Thus sets in a tale of Jhumur’s indignant perseverance and most of all the bittersweet vengeance of her questioning love in the most vividly defined and detailed narration, bound by intricate instance and difficult humanism.
Dr. Nasrin is truly an epitome of stoicism and spitefulness. Not an escapist- a feminist.
Gandhi- sublime memories of a Father
“I have held my flesh as a dutiful human, but the world as a Father”
-Mahatma Gandhi
Perhaps the most intriguing persona of the era of India’s much awaited independence was Mohandas, the one-man army, the one- cloud sky and the one- line story. He is long gone, perhaps years before you and I could even have heard of him or known him or seen him. His dainty yet forthright figure that had delved deeply into the bloody river of India’s freedom can no longer be seen swimming again, nor can his charisma or his charm conjure the resurrection of the Indian soil and fortify the nation for forthcoming generations.
We celebrated with much zest as India touched her sixtieth year of Independence- Something, in which Mohandas played the key protagonist. And what to say of his power, he adorned the cape of the Nation’s father with such responsiveness that he died wearing it. (And even on his deathbed, his cotton cape was spotless; inspite of the fact that it had witnessed lurid viciousness and had even fought dearly for freedom). Free India, kissed the sixtieth cloud in her sky on the 15th of august and just a few days down the line Mohandas has received the sixty medals of his sacrifice- one that was only his and contained the contribution of no one else- on October the 2nd.
Bapu, as he was dearly christened by the nation was a man of few words. His actions said more than words and words said what even the actions of the nation couldn’t. To you, our parents, our grandparents and me he was no more than the father of our nation, but to his own flesh he was something too- A father who was never theirs. A father who had to be shared with the billion Indians that took shelter under his wing and respected him equally. Thus not much is known about Mohandas’ family life. Perhaps it was so fragmented that it could never really be pieced together.
Kasturba and Mohandas were both 13 when their marriage was arranged, mere children who deserved much more than what they got. Then Gandhi was young and he taught his child- wife the alphabet as a child- teacher. “Little did I know I had enrolled myself into a bond of child marriage” reminiscences Gandhi much later.
The Gandhi blood- line began with their first son Harilal in 1888. Perhaps he is the key that differentiates between Bapu’s personal and public life (one he himself never claimed to have). Harilal’s indignance towards Mohandas’ being Bapu for the whole country, and his feeling victimised after Bapu refuses his bail, totally shatters him. This causes me to think, did Bapu, who fathered the whole Nation fail as a father to his own blood? Or was the cost of our Nations independence the fragmentation of one relationship- one family?
-Mahatma Gandhi
Perhaps the most intriguing persona of the era of India’s much awaited independence was Mohandas, the one-man army, the one- cloud sky and the one- line story. He is long gone, perhaps years before you and I could even have heard of him or known him or seen him. His dainty yet forthright figure that had delved deeply into the bloody river of India’s freedom can no longer be seen swimming again, nor can his charisma or his charm conjure the resurrection of the Indian soil and fortify the nation for forthcoming generations.
We celebrated with much zest as India touched her sixtieth year of Independence- Something, in which Mohandas played the key protagonist. And what to say of his power, he adorned the cape of the Nation’s father with such responsiveness that he died wearing it. (And even on his deathbed, his cotton cape was spotless; inspite of the fact that it had witnessed lurid viciousness and had even fought dearly for freedom). Free India, kissed the sixtieth cloud in her sky on the 15th of august and just a few days down the line Mohandas has received the sixty medals of his sacrifice- one that was only his and contained the contribution of no one else- on October the 2nd.
Bapu, as he was dearly christened by the nation was a man of few words. His actions said more than words and words said what even the actions of the nation couldn’t. To you, our parents, our grandparents and me he was no more than the father of our nation, but to his own flesh he was something too- A father who was never theirs. A father who had to be shared with the billion Indians that took shelter under his wing and respected him equally. Thus not much is known about Mohandas’ family life. Perhaps it was so fragmented that it could never really be pieced together.
Kasturba and Mohandas were both 13 when their marriage was arranged, mere children who deserved much more than what they got. Then Gandhi was young and he taught his child- wife the alphabet as a child- teacher. “Little did I know I had enrolled myself into a bond of child marriage” reminiscences Gandhi much later.
The Gandhi blood- line began with their first son Harilal in 1888. Perhaps he is the key that differentiates between Bapu’s personal and public life (one he himself never claimed to have). Harilal’s indignance towards Mohandas’ being Bapu for the whole country, and his feeling victimised after Bapu refuses his bail, totally shatters him. This causes me to think, did Bapu, who fathered the whole Nation fail as a father to his own blood? Or was the cost of our Nations independence the fragmentation of one relationship- one family?
"Locks Of Love"- A Report On Sunita Williams
“Space is a transparent void. If we choose to see a riot of colours, we will see it even in the vast abyss of blackness!” said Flight Engineer ‘Suni’ Williams while communicating with the Earth from the International Space Station (ISS) situated approximately 400 kilometers above the Earth’s Surface.
‘Suni’ who is temporarily residing at the International Space Station is conducting various experiments as well as the ‘Space- Walks’ in order to rewire the entire Space Station and fix its solar array. Once the space walk is successfully completed, power will be fully online from the station's solar array wings. Also the station's power system will be ready for additional expansion with more arrays and new laboratories that are to be delivered next year.
During the critical power system overhaul, lights, smoke detectors, ventilation fans and other ISS systems will be shut off as well as half of the orbital laboratory will be powered down while ‘Suni’ reconfigures the station's power system to its permanent configuration.
A vital cooling system pump must perform properly afterward to ensure the work is successful. ‘Suni’ will also be given the go ahead to inspect and tap the portside wing of the space station's previous solar arrays.
‘Suni’ whose real name is Sunita Lyn Williams was born on 19th September in Euclid, Ohio and is an astronaut with Nasa. She graduated with a Bachelor in Physical Sciences and previously worked with the U.S Navy after which she was recruited by Nasa. During her Naval Service Sunita was honoured twice with the Navy Commendation Medal, once with the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement medal and the Humanitarian Service Medal.
Selected by NASA in June 1998, Williams began her training the same year. Her Astronaut Candidate training included orientation briefings and tours, numerous scientific and technical briefings, intensive instruction in Shuttle and International Space Station systems, physiological training and ground school to prepare for T-38 flight training, as well as learning water and wilderness survival techniques.
Following a period of training and evaluation, Williams worked in Moscow with the Russian Space Agency on the Russian contribution to the International Space Station (ISS), and with the first expedition crew sent to the ISS. Following the return of Expedition 1, Williams worked within the Robotics branch on the ISS Robotic Arm and the related Special Purpose Dexterous Manipulator. She was a crewmember on the Neemo 2 mission, living underwater in the Aquarius habitat for nine days in May 2002
Sunita’s parents Dr. Deepak and Mrs. Bonnie Pandya, reside in Falmouth, Massachusetts. However, Sunita’s routes can be traced back to Gujarat in India where she is seen often, eating the Indian food her grandmother cooks.
Her recreational interests include running, swimming, biking, triathlons, windsurfing, snowboarding and bow hunting and she has a pet named Gorby who she wanted to take with her to space but couldn’t because of obvious reasons!
Among the personal items Williams took with her to the ISS are a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a small statue of Lord Ganesha and some Samosas.
Recently, when the crew from the mission, STS 116 returned after safely leaving Sunita at the ISS, they brought back Sunita’s Hair that she had decided to donate to an NGO “Locks Of Love” in order to make wigs for children undergoing chemotherapy.
‘Suni’ who is temporarily residing at the International Space Station is conducting various experiments as well as the ‘Space- Walks’ in order to rewire the entire Space Station and fix its solar array. Once the space walk is successfully completed, power will be fully online from the station's solar array wings. Also the station's power system will be ready for additional expansion with more arrays and new laboratories that are to be delivered next year.
During the critical power system overhaul, lights, smoke detectors, ventilation fans and other ISS systems will be shut off as well as half of the orbital laboratory will be powered down while ‘Suni’ reconfigures the station's power system to its permanent configuration.
A vital cooling system pump must perform properly afterward to ensure the work is successful. ‘Suni’ will also be given the go ahead to inspect and tap the portside wing of the space station's previous solar arrays.
‘Suni’ whose real name is Sunita Lyn Williams was born on 19th September in Euclid, Ohio and is an astronaut with Nasa. She graduated with a Bachelor in Physical Sciences and previously worked with the U.S Navy after which she was recruited by Nasa. During her Naval Service Sunita was honoured twice with the Navy Commendation Medal, once with the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement medal and the Humanitarian Service Medal.
