An analysis of errors...

Sneha's hands were sweaty and she continuously wiped them off with a white girlish handkerchief embroidered with an 'S'. She was tensed but she had to be careful about every step she was working. She continued mixing various chemicals, measuring them accurately. They had wonderful colors - pink, white, green. She adjusted her glasses over the right spot on her little nose and patiently continued to mix the solutions. 'God, Please make it right this time. Please let there be no blunders. Help me' she continued praying as the colors dissolved one into the other to give a uniform shade of pink. Sneha was trying to work on an experiment which she recently read in the internet. She had discussed it with her teachers and took every guidance they had to offer.

She looked around the quiet room, so peaceful to be alone at times' she thought. Her pretty hands continued to move the flask in a clockwise direction, her body showed a tendency to move in the same manner. She smiled... and told herself it looks all right. At that very moment a loud voice 'Where were you? I was looking......' The voice was sudden and alarming to Sneha, she dropped the flask and it's contents were all over the floor. The flask broke into what seemed like a thousand pieces. Sneha felt devastated. The owner of the voice, a fifty year old or so lady, her teacher could not believe what just happened and showered Sneha with abusing words. Sneha was sorry for what happened, she said she was frightened by the voice. Her teacher continued with a series of insults. At the end of the fiery monologue, Sneha swore that she would have nothing to do with solutions or the chemistry laboratory again...


The inspiration behind this piece of writing are Albert Einstein's words of wisdom:

" If someone feels that they never had made a mistake in their life, then that means that they never had tried a new thing in their life."

Many people say that they learn from their mistakes but how many of us are really bold enough to 'make' a mistake and to 'forgive' a mistake?  

The book that changed everything

#206 - The book that changed everything

Is there a book that you read at a particular time in your life that changed everything for you?  Is there a book you think should be written that would change everything? Words have an incredible power if they are read/ heard by the right person at the right time.  What collection of words has been powerful for you?

Books have defined the growing phases of my personality. Most of the time my hands have picked up the right books at the right time, my heart fell in love with some of the authors and I read and re-read their books to relive the joy of reading! There have been rare occasions when I fell for the book cover and loved the contents of the book (RARE). To name a few 'life changing authors and books':

• R. K. Narayan's Bachelor of Arts. This was my first proper novel, I was fifteen when I read it. It changed my world because I was introduced to the simple writing of this great man who moved hearts. This creator of Malgudi had an excellent story telling style. Bachelor of arts was a simple love story of a student of Malgudi. Sitting on the banks of river Sarayu one day, he falls in love with a green sari clad woman. It follows the emotions of this young lad through a heart break and how he finally succeeds in life. 

•  Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. The intensity with which I read this one is unforgettable and unforgivable. I was lost in a world of Nabokov's passion for words. To de-tangle myself and enter the mundane world seemed absurd to me. One of the best 7 days of my life. The dictionary was stuck to my hand, I must have noted a hundred words during the entire reading of this classic. It was  worth all the trouble. some of my favorite excerts from the novel:

Lolita, light of my life,fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

• Salman Rushdie's 'Moor's last sigh'. This wasn't my first Rushdie novel, but it was my best one. I fell for the whole portuguese and jews concept and the spices, the fiery tongues, the chipkali paintings, the grey haired beuatiful woman and the young and lovely women! And the moor, of course! Wonderful. Complete. Humorous. Love. Hate. Passion. Jealousy. Name it, and you will find it in this one book. My favorite scene from the book:

So it was that Aurora da Gama got the idea of murdering her grandmother from the lips of the intended victim herself. Afer that she began making plans, but these increasingly macabre fantasies of poisons and clif-edges were invariably scuppered by pragmatic problems, such as the difculty of getting hold of a cobra and inserting it between Epifania’s bedsheets, or the fat refusal of the old harridan to walk on any terrain that, as she put it, ‘tiltoed up or down’. And although Aurora knew very well where to lay her hands on a good sharp kitchen knife, and was certain that her strength was already great enough to choke the life out of Epifania, she nevertheless ruled out these options, too, because she had no intention of being found out, and too obvious an assault might lead to the asking of uncomfortable questions. Te perfect crime having failed to make its nature known, Aurora continued to play the perfect granddaughter; but brooded on, privately, though it never occurred to her to notice that in her broodings there was more than a little of Epifania’s ruthlessness.

These are but to name a few, many others remain to be talked about like Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One hundered years of solitude, Peter Altenberg, Hermann Hesse! 