Selected by NASA in June 1998, Williams began her training the same year. Her Astronaut Candidate training included orientation briefings and tours, numerous scientific and technical briefings, intensive instruction in Shuttle and International Space Station systems, physiological training and ground school to prepare for T-38 flight training, as well as learning water and wilderness survival techniques.
Following a period of training and evaluation, Williams worked in Moscow with the Russian Space Agency on the Russian contribution to the International Space Station (ISS), and with the first expedition crew sent to the ISS. Following the return of Expedition 1, Williams worked within the Robotics branch on the ISS Robotic Arm and the related Special Purpose Dexterous Manipulator. She was a crewmember on the Neemo 2 mission, living underwater in the Aquarius habitat for nine days in May 2002
Sunita’s parents Dr. Deepak and Mrs. Bonnie Pandya, reside in Falmouth, Massachusetts. However, Sunita’s routes can be traced back to Gujarat in India where she is seen often, eating the Indian food her grandmother cooks.
Her recreational interests include running, swimming, biking, triathlons, windsurfing, snowboarding and bow hunting and she has a pet named Gorby who she wanted to take with her to space but couldn’t because of obvious reasons!
Among the personal items Williams took with her to the ISS are a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a small statue of Lord Ganesha and some Samosas.
Recently, when the crew from the mission, STS 116 returned after safely leaving Sunita at the ISS, they brought back Sunita’s Hair that she had decided to donate to an NGO “Locks Of Love” in order to make wigs for children undergoing chemotherapy.
Debut
The world is one big sack. And in the big sack are assorted opportunities waiting to be discovered. Well, what is ironic is that even though the sack full of breaks is always ready to give somebody a chance, there are only a few who will take the risk- A risk that may ruin their entire life- A chance, that may frighten them to take risks again. But what is equally essential to understand is that there is probability of the chance succeeding and yielding, what is known as success. The term success though, has different meanings for many. While for some, success is only when there is some monetary gain, for others, even thinking of taking the chance is in its own special way, success. Well, if we all follow this policy, that we have been given this one life to do everything, then nothing can obstruct the straight path between success and us. Many at times, the hindrances are nothing but psychological obstacles that have been made by us after we have witnessed someone’s failure. But if we don’t even make the effort of getting out there and challenging our beliefs, then life will be a monotonous brew of inexpressive ideas. Truly, the sack of opportunities is nowhere else but in our minds. Though it is placed deep inside the layers of our brain, a thought can make all the difference. Just one spark can cause a variety of ideas to unfold themselves and project themselves in our minds. But many at times even though we are motivated to do something, stray influences change our perspective. Well, in such cases merely faith can lead us through. If we desire to do something strongly and are willing to risk everything we have for it, then we will succeed. Such positive thoughts will do us no harm; rather they will do us some good. After all, even Gandhiji had to take the first step in the dark, and it was only then that he brought a whole country together and crossed the threshold of freedom!
Lives Are From Heaven And Deaths Too
Let us go on a trip to god’s abode. A place where all human beings are one, where there is life without segregation, love without discrimination and a world without prejudice.
Mrs. Colman is ready down here on the earth to go shopping. She is on Main Street waiting for her husband to come so that both may drive off to the mall. Next to where she stands is a dustbin, made of gold, which is examined curiously by her where as the withered statue of what seems like an angel is not even noticed. There on the far eastern side, Mr. Singh stands painting his wife a lovely picture. He paints what was earlier a ‘Gulmohar’ with subtle shades, and what has now been made a cheap bride by forcing golden ribbons up it’s leaves. He paints the golden ribbons meticulously and rushes his paintbrush making ‘two’ crocked strokes for the ‘Gulmohar’.
We are in Spain now. Senior Pipito is gathering tomatoes from his yard. He has been on this job since the morning, and now he is tired and sweaty. He tosses these lifeless red vegetables onto the kitchen shelf and goes to where the awning of his shed gives ample shade. He has left the company of the tomatoes who could have helped him live a hundred years more.
The rain patters harshly. Mrs. Bond is on the hills of Simla, where her husband has been posted recently. She has just done the laundry and hung it outside, among which her prized red- flowers printed suit is too. She doesn’t notice this spectacular spectacle of the clouds crying, she is gazing beady eyed at her red suit hoping that the prints aren’t washed away.
Bryan is in his grandmother’s house watching naked men wrestle on the television. Mrs. Fitzgerald, his grandmother has just stitched him a lovely purple sweater, which she hopes would protect him from the cold. But Bryan doesn’t care two hoots. Purple is the colour of his dogs leash and so he will not accept this gift. He throws away the sweater, in a way throwing away his grandmothers love.
Heaven is waiting patiently for it’s five new baits.
Mrs. Colman falls off the staircase in the mall to her fate.
A snake bites Mr. Singh as he moves closer to the Gulmohar. The venom poisons him.
Senior Pipito is burning. He passes away forced to die of heat- stroke.
Mrs. Bond slips off the edge of her balcony and plunges down the Simla valley.
As for Bryan, he attempts to wrestle the bully in school and is beaten to death.
Off- white seats these new citizens of heaven in its chariot. In place of the face and body, off- white is a figure (painted off- white) whose gender is indecipherable.
Off- white guides these five new people through the sky. The world up here in space is far different and less superfluous than the world down below. The sky reflects colours, which barely show.
The five earthlings are surprised at first. But soon they begin perceiving what all inmates of heaven do. Off- white takes them on a tour.
The drift takes them to where birds are being manufactured. Golden- white light is being passed through tiny droplets of water through which glorious birds emerge. These birds produce no sound and are dumb. Next, Off- white stops its chariot in front of an abyss. “This” it says, “Is our mall. Imagine the shops, customers and money, and the void created by this abyss will be no less than the malls on earth. Mrs. Colman is awestruck.
The chariot then stops at the garden of five senses. There are no golden ribbons, but there surely is a vast expanse of expressions. Mr. Singh senses somebody touching him, then he smells jasmines, then sees white apparitions, then he taste’s caramelized sugar and then he hears divine sounds. He is speechless.
Off- white flies its chariot over the clouds and stops between them. Here, there is a yard. On one side rest lifeless stars and on the other side desirable darkness. Senior Pipito stretches one of his arms towards the stars and the other towards the darkness. The arm in the darkness feels heavy, while the arm in the stars seems to float without execution of pressure. Senior is dazed.
Beside the yard the chariot turns to show the how Blue- the baby cloud- is drooling. How peach, his mother reprimands him by shooting a few volts of colourless electricity at his mouth. Mrs. Bond is in tears after she witnesses this lovely spectacle of love. She washes her hands in Blue’s drool, and almost instantly she is calmed.
The last stop is where milk is manufactured for the small babies. A figure stands at the doorstep, caressing what looks like the cheek of a small child. The lady is kissing this child incessantly. This time it is Bryan who feels sentimental, as if his own grandmother was there trying to love him.
Off- white turns to look at the earthlings. All five of them, Mrs. Colman, Mr. Singh, Senior Pipito, Mrs. Bond and Bryan and shedding pearls from their eyes.
Off- white smiles, bids them farewell and helps them pass through a blinding white light to Paradise.
Mrs. Colman is ready down here on the earth to go shopping. She is on Main Street waiting for her husband to come so that both may drive off to the mall. Next to where she stands is a dustbin, made of gold, which is examined curiously by her where as the withered statue of what seems like an angel is not even noticed. There on the far eastern side, Mr. Singh stands painting his wife a lovely picture. He paints what was earlier a ‘Gulmohar’ with subtle shades, and what has now been made a cheap bride by forcing golden ribbons up it’s leaves. He paints the golden ribbons meticulously and rushes his paintbrush making ‘two’ crocked strokes for the ‘Gulmohar’.
We are in Spain now. Senior Pipito is gathering tomatoes from his yard. He has been on this job since the morning, and now he is tired and sweaty. He tosses these lifeless red vegetables onto the kitchen shelf and goes to where the awning of his shed gives ample shade. He has left the company of the tomatoes who could have helped him live a hundred years more.
The rain patters harshly. Mrs. Bond is on the hills of Simla, where her husband has been posted recently. She has just done the laundry and hung it outside, among which her prized red- flowers printed suit is too. She doesn’t notice this spectacular spectacle of the clouds crying, she is gazing beady eyed at her red suit hoping that the prints aren’t washed away.
Bryan is in his grandmother’s house watching naked men wrestle on the television. Mrs. Fitzgerald, his grandmother has just stitched him a lovely purple sweater, which she hopes would protect him from the cold. But Bryan doesn’t care two hoots. Purple is the colour of his dogs leash and so he will not accept this gift. He throws away the sweater, in a way throwing away his grandmothers love.
Heaven is waiting patiently for it’s five new baits.
Mrs. Colman falls off the staircase in the mall to her fate.
A snake bites Mr. Singh as he moves closer to the Gulmohar. The venom poisons him.
Senior Pipito is burning. He passes away forced to die of heat- stroke.
Mrs. Bond slips off the edge of her balcony and plunges down the Simla valley.
As for Bryan, he attempts to wrestle the bully in school and is beaten to death.
Off- white seats these new citizens of heaven in its chariot. In place of the face and body, off- white is a figure (painted off- white) whose gender is indecipherable.
Off- white guides these five new people through the sky. The world up here in space is far different and less superfluous than the world down below. The sky reflects colours, which barely show.
The five earthlings are surprised at first. But soon they begin perceiving what all inmates of heaven do. Off- white takes them on a tour.
The drift takes them to where birds are being manufactured. Golden- white light is being passed through tiny droplets of water through which glorious birds emerge. These birds produce no sound and are dumb. Next, Off- white stops its chariot in front of an abyss. “This” it says, “Is our mall. Imagine the shops, customers and money, and the void created by this abyss will be no less than the malls on earth. Mrs. Colman is awestruck.
The chariot then stops at the garden of five senses. There are no golden ribbons, but there surely is a vast expanse of expressions. Mr. Singh senses somebody touching him, then he smells jasmines, then sees white apparitions, then he taste’s caramelized sugar and then he hears divine sounds. He is speechless.
Off- white flies its chariot over the clouds and stops between them. Here, there is a yard. On one side rest lifeless stars and on the other side desirable darkness. Senior Pipito stretches one of his arms towards the stars and the other towards the darkness. The arm in the darkness feels heavy, while the arm in the stars seems to float without execution of pressure. Senior is dazed.
Beside the yard the chariot turns to show the how Blue- the baby cloud- is drooling. How peach, his mother reprimands him by shooting a few volts of colourless electricity at his mouth. Mrs. Bond is in tears after she witnesses this lovely spectacle of love. She washes her hands in Blue’s drool, and almost instantly she is calmed.
The last stop is where milk is manufactured for the small babies. A figure stands at the doorstep, caressing what looks like the cheek of a small child. The lady is kissing this child incessantly. This time it is Bryan who feels sentimental, as if his own grandmother was there trying to love him.
Off- white turns to look at the earthlings. All five of them, Mrs. Colman, Mr. Singh, Senior Pipito, Mrs. Bond and Bryan and shedding pearls from their eyes.
Off- white smiles, bids them farewell and helps them pass through a blinding white light to Paradise.
The Namesake By Jhumpa Lahiri (4.5/5)
The Malaldy of Naming
Pulitzer Prize winning author Jhumpa Lahiri was born and brought up in England and Rhode Island. Though, born Nilanjana Sudheshna in 1967, she changed her name to Jhumpa soon after. Lahiri is known for her poignant stories that are trivial and eloquently poised. Her novel Interpreter Of Malaldies was critically acclaimed all over the world for which she was also awarded the Pulitzer. Using her soft, evocative style and subtle descriptions, The Namesake, her second book comes out as just another family saga, caught inbetween trials and tribulations and struggling to break away from the trammels of convention. This evidently ambushed predictableness, makes the book special.
Life is one big hullabaloo. A homogenous brew of pungence that stays with you forever. And in this journey called life, ‘change’ plays a major role. Change is ineveitable, and in the changing circumstances, it is better to understand the nuances of changing time or else, the consequeces can be dire. Resisting change, resists individual development and changing openly is merely stepping onto the next step of human development.
The Ganguly’s are one such Indian family, having their ‘traditional’ conservativenss. Ashok, the bread winner, a physisist is ready to leave his hometown- the gullies of Calcutta, heading towards newer opputunities that are half the world away in Massacheusets.
And ofcourse his endeavor is incomplete without the cooperation of his wife Ashima, a petite bengalli, who bravely yet evidently, sacrifices all the Indian dreams that she had spent her nuptial nights stitching. Thus begins a journey, that meticulously meanders itself around the complexity and agrresion of human emotions yet sets one golden principle aside that the greatest journeys are the ones that bring you home!
Ashok is the ordinary husband. He loves his wife but loves something else too. Only this time it is not a human, but a book. The Overcoat- by Nikolai Gogol, that irks him to embark on a journey that shall help him learn and widen his perspective, beyond the Indian ways and traditions. And here he is, in the midst of rush hour American traffic, while Ashima is waiting for him so very patiently, even though the labour contractions are virtually tearing through her stomach.
And thus the protagonist of the book is born, who is nameless! The two new parents cannot help but nickname their son Gogol for a letter sent by the maternal grandmother containing her granson’s name is lost.
Young Gogol is indignant. He feels conscious of himself. Why on Earth did his parents name him after an eccentric Russian Author? But Ashok has the perfect answer. To him, Nikolai’s works are his sole motivators. They taught him that he was wasting his life and that he lived through the dreadful accident just so that he could mould his perspective into a productive life!
But nonchallant Gogol is unperturbed. He is determined to change his name. And author Jhumpa Lahiri relates to this as something of her own life. The day she had taken the decision to change her name, the agony everybody around her felt and the sheer indignance she had to overcome.
Gogol’s nonchallace earns him a name Nikhil (meaning limtless). And this is from where his story begins. And what is eloquently said between the lines is that sometimes, it takes a jolt to change a person.
Gogol’s new personality as Nikhil earns him the best degrees, girlfriends and dreams, but he lacks the hint of Indian values, that his father had.
Life suddenly takes a drastic turn and we find ourselves in a position that when the bread winner of the Gangully family after having tried to instill his morals, leaves for paradise.
Nikhil is shattered and his life changes. He begins to think of his lonely mother caught inbetween the void created after his father’s death. And thus he gives up everyhting for her and decides to embark on a journey that shall take him to where his father began. His sole companion being, a battered copy of The Overcoat that had once saved his father from delusion.
The Namesake for me is thus a namesake itself. Nikhil’s realization brings him closer to my heart making me think ahead of my time while wondering how to conquer the unforseen delusions in my life. And it is needless to say, that the book brings the protagonist back home. Truly, a journey in itself, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake is the ticket to realizing your dreams and aquring what is simply termed sanity.
Pulitzer Prize winning author Jhumpa Lahiri was born and brought up in England and Rhode Island. Though, born Nilanjana Sudheshna in 1967, she changed her name to Jhumpa soon after. Lahiri is known for her poignant stories that are trivial and eloquently poised. Her novel Interpreter Of Malaldies was critically acclaimed all over the world for which she was also awarded the Pulitzer. Using her soft, evocative style and subtle descriptions, The Namesake, her second book comes out as just another family saga, caught inbetween trials and tribulations and struggling to break away from the trammels of convention. This evidently ambushed predictableness, makes the book special.
Life is one big hullabaloo. A homogenous brew of pungence that stays with you forever. And in this journey called life, ‘change’ plays a major role. Change is ineveitable, and in the changing circumstances, it is better to understand the nuances of changing time or else, the consequeces can be dire. Resisting change, resists individual development and changing openly is merely stepping onto the next step of human development.
The Ganguly’s are one such Indian family, having their ‘traditional’ conservativenss. Ashok, the bread winner, a physisist is ready to leave his hometown- the gullies of Calcutta, heading towards newer opputunities that are half the world away in Massacheusets.
And ofcourse his endeavor is incomplete without the cooperation of his wife Ashima, a petite bengalli, who bravely yet evidently, sacrifices all the Indian dreams that she had spent her nuptial nights stitching. Thus begins a journey, that meticulously meanders itself around the complexity and agrresion of human emotions yet sets one golden principle aside that the greatest journeys are the ones that bring you home!
Ashok is the ordinary husband. He loves his wife but loves something else too. Only this time it is not a human, but a book. The Overcoat- by Nikolai Gogol, that irks him to embark on a journey that shall help him learn and widen his perspective, beyond the Indian ways and traditions. And here he is, in the midst of rush hour American traffic, while Ashima is waiting for him so very patiently, even though the labour contractions are virtually tearing through her stomach.
And thus the protagonist of the book is born, who is nameless! The two new parents cannot help but nickname their son Gogol for a letter sent by the maternal grandmother containing her granson’s name is lost.
Young Gogol is indignant. He feels conscious of himself. Why on Earth did his parents name him after an eccentric Russian Author? But Ashok has the perfect answer. To him, Nikolai’s works are his sole motivators. They taught him that he was wasting his life and that he lived through the dreadful accident just so that he could mould his perspective into a productive life!
But nonchallant Gogol is unperturbed. He is determined to change his name. And author Jhumpa Lahiri relates to this as something of her own life. The day she had taken the decision to change her name, the agony everybody around her felt and the sheer indignance she had to overcome.
Gogol’s nonchallace earns him a name Nikhil (meaning limtless). And this is from where his story begins. And what is eloquently said between the lines is that sometimes, it takes a jolt to change a person.