 

The Shakespeare Wallah

The past seemed to unwind in front of her eyes, she felt the ground beneath her feet shake for a while. The burden of the past seemed to flow from her body into the earth and hit her back with double the intensity. As Kamala stood firmly holding the letter in her hand, she felt a sudden urge to collapse into a chair. Time flies. But she realized that time 'tries' at first and then flies. How she longed to turn the hour glass back so that she could un-do everything she did! As she settled down in the arm chair, her daughter's voice lingered in the background 'Amma, I am waiting from such a long time.....'. She looked at the letter for one last time. The handwriting was strikingly familiar. She had no two minds about who wrote it. There was only one question that haunted her. 'Why so late?' The letter read:

Dearest Kamala,

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Shakespeare



I wish to see you one last time before I die. Please grace me with the last desire and free me from all mortal bondage! Waiting for you at the railway station. 18/07/08

regards
.......
(Shakespeare Wallah)

She began to recite the sonnet again 'And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand' with a voice which was so muffled that her daughter thought she was talking to herself. Vandana cried to her 'Amma what's wrong?' Kamala was shaken she quickly folded the letter and hid it under the table cloth and turned to her twenty year old daughter. 'Nothing, I was just feeling a little tired. Come, I will serve you dinner' she said and led her daughter to the dining area. They had dinner silently. Her daughter was busy with the mobile phone. 'She is propbably sending text messages to Ashish her boy friend' thought Kamala to herself. And again her mind slipped into past.

She thought about him everyday of her life. About the poetry classes, the sonnets, the books, the library hours. How much she was in love with Shakespeare and the Shakespeare Wallah! They would spend hours together reading sonnets and acting them on stage and wonder how beautiful everything in the world was. But when the time came for her to choose between him and her family..... That was when she wanted to return the hourglass to. To set it at that particular moment in the railway station......

She sent him a sonnet which was a sign that she was ready to go with him anywhere in the world and leave behind her family. It was raining that night and the cycle shop fellow delivered the mysterious letter to him.

O Romeo, Romeo,
wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name,
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

That was all written in it. He packed his bags and turned towards the railway station. But Kamala, something held her back. She didn't feel she was doing the right thing. She packed her bag and un-packed them and decided to forget everything about Shakespeare and Shakespeare wallah. Later that year she got married to a Mathematics professor. Never did she hear about the Shakespeare wallah again. Her Mathematician husband did not understand Shakespeare and Kamala hated numbers but they made a happy couple.

Now her long last love is back. She did not wait for a good sign. In her heart, she recited repeatedly:

O Romeo, Romeo,
wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name,
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

And with tears pouring out of her eyes reached the railway station. She had to set right the clock!!!

à la mode......

#133 - My Style
The prompt this week is: My Style. Do you know what your style is? Or you have you ever said, "That's not my style!" Do you have a personal style? What do you think about style? It's a weird word when you look at it. What do you make of style?

Style is a weird word. I am confused about my style. But I am sure about one thing which is that I have no one particular style. I try different things. I love some styles, I hate some styles and I am biased to try some styles. To share with some of my wierd experiences of Styles is my sole purpose of writing this post.....

I love my curly long hair. It's been a trademark from my childhood. Even in my wildest dreams I cannot imagine 'Straight haired Medhini'. As a kid, I wasn't naughty but I was of that sort which never believed in grooming/ combing hair. The ones which could easily recognized from a distance because there was ugly/sticky/non oiled hair sticking out of their head. Like how other kids of my age used to panic at the word 'Bath' I would panic at the word 'Comb'. Once a week my mother would be successful in completing the task of properly plaiting my hair and it always annoyed me. I loved looking like a rag. I never believed in princess and their fairy tales. As I grew older, I was allured to the many ways of grooming. My little sister was an expert with cosmetics, she's been using lipsticks since the age of four. I loved to look at her applying red lip sticks with those tiny hands. She's been my Guru (teacher) in grooming.

Now when I ponder about the word 'style', I realize that the best style is to be 'yourself'. Instead of using the word 'style' as a basic accessory, it's more rightly used as 'Attitude'. Being comfortable in what you wear which reflects what you really are! Trying to portray some one by cheap imitaion is never fulfilling. Seeing yourself in the mirror with a beaming smile is definitely more pleasing than having to wear high heels and trying to dress like the Miss World herself. Using make up or wearing expensive clothes doesn't make one stylish neither atteding fashion shows and Page 3 parties makes one stylish. If you truly believe in what you are (with make up or without), that's the end of it.

Style really is being able to express yourself ....... Everything else is imitation!

Rosy Encounter

From that day on there would be electricity for us too but at that moment we were unaware of the fact that our lives were about to change. It was the day the prime minister visited our little village.