Gogol’s new personality as Nikhil earns him the best degrees, girlfriends and dreams, but he lacks the hint of Indian values, that his father had.
Life suddenly takes a drastic turn and we find ourselves in a position that when the bread winner of the Gangully family after having tried to instill his morals, leaves for paradise.
Nikhil is shattered and his life changes. He begins to think of his lonely mother caught inbetween the void created after his father’s death. And thus he gives up everyhting for her and decides to embark on a journey that shall take him to where his father began. His sole companion being, a battered copy of The Overcoat that had once saved his father from delusion.
The Namesake for me is thus a namesake itself. Nikhil’s realization brings him closer to my heart making me think ahead of my time while wondering how to conquer the unforseen delusions in my life. And it is needless to say, that the book brings the protagonist back home. Truly, a journey in itself, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake is the ticket to realizing your dreams and aquring what is simply termed sanity.
Au Revoir Grace Church!
Our minds were racing! We had seen so much in the past few days that it was hard to switch to a regular routine of school. As our bus turned the last street, our eagerness speckled with nervousness, we bravely tried to face the situation. A week of fun and frolic led us to our actual exchange program in Grace Church School Manhattan.
The week before was unforgettable. With short excursions to pristine valleys of London, the classic landscape of Oxford, the mysticism of Stratford Upon Avon, the sheer beauty of Washington decked in Cherry Blossoms and Boston’s duck tour, fifteen of us accompanied by two teachers suddenly found ourselves facing our Exchange Buddies.
The initial meeting at school was like a conventional one! We were instructed to behave like angels (and we did live up to this!).
What intrigued me was that Grace Church School was so very different from ours. The tall building dating almost a century had in it all the amenities that a student requires in his school life. Besides, all through the day we received ample free time to walk into Grace’s gorgeous library, sit and surf on their innumerable computers and rejuvenate by playing all sorts of sports within the school! The day, unlike in VVS did not begin with assembly but began with an informal interaction with our peers and teachers. Another striking difference was that we at VVS follow a more formal sort of study pattern but at Grace, informal interactions are enough to get the dedicated students to work!
From the dramatic History lessons, to riveting grindings in Music, from the thrill of playing in Graces state of the art gym to studying serious Ethics and Drama, Grace Church School proved that it believed in the holistic development of it’s students!
The lessons thus struck an immaculate balance between fun and serious study. And by adapting practical demonstrations rather than tedious theory, Grace Church School students automatically get a head start in their early years.
But all good things end fast. And so did this week at Grace. There was so much to do and so much to learn! Thus ended our wonderful trip with smiles and tears. It shall always remain etched in our minds!
The week before was unforgettable. With short excursions to pristine valleys of London, the classic landscape of Oxford, the mysticism of Stratford Upon Avon, the sheer beauty of Washington decked in Cherry Blossoms and Boston’s duck tour, fifteen of us accompanied by two teachers suddenly found ourselves facing our Exchange Buddies.
The initial meeting at school was like a conventional one! We were instructed to behave like angels (and we did live up to this!).
What intrigued me was that Grace Church School was so very different from ours. The tall building dating almost a century had in it all the amenities that a student requires in his school life. Besides, all through the day we received ample free time to walk into Grace’s gorgeous library, sit and surf on their innumerable computers and rejuvenate by playing all sorts of sports within the school! The day, unlike in VVS did not begin with assembly but began with an informal interaction with our peers and teachers. Another striking difference was that we at VVS follow a more formal sort of study pattern but at Grace, informal interactions are enough to get the dedicated students to work!
From the dramatic History lessons, to riveting grindings in Music, from the thrill of playing in Graces state of the art gym to studying serious Ethics and Drama, Grace Church School proved that it believed in the holistic development of it’s students!
The lessons thus struck an immaculate balance between fun and serious study. And by adapting practical demonstrations rather than tedious theory, Grace Church School students automatically get a head start in their early years.
But all good things end fast. And so did this week at Grace. There was so much to do and so much to learn! Thus ended our wonderful trip with smiles and tears. It shall always remain etched in our minds!
I am bad!
Aryaman was his name. He was a tall, dark handsome boy living in the plush Prithvoraj road. He had clear blue eyes that twirled into his chocolaty face rounded by two juicy cheeks- which perpetually had a reddish hue merged in them. His skin was soft and he had two half moon shaped ears.
In spite of being rich and well off, Aryaman was a boy with minimal needs. His daily routine was, going to school coming back home, doing his homework and resting for the day.
One day, just before the summer holidays were beginning, Aryaman returned home all too tired and exhausted after he had got a lot of homework. His maid Shanti who had specially made him fried fish and chips and Geetamala his personal attendant greeted him at his huge mansion.
Though Aryaman never felt the need of these personal attendant’s and servants, his mother Vaishali had perpetually tied him to them. “Why can’t you take care of me mother, why these strangers?” thought Aryaman. But every time he asked his mother this question, she just shoed him and said! “You’re going to become a big man one day! I’m not going to look after you then am I? It is these servants who will be serving you day in and day out! All you’ll’ do is relax on the sofa while these shudras will be at your beck and call!”
But Aryaman didn’t like his mothers condescending attitude. He also wanted someone who he could call his own to tell him bedtime stories, play with him in his spare time or just talk to him on the days that he was stressed!
* * * *
As Aryaman entered his room he threw down his bag and tears ran into his blue eyes. It seemed as if Aryaman’s face had turned into an ocean all of a sudden!
He was irritated with his life. He wanted to spend time with his mother who was busy attending a kitty party at Mrs.Bankwalla’s home. What was more, father who was in the house didn’t take the slightest notice of him when he crossed the drawing room where his father sat reading the newspaper.
“I hate myself! I am bad, that’s why no one takes notice of me!” thought Aryaman as he quietly cried to himself all afternoon until he grew so tired crying that he drifted off to sleep.
In the evening when he awoke all disheveled he heard his mother screeching outside. “Shanti, you idiot! How many times have I told you to look after him! Just because he refused the food once, you let him go hungry! How insensitive of you!”
Aryaman knew that once his mother got angry, the whole house roared! So, in order to stop a virtual earthquake Aryaman ran into the corridor where he jumped and hugged his mother! “Oh mother, where had you been? I waited for you all afternoon but you never came!” said Aryaman sobbing! “You shut up you little twit! How much trouble will you cause me! Because of this foolish behavior of yours, I had to come running from my party!” said his mother flaring up! Her eyes almost popping out of their sockets! She slapped him tightly on his cheek “But mother…” said Aryaman and started wailing loudly! The whole house was full of his cries! “Look at him, how tall you are boy! And you cry like a baby! Shanti, Geetamala take him away! And tell him what I told you!” said Vaishali!
* * * *
In the room, Aryaman sat pressing his cheek that was bloodshot red! He was shivering and still sobbed! “Arya baby, is there anything you want?” asked Geetamala. But Aryaman just cried on till he became drowsy. Shanti and Geetamala exchanged glances. Eventually Shanti spoke, “ Arya Baby, remember you’re mother wanted us to tell you something. Well listen then! But don’t get angry, please!” Geetamala said, “Arya baby at the kitty party, Vaishali mam, met Justin, Mrs. Bankwalla’s son. He’s you’re age. Mrs. Bankwalla told your mother that she put him in tennis classes. And she praised the after effects heftily!” “So”, said Shanti “ Vaishali mam wants that’s you also join the tennis classes! It will help you! After all my Arya baby is tall and it will be an advantage for him!”
So, without even asking his opinion the maids, having done their jobs, immediately left the room. As for Aryaman, he just remained there, perched on his king- sized bed, waiting for someone to come and tell him that all this wasn’t happening and it was dream! But nobody came!
* * * *
The next day was an action packed day for Aryaman. Never before had he attended such classes. His legs ached with the vigorous exercises and “Follow through”, “Low to high” all of this echoed in his ears! His hands seemed strained, as they had held the new Wilson racket his father had given him one day, from his many pieces. All in all, he was dead by the time he arrived home. He walked as if he had not received sleep in years and he dropped coldly on his bed and went to sleep.
As the days passed on Aryaman mastered the game well. His shots were powerful and his serve was accurate. He soon got used to the rigorous training. One day his coach invited his parents to see his wonderful game but they couldn’t spare time. As a result Geetamala came. She couldn’t understand anything the coach told her. The only thing she managed to grasp was the fact that the coach recommended another academy for him. “Since his game is improving day by day, it is time for him to join the DLTA (Delhi lawn tennis academy) as he will completely master the sport then!”
* * * *
The day finally came. Aryaman, now much taller than majority of the kids of his age briskly walked into the courts of DLTA. Shanti had come to drop him and left soon after he entered the academy.
“Aryaman Shergill?” said the coach who seemed tough. “Yes sir” said Aryaman softly, feeling shy.
The coaching classes begun but Aryaman longed to go back to his older Academy where his teacher had given all his time in teaching him, not like here where the coach told him that he would be dealt with later. But Aryaman managed to stay on and played his game without much enjoyment.
By now Aryaman had got so used to the praises his older coach gave him that he felt mad when his new teacher told him that he needed to work more.
* * * *
One day as Aryaman came to the court he saw a group of boys huddled up, looking at him and laughing. He tried to avoid them and went and stood in a corner all by himself. But their remarks were still audible. He could hear them saying “Look at him, he’s so tall! Hah, looks like one of those abnormal kids!”. Another said, “ I heard him telling the coach his age, the twit’s just eight and he looks like a teenager!” “I’ll’ challenge him to a match right now!”
“Hey, kid, come here play a match with me!” said the bully. “No, I will not!” said Aryaman frankly! “You don’t have a choice kid, I asked you to play a match with me, not if you want to play a match!
So, Aryaman was forced into doing what he didn’t want to do and he played. The outcome was bad! Aryaman had lost his first match in months! He couldn’t bear it and tears rolled down his fat cheeks!
“You suck kid!” said the boys teasingly as Aryaman tried to put a brave face. But he was too small to absorb their mischievous remarks and slowly he cried.
“Look at his size! He’s crying! Hah fool!” said one boy. “Let me tell you kid, you must have been the boss in that earlier court, but here we are the bosses! You listen to us!” said the other. “And we say you ‘re pathetic, not made for tennis! You are nobody!” said another. But they all said together, “Neither do we, nor does this game need you, so get out! And admit your defeat! You’re bad!”
Aryaman stopped crying! He feared that he would be made fun of when he told his teacher or his parents or anyone about how the boys misbehaved with him! But more than that he wondered if anyone would even care!
So in the end he threw down his racket and screamed! “Yes, Yes, I am bad!”
In spite of being rich and well off, Aryaman was a boy with minimal needs. His daily routine was, going to school coming back home, doing his homework and resting for the day.
One day, just before the summer holidays were beginning, Aryaman returned home all too tired and exhausted after he had got a lot of homework. His maid Shanti who had specially made him fried fish and chips and Geetamala his personal attendant greeted him at his huge mansion.
Though Aryaman never felt the need of these personal attendant’s and servants, his mother Vaishali had perpetually tied him to them. “Why can’t you take care of me mother, why these strangers?” thought Aryaman. But every time he asked his mother this question, she just shoed him and said! “You’re going to become a big man one day! I’m not going to look after you then am I? It is these servants who will be serving you day in and day out! All you’ll’ do is relax on the sofa while these shudras will be at your beck and call!”
But Aryaman didn’t like his mothers condescending attitude. He also wanted someone who he could call his own to tell him bedtime stories, play with him in his spare time or just talk to him on the days that he was stressed!
* * * *
As Aryaman entered his room he threw down his bag and tears ran into his blue eyes. It seemed as if Aryaman’s face had turned into an ocean all of a sudden!
He was irritated with his life. He wanted to spend time with his mother who was busy attending a kitty party at Mrs.Bankwalla’s home. What was more, father who was in the house didn’t take the slightest notice of him when he crossed the drawing room where his father sat reading the newspaper.
“I hate myself! I am bad, that’s why no one takes notice of me!” thought Aryaman as he quietly cried to himself all afternoon until he grew so tired crying that he drifted off to sleep.
In the evening when he awoke all disheveled he heard his mother screeching outside. “Shanti, you idiot! How many times have I told you to look after him! Just because he refused the food once, you let him go hungry! How insensitive of you!”
Aryaman knew that once his mother got angry, the whole house roared! So, in order to stop a virtual earthquake Aryaman ran into the corridor where he jumped and hugged his mother! “Oh mother, where had you been? I waited for you all afternoon but you never came!” said Aryaman sobbing! “You shut up you little twit! How much trouble will you cause me! Because of this foolish behavior of yours, I had to come running from my party!” said his mother flaring up! Her eyes almost popping out of their sockets! She slapped him tightly on his cheek “But mother…” said Aryaman and started wailing loudly! The whole house was full of his cries! “Look at him, how tall you are boy! And you cry like a baby! Shanti, Geetamala take him away! And tell him what I told you!” said Vaishali!
* * * *
In the room, Aryaman sat pressing his cheek that was bloodshot red! He was shivering and still sobbed! “Arya baby, is there anything you want?” asked Geetamala. But Aryaman just cried on till he became drowsy. Shanti and Geetamala exchanged glances. Eventually Shanti spoke, “ Arya Baby, remember you’re mother wanted us to tell you something. Well listen then! But don’t get angry, please!” Geetamala said, “Arya baby at the kitty party, Vaishali mam, met Justin, Mrs. Bankwalla’s son. He’s you’re age. Mrs. Bankwalla told your mother that she put him in tennis classes. And she praised the after effects heftily!” “So”, said Shanti “ Vaishali mam wants that’s you also join the tennis classes! It will help you! After all my Arya baby is tall and it will be an advantage for him!”
So, without even asking his opinion the maids, having done their jobs, immediately left the room. As for Aryaman, he just remained there, perched on his king- sized bed, waiting for someone to come and tell him that all this wasn’t happening and it was dream! But nobody came!
* * * *
The next day was an action packed day for Aryaman. Never before had he attended such classes. His legs ached with the vigorous exercises and “Follow through”, “Low to high” all of this echoed in his ears! His hands seemed strained, as they had held the new Wilson racket his father had given him one day, from his many pieces. All in all, he was dead by the time he arrived home. He walked as if he had not received sleep in years and he dropped coldly on his bed and went to sleep.
As the days passed on Aryaman mastered the game well. His shots were powerful and his serve was accurate. He soon got used to the rigorous training. One day his coach invited his parents to see his wonderful game but they couldn’t spare time. As a result Geetamala came. She couldn’t understand anything the coach told her. The only thing she managed to grasp was the fact that the coach recommended another academy for him. “Since his game is improving day by day, it is time for him to join the DLTA (Delhi lawn tennis academy) as he will completely master the sport then!”
* * * *
The day finally came. Aryaman, now much taller than majority of the kids of his age briskly walked into the courts of DLTA. Shanti had come to drop him and left soon after he entered the academy.
“Aryaman Shergill?” said the coach who seemed tough. “Yes sir” said Aryaman softly, feeling shy.
The coaching classes begun but Aryaman longed to go back to his older Academy where his teacher had given all his time in teaching him, not like here where the coach told him that he would be dealt with later. But Aryaman managed to stay on and played his game without much enjoyment.
By now Aryaman had got so used to the praises his older coach gave him that he felt mad when his new teacher told him that he needed to work more.
* * * *
One day as Aryaman came to the court he saw a group of boys huddled up, looking at him and laughing. He tried to avoid them and went and stood in a corner all by himself. But their remarks were still audible. He could hear them saying “Look at him, he’s so tall! Hah, looks like one of those abnormal kids!”. Another said, “ I heard him telling the coach his age, the twit’s just eight and he looks like a teenager!” “I’ll’ challenge him to a match right now!”
“Hey, kid, come here play a match with me!” said the bully. “No, I will not!” said Aryaman frankly! “You don’t have a choice kid, I asked you to play a match with me, not if you want to play a match!
So, Aryaman was forced into doing what he didn’t want to do and he played. The outcome was bad! Aryaman had lost his first match in months! He couldn’t bear it and tears rolled down his fat cheeks!
“You suck kid!” said the boys teasingly as Aryaman tried to put a brave face. But he was too small to absorb their mischievous remarks and slowly he cried.
“Look at his size! He’s crying! Hah fool!” said one boy. “Let me tell you kid, you must have been the boss in that earlier court, but here we are the bosses! You listen to us!” said the other. “And we say you ‘re pathetic, not made for tennis! You are nobody!” said another. But they all said together, “Neither do we, nor does this game need you, so get out! And admit your defeat! You’re bad!”
Aryaman stopped crying! He feared that he would be made fun of when he told his teacher or his parents or anyone about how the boys misbehaved with him! But more than that he wondered if anyone would even care!
So in the end he threw down his racket and screamed! “Yes, Yes, I am bad!”
Recovery Of The Theological Bible
"You will exceed all of them. For you will sacrifice the man that clothes me."
These were Jesus’s words to his brother- like disciple Judas Iscariot. Although Christianity believes strongly that Judas turned out to be a traitor, a recent discovery of Judas’s Gospel has jolted Christian faith.
A farmer, working near the caves of El Minya, Egypt retrieved this theological Bible- The Gospel of Judas.
A Gospel is a doctrine regarded as of prime importance. These ancient Christian texts have helped preserve the teachings of Jesus.
What first seemed to be writings of the native Christians were later deciphered and the following story now questions Christian faith, leaving modern theologians bewildered.