My mother dressed me in a pink frock, I looked like a 'English girl' with rosy cheeks and red lips. My hair was oiled and then plaited in a manner that even the strongest of the winds could not dare disturb. All three sisters looked so much alike that day. Everyone said we looked like dolls. I knew I looked the loveliest and the prime minister would only accept the rose I am going to present him. They said he loved roses, he loved children and the white dove. We all called him Chacha Nehru.

I had preserved a big red rose for him. Hiding it from my mother and sisters was very tough but I was determined to do it. I carefully removed the thorns, few of which had hurt me in the process. Covering it in a kerchief I followed my sisters to join the rest of the village in welcoming Chacha.

I had never seen so many people together. Only a few weeks before this event there was a wedding in a neighboring village and it was my first time to a wedding. Mom said now I am big enough to go to a wedding and feed myself, I was five then. I clutched my sister's hand tightly. She whispered into my ears 'What if you get lost here?' and it scared me like hell. My heart started racing and tears were beginning to form. I whispered back 'will you come to look for me?' and she answered 'No, I can play with all your dolls and wear all your frocks. Why would I look for you?' I ran to my father and asked to be carried.

I know I am safe in my father's arms, he will never lose me. Something soft in my hand started to crumple, it was the rose that I was carrying, I had already destroyed it. The stalk with a few petals was all that remained now. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I silently cried lest get caught with the 'rose episode'.

Suddenly there was news that cars were already reaching our village. Huge groups of men descended from the first car, I could hardly see who they are. But they were big and tall with big mustaches. Then a tall man in white emerged wearing a white 'topi'. people started shouting slogans of praise. As we walked down the path many fell to his feet, handed him garlands and shook hands. It was a special day for all of us. We loved him even before we knew him.

As he walked past us, my father touched his feet in reverence I stood below and raised my torn rose high up. Chacha smiled at me and he looked like an angel. The rose remained in his pocket for a long time that day. I told all my friends about the rose. I still do, even after sixty years.......

Hello

The house was getting hotter and hotter as the number of people pouring into Mr.Biswas's home grew at a geometric progression rate. Mrs. Biswas's was busy filling and re-filling plates with Benagali sweets and passing to the guests. The date 09/08/1956 was a significant day in pages of history of lane 345, House number 421 and a very special day for Mr.Biswas. He wore the best of his clothes and spoke with the joy of a child explaining them about the instrument. The first telephone instrument was being installed at Mr.Biswas's house.

The rumors began to surface a month earlier in lane 345, Tagore nagar, whispers of 'Telephone' or 'talking machine' followed him everywhere he went. When Mr.Biswas Senior heard about this, he told his son 'I always told you this day is going to come. It's already predicted in the scriptures that people in kaliyug will witness such scientific discoveries and reap it's benefits. Science is invading all our homes and minds. We shall welcome it.' His son beamed happily that his father wasn't like the rest of the elders who detested science and thought it contaminated the religion.

Before 'the' day actually arrived, the house bustled with so much activity surrounding the topic of telephone. It became habitual for the family members and neighbors to sit together in the porch and discussions were conducted about the celebrations of welcoming telephone into their homes. An inquisitive neighbor would suggest the right location for the telephone to be placed inside the house 'Mr.Biswas you need to get a separate desk for the telephone. above the reach of kids.' This would trigger a discussion and each person in the crowd would point a new location for the new arrival. The ladies always preferred to get into the backyards for talks which sometimes deviated from 'telephone' to gossips to newest recipes. There was a practice session for saying 'Hello'. The children played at all times and were all around the house. The house became the centre of social activities.


Mr.Biswas got up early that day. He couldn't sleep the whole night. His mind was full of anticipations and anxiety. Mrs.Biswas brought the cup of hot coffee for her husband. The vermilion over her forehead matched the color of her saree and her eyes already seemed empty of energy. 'The day has just begun.... you didn't sleep well last night?' he spoke lovingly. 'I was thinking all night. About all the good times we had at our home in anticipation for the telephone. And the day has finally arrived....' she said with a bit of grief. 'Aren't you happy about it' he asked. 'what if you stop talking to me and only talk to the telephone from now on?' she replied admist sobs. Mr.Biswas laughed out loud and said 'Silly woman. It's only an instrument not a person. I promise you I will not stop talking to you' His wife sighed with relief and wiped her tears and walked away saying 'I have a lot of work today.'

Telephone arrived finally among celebrations. Everyone rejoiced and welcome it like a new 'bride'. There were people who travelled from the far end of the city to have a look at the new arrival. 'Oh! this is the Telephone' they would say. Some would request for holding the talkpiece and talk into it. But Mr.Biswas handed the talk piece to his wife and urged her to say the first word. She shyly said 'Hello'.