Judas Iscariot was one of Jesus’s twelve Apostles. These twelve special people, including his wife Mary Magellan were Jesus’s prime disciples. According to older Christian texts, these Apostles were chosen for a mission- to heal the sick, drive out demons and to raise the dead.
Gradually, Jesus’s relationship grew manyfold with his Apostles. Time passed quickly and soon Jesus felt weary of the world.He wanted to unite with his father in heaven and knew that only sacrifice of the body would help him attain unity.
Thus, Jesus approached Judas.The reason as to why Jesus approached Judas among all his Apostles was the bond of trust both shared.
The fact- the Gospel suggests that Jesus wanted Judas to hand him over to the Romans is what Catholic priests have always seen as Judas’s betrayal.
It is believed, that on the ‘Last Supper’, Judas gently kissed his master on the cheek, which was an indication for the Romans to captivate God’s son. This was followed by the Jesus Christ’s crucifixion.
After the event, the Gnostics who followed Gnosticism or belief in mystical knowledge of the supreme divine,thought Judas’s act to be heretical or what was against the traditional doctorine.
Judas, whose ideas had been considered a heresy by the Gnostics comitted suicide after he realised what he had unintentionally done.
Thus, his followers- the Heretics wrote his Gospel describing the true event that had taken place and why Judas was Jesus’s most loved disciple.
The Gospel of Judas is therefore one of the most cherished discoveries and along with the release of ‘The Da Vinci Code’, Christianity is facing it’s true test.
These were Jesus’s words to his brother- like disciple Judas Iscariot. Although Christianity believes strongly that Judas turned out to be a traitor, a recent discovery of Judas’s Gospel has jolted Christian faith.
A farmer, working near the caves of El Minya, Egypt retrieved this theological Bible- The Gospel of Judas.
A Gospel is a doctrine regarded as of prime importance. These ancient Christian texts have helped preserve the teachings of Jesus.
What first seemed to be writings of the native Christians were later deciphered and the following story now questions Christian faith, leaving modern theologians bewildered.
Judas Iscariot was one of Jesus’s twelve Apostles. These twelve special people, including his wife Mary Magellan were Jesus’s prime disciples. According to older Christian texts, these Apostles were chosen for a mission- to heal the sick, drive out demons and to raise the dead.
Gradually, Jesus’s relationship grew manyfold with his Apostles. Time passed quickly and soon Jesus felt weary of the world.He wanted to unite with his father in heaven and knew that only sacrifice of the body would help him attain unity.
Thus, Jesus approached Judas.The reason as to why Jesus approached Judas among all his Apostles was the bond of trust both shared.
The fact- the Gospel suggests that Jesus wanted Judas to hand him over to the Romans is what Catholic priests have always seen as Judas’s betrayal.
It is believed, that on the ‘Last Supper’, Judas gently kissed his master on the cheek, which was an indication for the Romans to captivate God’s son. This was followed by the Jesus Christ’s crucifixion.
After the event, the Gnostics who followed Gnosticism or belief in mystical knowledge of the supreme divine,thought Judas’s act to be heretical or what was against the traditional doctorine.
Judas, whose ideas had been considered a heresy by the Gnostics comitted suicide after he realised what he had unintentionally done.
Thus, his followers- the Heretics wrote his Gospel describing the true event that had taken place and why Judas was Jesus’s most loved disciple.
The Gospel of Judas is therefore one of the most cherished discoveries and along with the release of ‘The Da Vinci Code’, Christianity is facing it’s true test.
CAKE MIX
The gusts had blown London that day as the Crossbills had traveled thousands of miles and had finally arrived. The family- two parents and their twins- had made it out of hell.
The Apartheid had followed a mass evacuation. Millions of African families flew from their motherland and looked for home in an alien country. The Crossbills were one such family.
Dean-jean Crossbill -the head of the family- had taken refuge in one of the ships traveling from Africa to London and had thus managed to keep his wife Margaret and sons Charles and Peter safe.
The Crossbills traveled for days. So many Negro’s had boarded the cargo ship- Isabella- that there was fear of an epidemic. The sailors though tried to share their resources with the families but there was extensive demand thus they decided not to part with their belongings.
Somehow, dangling between starvation and hope, the Crossbills were one of the first families who made it out of Africa to London. But there was more in store for them.
London did not show much respect for these Africans either. Though the men were employed as workers in the factories, they were given miserly treatment and threatened for life if they didn’t work efficiently.
One night there was a knock on the door. Margaret opened it to see a bleeding Dean- jean confronting her. On questioning her husband, Margaret found out that everyday random groups of workers were lashed, and today it had been her husbands turn.
Bearing tears of anger and pride for the man who worked in spite of the torture, Margaret kissed her husband and cleaned his wounds, while her sons watched, dazed.
Gradually, Dean- jean would come home blue- eyed, or bruised. Margaret soon got used to her husbands condition and accepted her fate. Though the family had forbidden their children to work in the dreaded factories (even if it costed them their lives), soon Charles and Peter were ready to take on the risk. They wanted to earn as their father too had retired.
Margaret knew that initially the boys would feel brave, but soon the English would give them the same treatment her husband had received. She feared that day.
***********
At the factory Charles had met up with a girl. Anne as the white beauty had identified herself immediately fell for the African boy, mesmerized by his philosophy and determination. Both secretly met during the hour of recess and enjoyed each other’s company. While he talked about freedom, Anne rested her head on his shoulder, amazed at this African boys will that still seemed to be intact even though the whites had started inflicting their terror upon him and his brothers.
Though Anne was from the upper class of Whites and was the daughter of the factory owner, she did not mind mingling with the workers, as she was open minded and tolerant.
Peter on the other hand had no luck. No girl had ever come his way; neither did he know of his brother’s girlfriend.
One day, as Peter walked out of the factory during recess he almost fainted when he saw his brother and Anne at such close quarters. He was confused and didn’t know how to react to this, but mustered the courage to go up to his brother.
On seeing Peter, Anne dashed towards her father’s office while Charles looked at his twin in embarrassment. On being thoroughly interrogated, Peter found out that there was a ‘relationship’ between the factory owner’s daughter and his brother, to which his reaction was hysterical.
Charles tried to explain to his brother that his mate was a warm lady, and respected their culture, but Peter was shocked from inside and reluctantly thought of the day his parents would find out.
***********
Time passed and soon the boys came home bruised or bleeding. These times Margaret couldn’t contain her agony any more and she cried out pitying her fortunes.
Once, Charles’s right ear had been cut bloodthirstily while Peter received an inhumane lash on his belly. Margaret quietly bore it all in her.
***********
The twin’s birthdays were around the corner. Margaret had decided to bake her sons a scrumptious chocolate cake with the left over money the family had, as a birthday present. So she prepared the cake mix the night before and left it in the kitchen to moisten while together Dean- jean and her retired to their room.
There was a knock on Charles’s window that night that startled him. As he awoke, he saw a white apparition floating outside, in their backyard.
But it wasn’t what Charles had thought it to be. Rather, to his pleasant surprise, Anne stood by his window and blew him flying kisses. Charles stealthily opened the window and both kissed each other.
Anne produced her hand in which was a letter saying ‘Happy Birthday’ concluded with a short poem on how much she loved him.
Charles was in tears and invited Anne inside for a glass of water. Peter during this, slept as if aloof of the world.
Charles opened the backdoor through which Anne ran in and both fell into an embrace. Charles told Anne to wait while he went to the room to bring her a gift that he had bought.
Meanwhile, Anne, seeing the cake mix felt tempted. She searched her pocket and took out a packet of Vanilla, which she had intended to give her mother-in law.
Anne quietly added some vanilla to the came mix and left it. She hoped this would enhance the flavouring. Charles quickly hurried and gave his love a ring he had managed to buy from a cheap vendor, however Anne accepted his gift humbly.
Both parted and waited for morning to arrive.
***********
The morning was a busy one. As the boys left for work, Margaret prepared the cake. Today she herself had decided to give her children their gift at the factory. But Margaret had overlooked the layer of white Vanilla that had been added to the black cake mix, in a hurry.
The cake was baked, packed and Margaret hurried to the factory with her husband. Once there, she made her way to where Charles and Peter worked.
She offered them the cake when suddenly there was a shout from afar. Mr. Hawkins, Anne’s father, the factory manager, blood- eyed walked towards Margaret as if he was about to trample the delicate thing.
Margaret watched, scared. “Give me some of your cake lady,” said Mr. Hawkins. This took the Crossbills for surprise as Margaret reluctantly offered the manager cake.
It was only then that she noticed the layer of white in the black and was furious that somebody had tampered with her cake mix.
“It was me,” said a faint voice and everybody turned. To their astonishment, Anne stood looking down at the ground while Margaret tried making sense of the situation. Anne willingly walked up to her father and explained the whole situation.
Mr. Hawkins, now tempted at the cake, wanted to take a bite before leaving and he did. The strict manager then smiled for the first time ever, and the cake had perhaps made him do so.
The workers cheered as the white Mr. Hawkins devoured the black (and white) cake.
Margaret smiled too and Anne hugged Charles tightly.
“Just like the Vanilla to the cake, this girl has added lots of colour to our lives,” said Dean- jean pointing to Anne.
The Apartheid had followed a mass evacuation. Millions of African families flew from their motherland and looked for home in an alien country. The Crossbills were one such family.
Dean-jean Crossbill -the head of the family- had taken refuge in one of the ships traveling from Africa to London and had thus managed to keep his wife Margaret and sons Charles and Peter safe.
The Crossbills traveled for days. So many Negro’s had boarded the cargo ship- Isabella- that there was fear of an epidemic. The sailors though tried to share their resources with the families but there was extensive demand thus they decided not to part with their belongings.
Somehow, dangling between starvation and hope, the Crossbills were one of the first families who made it out of Africa to London. But there was more in store for them.
London did not show much respect for these Africans either. Though the men were employed as workers in the factories, they were given miserly treatment and threatened for life if they didn’t work efficiently.
One night there was a knock on the door. Margaret opened it to see a bleeding Dean- jean confronting her. On questioning her husband, Margaret found out that everyday random groups of workers were lashed, and today it had been her husbands turn.
Bearing tears of anger and pride for the man who worked in spite of the torture, Margaret kissed her husband and cleaned his wounds, while her sons watched, dazed.
Gradually, Dean- jean would come home blue- eyed, or bruised. Margaret soon got used to her husbands condition and accepted her fate. Though the family had forbidden their children to work in the dreaded factories (even if it costed them their lives), soon Charles and Peter were ready to take on the risk. They wanted to earn as their father too had retired.
Margaret knew that initially the boys would feel brave, but soon the English would give them the same treatment her husband had received. She feared that day.
***********
At the factory Charles had met up with a girl. Anne as the white beauty had identified herself immediately fell for the African boy, mesmerized by his philosophy and determination. Both secretly met during the hour of recess and enjoyed each other’s company. While he talked about freedom, Anne rested her head on his shoulder, amazed at this African boys will that still seemed to be intact even though the whites had started inflicting their terror upon him and his brothers.
Though Anne was from the upper class of Whites and was the daughter of the factory owner, she did not mind mingling with the workers, as she was open minded and tolerant.
Peter on the other hand had no luck. No girl had ever come his way; neither did he know of his brother’s girlfriend.
One day, as Peter walked out of the factory during recess he almost fainted when he saw his brother and Anne at such close quarters. He was confused and didn’t know how to react to this, but mustered the courage to go up to his brother.
On seeing Peter, Anne dashed towards her father’s office while Charles looked at his twin in embarrassment. On being thoroughly interrogated, Peter found out that there was a ‘relationship’ between the factory owner’s daughter and his brother, to which his reaction was hysterical.
Charles tried to explain to his brother that his mate was a warm lady, and respected their culture, but Peter was shocked from inside and reluctantly thought of the day his parents would find out.
***********
Time passed and soon the boys came home bruised or bleeding. These times Margaret couldn’t contain her agony any more and she cried out pitying her fortunes.
Once, Charles’s right ear had been cut bloodthirstily while Peter received an inhumane lash on his belly. Margaret quietly bore it all in her.
***********
The twin’s birthdays were around the corner. Margaret had decided to bake her sons a scrumptious chocolate cake with the left over money the family had, as a birthday present. So she prepared the cake mix the night before and left it in the kitchen to moisten while together Dean- jean and her retired to their room.
There was a knock on Charles’s window that night that startled him. As he awoke, he saw a white apparition floating outside, in their backyard.
But it wasn’t what Charles had thought it to be. Rather, to his pleasant surprise, Anne stood by his window and blew him flying kisses. Charles stealthily opened the window and both kissed each other.
Anne produced her hand in which was a letter saying ‘Happy Birthday’ concluded with a short poem on how much she loved him.
Charles was in tears and invited Anne inside for a glass of water. Peter during this, slept as if aloof of the world.
Charles opened the backdoor through which Anne ran in and both fell into an embrace. Charles told Anne to wait while he went to the room to bring her a gift that he had bought.
Meanwhile, Anne, seeing the cake mix felt tempted. She searched her pocket and took out a packet of Vanilla, which she had intended to give her mother-in law.
Anne quietly added some vanilla to the came mix and left it. She hoped this would enhance the flavouring. Charles quickly hurried and gave his love a ring he had managed to buy from a cheap vendor, however Anne accepted his gift humbly.
Both parted and waited for morning to arrive.
***********
The morning was a busy one. As the boys left for work, Margaret prepared the cake. Today she herself had decided to give her children their gift at the factory. But Margaret had overlooked the layer of white Vanilla that had been added to the black cake mix, in a hurry.
The cake was baked, packed and Margaret hurried to the factory with her husband. Once there, she made her way to where Charles and Peter worked.
She offered them the cake when suddenly there was a shout from afar. Mr. Hawkins, Anne’s father, the factory manager, blood- eyed walked towards Margaret as if he was about to trample the delicate thing.
Margaret watched, scared. “Give me some of your cake lady,” said Mr. Hawkins. This took the Crossbills for surprise as Margaret reluctantly offered the manager cake.
It was only then that she noticed the layer of white in the black and was furious that somebody had tampered with her cake mix.
“It was me,” said a faint voice and everybody turned. To their astonishment, Anne stood looking down at the ground while Margaret tried making sense of the situation. Anne willingly walked up to her father and explained the whole situation.
Mr. Hawkins, now tempted at the cake, wanted to take a bite before leaving and he did. The strict manager then smiled for the first time ever, and the cake had perhaps made him do so.
The workers cheered as the white Mr. Hawkins devoured the black (and white) cake.
Margaret smiled too and Anne hugged Charles tightly.
“Just like the Vanilla to the cake, this girl has added lots of colour to our lives,” said Dean- jean pointing to Anne.
The Supernatural World… Within Our Minds
The first thing in order to understand the paranormal phenomenon is that anything and everything can be paranormal or take the form of a paranormal activity. For example, why did your granny get up, fire in her eyes, one morning, and haul a piano at you? Sounds rather impossible but in a world full of superstitions, even grandma can do the extra- ordinary.
But what compelled grandma to do such a thing? It certainly can’t be her selfless love for you. Nor can she undergo some physical or hormonal metamorphoses one morning and develop biceps the size of boulders.
The answer is hidden somewhere in our mind. Even though we don’t want to believe that grandma was under the influence of some supernatural power, a particular portion of our mind quickly comprehends that grandma was possessed. That a violent spirit had gotten into her body and had changed her body metabolism so that grandma could haul piano’s at you.
This is really not our fault, for the human psyche is intriguing. We try to look out for the most mysterious and oddest details in every circumstance. And perhaps psychological analysis has led us to do some exemplary research on supernatural and paranormal powers.
Probably the first term that comes to mind is ‘Ghosts.’ What is important to understand is that Ghosts are not always clothed in white tunics and do not always carry heavy, sonorous chains with them. There have been many misconceptions and these are the ones that have lead to a universal hatred or fear for ghosts.
At first, what is a ghost? The term Ghost comes from the old English word ‘Gast’ which originally meant life -force. Later the people decided to give it broader meaning- souls. As times changed and as deaths became more frequent, the term gast was used to refer to somebody who had died. i.e. a dead soul and it was from here that Ghosts have evolved. Little did these narrow-minded, primitive Englishmen and Englishwomen know that their creation of Ghosts would haunt the human race for centuries to come and maybe even after we’re all gone!
Though there is no ‘real’ evidence about the existence of ghosts, many say they have had a paranormal encounter.
Psychiatrists and psychic detectives have been able to find alternative ways of creating conditions that would support feelings of melancholy. For example, the human brain is very sensitive to sounds. Sounds have various effects on the emotions of a person.
Locking a person in a dark room, without any windows or lighting for that matter, and playing a loud piano will stimulate feelings of manipulation, woe and drowsiness. These are the feelings that the victims of ghostly possession have narrated to psychiatrists. But largely, evidence from the past suggests that there is some power, which is negative that governs these supernatural feelings. While some will delve deeply into finding what causes the human psyche to produce such lurid images of pain, death and horror, to some, it is all- true no matter how much painstaking evidence is produced.
To study the matter from the perspective of a true- believer of Ghosts let’s study these vicious, psychological creations that have really stimulated debates on natural .vs. supernatural.
One of the main influencing factors of paranormal vision is Vedic literature. Scheming red eyed Brahmins, clad in the utmost horrendous apparel, and then there are the Vettalls who will force you to accompany them on a roller coater ride round the cemetery. Then there are the household Preetas who curse their cruel mother- in- laws and dance madly on rooftops!
What to say of India, abroad has it’s own share of authentic spooks. While the Viennese castles echo with sounds of their ruthless queen Marie Antoinette who runs around palaces breaking expensive furniture, in Transylvania, a rather hyped Dracula who flies lifelessly pitying his sad after- life of a bat, has been creating news.
There are six kinds of ghosts:
Replay Ghosts- who happen to appear on the spot of their death every night and take it upon themselves to drive the human race crazy with their antics.
Revenge ghosts- who will not stay calm until they haven’t taken all of the ice- cream from the evil ice- cream man, who had once reprimanded them.
Crisis ghosts- who appear at the time of a crisis and even if the situation can be handled, they make sure it turns into an un-handle-able mass of pandemonium.
Poltergeists- who will be of great help in breaking old crockery and will force you to spend some money on buying Borosil plates.
Animal ghosts- who bark day and night and pester you until you’re forced to commit suicide.
And Phantom ghosts- who are nothing but characters from your old comic books expressing their anger on being misplaced or manhandled.
And thus you see, the Supernatural world is like a magic elixir, capable of turning frail grandma into a wrestler of generous proportions and much more…
But what compelled grandma to do such a thing? It certainly can’t be her selfless love for you. Nor can she undergo some physical or hormonal metamorphoses one morning and develop biceps the size of boulders.
The answer is hidden somewhere in our mind. Even though we don’t want to believe that grandma was under the influence of some supernatural power, a particular portion of our mind quickly comprehends that grandma was possessed. That a violent spirit had gotten into her body and had changed her body metabolism so that grandma could haul piano’s at you.
This is really not our fault, for the human psyche is intriguing. We try to look out for the most mysterious and oddest details in every circumstance. And perhaps psychological analysis has led us to do some exemplary research on supernatural and paranormal powers.
Probably the first term that comes to mind is ‘Ghosts.’ What is important to understand is that Ghosts are not always clothed in white tunics and do not always carry heavy, sonorous chains with them. There have been many misconceptions and these are the ones that have lead to a universal hatred or fear for ghosts.
At first, what is a ghost? The term Ghost comes from the old English word ‘Gast’ which originally meant life -force. Later the people decided to give it broader meaning- souls. As times changed and as deaths became more frequent, the term gast was used to refer to somebody who had died. i.e. a dead soul and it was from here that Ghosts have evolved. Little did these narrow-minded, primitive Englishmen and Englishwomen know that their creation of Ghosts would haunt the human race for centuries to come and maybe even after we’re all gone!
Though there is no ‘real’ evidence about the existence of ghosts, many say they have had a paranormal encounter.
Psychiatrists and psychic detectives have been able to find alternative ways of creating conditions that would support feelings of melancholy. For example, the human brain is very sensitive to sounds. Sounds have various effects on the emotions of a person.
Locking a person in a dark room, without any windows or lighting for that matter, and playing a loud piano will stimulate feelings of manipulation, woe and drowsiness. These are the feelings that the victims of ghostly possession have narrated to psychiatrists. But largely, evidence from the past suggests that there is some power, which is negative that governs these supernatural feelings. While some will delve deeply into finding what causes the human psyche to produce such lurid images of pain, death and horror, to some, it is all- true no matter how much painstaking evidence is produced.
To study the matter from the perspective of a true- believer of Ghosts let’s study these vicious, psychological creations that have really stimulated debates on natural .vs. supernatural.
One of the main influencing factors of paranormal vision is Vedic literature. Scheming red eyed Brahmins, clad in the utmost horrendous apparel, and then there are the Vettalls who will force you to accompany them on a roller coater ride round the cemetery. Then there are the household Preetas who curse their cruel mother- in- laws and dance madly on rooftops!
What to say of India, abroad has it’s own share of authentic spooks. While the Viennese castles echo with sounds of their ruthless queen Marie Antoinette who runs around palaces breaking expensive furniture, in Transylvania, a rather hyped Dracula who flies lifelessly pitying his sad after- life of a bat, has been creating news.
There are six kinds of ghosts:
Replay Ghosts- who happen to appear on the spot of their death every night and take it upon themselves to drive the human race crazy with their antics.
Revenge ghosts- who will not stay calm until they haven’t taken all of the ice- cream from the evil ice- cream man, who had once reprimanded them.
Crisis ghosts- who appear at the time of a crisis and even if the situation can be handled, they make sure it turns into an un-handle-able mass of pandemonium.
Poltergeists- who will be of great help in breaking old crockery and will force you to spend some money on buying Borosil plates.
Animal ghosts- who bark day and night and pester you until you’re forced to commit suicide.
And Phantom ghosts- who are nothing but characters from your old comic books expressing their anger on being misplaced or manhandled.
And thus you see, the Supernatural world is like a magic elixir, capable of turning frail grandma into a wrestler of generous proportions and much more…
D ivination- An Art Bearing The Hue Of A Thousand Years
Man has lived through the past successfully. Be it through his endeavours of surviving to be the fittest or adapting the pragmatic approach of coherence with change, the past has yielded what the present nurtures to sculpt into the ‘perfect’ being.
Yet what the future holds is entirely unforeseen. Though it is overlooked on certain parameters, as it seems to be inevitable, today, life has taken a bend that allows it to see deeper into the thicket- To question belief, shatter fallacy of thought and most of all attempt to reveal what the Pandora’s box shall eventually shed light upon…tomorrow.
***
Though there is no real proof that clearly showcases the evidence of tomorrow’s morning, the fact remains that certain customs do eventually surface and that majority of the world believes in them as they govern it all.
Well many may question, that the future is still inevitable, why not satisfy yourself by trying to believe what the customs of our forefathers have presented to the whole world in the form of various tools that can be used as a medium of scrying and perhaps developing preconceived, yet hopeful notions about the future?
***
One such tool is D ivination or the art of foretelling the future using different methods that the divinor may decide. Infact, it is believed that divination as a concept emerged into the realm of reality some thousand years ago in China by studying the cracks on eggshells. Thus gradually, not only has half of china, but also half of the world has adopted these ancient methods. Life arguably can still not be called inevitable doom!
D ivination is a vague process. It involves the divinor to be a keen observer, one who has an eye for detail yet retains his distance from his tool as otherwise he might be made a medium.
***
Here are various techniques of D ivination that have been practiced for generations: -
Tasseomancy- reading tea leaves.
Smokescrying- visualising the future in smoke.
Cloudmastery- interpreting cloud formations.
Windscrying- talking to the wind.
Dreamscrying- interpreting dreams.
Ornithomancy- interpreting migrational pattern of birds.
Lecanomancy- reading marine rocks.
Hakata- transforming into a spirit of the ancestor.
Crotimance- practicing divination on cakes.
Yeastscrying- divination with bread.
Dactylomancy- divination with rings.
Ceroscopy- reading wax on water.
Phrenology- reading the bumps of the skull.
Arithmancy- divination by numbers.
Onychomancy- divination using fingernail samples.
Axinomancy- reading axe blades.
Belomancy- divination through arrows.
***
D ivination involves the divinor to practise and array of techniques. Thus there is freedom of choice coupled with the psychological satisfaction of obtaining results. What the Egyptians had invented years prior to independence can now be rationally (or irrationally) applied to every single being present because of the mobility of choice.
Often the laymen confuse E.S.P. (extra- sensory- powers) and D ivination. However, sceptics choose to rationally reason out the fact that while Divination can successfully be practiced among all, E.S.P. that stems from certain characteristics common to only the minds of some has scientific backing. Thus it is popularity versus fact, but not fact versus fiction!
Extra-Sensory Perception is defined as the ability to acquire information by paranormal means independent of any known physical senses or deduction from previous experience.
Certain E.S.P. are excessively popular, Clairvoyance for instance. After the Titanic disaster in 1912, certain sceptics claimed to have had a clairvoyant vision on the devastation. Further, these theories were backed by certain people’s reactions that stemmed from a continuous series of visions-precognitions or termed telekinesis (ability to move things without touching them) of the sea gods. While some received messages through paranormal encounters termed out of body experiences other preferred calling the disaster the handiwork of mediums (connectors with the dead).
***
D ivination is perhaps the most practiced style of fortune telling. It has captivated mankind for centuries. There are various reasons as to why this ancient art is still prevalent: -
~It uses inexpensive techniques
~Does not involve any sort of formal training
~Features in folk tales and fables
~Has a vast range of techniques
~Was first used among primitive beings
~Can be practised by practically anybody
Thus, D ivination holds the position of the primary tool for fortuntelling, as it is not only an epitome of beliefs but also the voice of all the primitive beings for whom there is no such expression as the ‘inevitable end’.
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