THE CONFUSED METAPHOR IN THE MAKING

Heming Ram Chelsea was an inquisitive man, who spent more time deliberating of what people would be like than actually understanding them. It was a game for him to match the person with their corresponding stereotype. He never believed in the progressive postmodern jive of multiple narratives, everything he said can be put into one box.

As he sipped his coffee at the poloros cafe he noticed a young man enter, neatly clad wearing a confident smile and swinging his arms vigourously. He must definitely be rich,unmarried and working as an under the table operator for a business thought Heming. To his dismay this young man walked towards him with his coffee and an expression that forced him to say " would you like to join?" In a gruffy voice he replied " That would be charming" charming... thought Heming that was not the reply he was hoping for, what with his foreboding beard,unkempt hair and his clutching onto a copy of 'A vindication of Natural Society' by Edmund Burke ( This was his toolbox of isolation). " My name is Rohington Jerum and you are ?" already uncomfortable he replied in a hesitant tone " Heming Ram." " Wonderful, I work right around the corner, I deal with antiques-I do not deal per say but I make the deals happen, what is it that you do apart from sipping coffee with burke?" not so impressed by his sly wit Hem replied " Well, I do a bit of a lot of things, I served in the army for a few years got bored of killing and decided to do something more appealing so I began to write and comment on the happenings of the world." " Tell me more" pleaded Rhington, annoyed by the request Hem began to narrate his undefined occupation " Well, I study a particular event from any time period and try and fit it in the current political context. Like a few weeks ago my piece on the Churchill, to be more specific in 1899 churchill was a journalist at the Boer War he was captured but he managed to escape but only this time Winnie was covering the war in Iraq and was captured by american G.Is... " Rohington looked amazed at this revelation " That is bloody brilliant! but how do you come up with these experiences as in how do you recreate them in your mind?"

Hem now knew he was going to be having more than just this cup of dark Kopi Luwak." Ro if I may, this recreation is possible because I believe in what I call specific reality, there is one reality which is the truth but multiple perceptions which are false. I undo all that crap of different understandings and just dig up the truth from my research." Shocked Ro now seemed offended by this concept " So how do you know if your truth is true? " In a squemish tone Hem retorted " Look kido, it is true because everyone else believes it is what happened. Its like this JFK is dead its true he is not an Elvis to be found in every corner. I only talk about JFK as dead I do not venture into how he died" interesting thought Ro. As another scheme under his belt Hem decided to unveil his favourite weopen a thought experiment- " Well Ro what if I maufactured reality, imagine you are walking on a bed of smooth beach sand towards a shapeless figure and it will take the shape that you want it to take. The trick is to find out the right spot to stop because if you get close enough it will become real" Ro raised his eyebrows and clenched his jaws as he arrived at an answer, he hastily replied " I would imagine the shape of a young maiden and I would go close enough till she was real"

Hem laughed as he was now sure that Ro was unmarried. " The only thing I gained from your comment is that you need to find a wife soon apart from that you did not get the point of the experiment. The shapeless form is the truth and its shape becomes finer as our perception chisels it and finally we dwell so deep into our perceptions that they become real. Its like this cup of coffee we both know its present in front of me which is true.I then take a sip and I realise that I do not like it much so I then tell everyone that the coffee here at Poloros is ghastly.In all of this the coffee being present in front of me is true the rest my friends is bollocks. I am just trying to strip away the truth from the fancy dressing of unreal perception in its basic form"

Unnerved by this interaction Rohington had his last sip of coffee and said " You know Hem in your world I do not know if this event is true as I am percieving it. your heady conversation has made me question whether I am here or in a parallel state, enjoy your coffee" Hem wore a sign of contentment as he could finally go back to sipping his charming dark coffee with Burke by his side.

Human Being - Being Human

Whenever I'm disappointed with my spot in life, I stop and think about

little Jamie Scott.

Jamie was trying out for a part in the school play. His mother told me

that he'd set his heart on being in it, though she feared he would not be

chosen.

On the day the parts were awarded, I went with her to collect him after

school. Jamie rushed up to her, eyes shining with pride and excitement...

'Guess what, Mom,' he shouted, and then said those words that will remain

a lesson to me....'I've been chosen to clap and cheer.'

- source unknown

Neipayasam / Sweet Milk

Sweet Milk

Translated (by Late Kamala Surayya) from the Malayalam story ‘Neipayasam’ by Sindhu V. Nair with TLM

A man, returning home at night from a simple cremation, having thanked everyone. We could simply call him Achhan. Because only three children in the city know his value. They call him Achha.

Sitting in the bus among strangers, he went over every second of that day.

Woke up in the morning to her voice. "Unniye, don’t go on sleeping covered up like that. It’s Monday." She was calling the eldest son. She then moved to the kitchen, her white sari crumpled. Brought me a big glass of coffee. Then? What happened then? Did she say anything that should not be forgotten? However much he tried, he could not remember. "Don’t go on sleeping covered up like that. It’s Monday." Only that line lingered. He chanted it to himself, as if it was a prayer. If he forgot it, the loss would be unbearable.

The children had been with him when he left for work in the morning. She brought them their tiffin in small aluminium boxes. A smear of turmeric on her right hand.

At work, he did not think of her at all. They had married, against the wishes of their parents, after a courtship of a year or two. But they never did regret it. Lack of money, the children’s spells of illness — they were often dejected. She became careless of her appearance. To an extent, he lost the ability to laugh.

Still, they loved each other. Their three children also loved them. They were boys. Unni, 10, Balan, 7, and Rajan, 5. Three boys whose faces were always smeared with dirt, who had neither outstanding beauty nor brilliance. But the mother and the father said to each other —

"Unni is always making things. He has a taste for engineering."

"We should make Balan a doctor. See his forehead: such a wide forehead denotes intelligence."

"Rajan is not afraid of the dark. He is smart. He should join the army."

They lived in a narrow street in the city, in a middle-class neighbourhood. A three-room flat on the first floor, with a veranda just wide enough for two people to stand in. Mother grows a panineer plant in a pot. It has not flowered yet.

In the kitchen, brass spatulas and ladles hang from the hooks on the wall. A wooden plank lies near the stove. Mother usually sits there, making chapatis when Father returns from work.

He got off when the bus stopped. He felt a twinge of pain in the knee. The beginning of arthritis? Who will look after the children if I am bedridden? Suddenly, his tears welled up. He rubbed his face with a dirty kerchief and quickened his step.

Have the children gone to sleep? Had they eaten anything, or had they just cried themselves to sleep? But they are too young to understand. Unni just stood there watching me when I put her in the taxi. Only the youngest one cried. But that was because he wanted to get into the taxi too. Certainly, they did not know the meaning of death.

Did I know? No. Did I ever imagine that she would suddenly fall down one evening and die, without saying farewell to anyone?

He had looked in through the kitchen window when he came back from work. She was not there.

He could hear the sound of children playing in the front yard. "First-class shot." It was Unni calling out.

He opened the front door with his key. It was then that he saw her. She was lying on the floor. Her lips were parted. She must have slipped, he thought. But at the hospital the doctor told him: "She died an hour and a half ago. It was heart failure."

He was swept by a welter of emotions. He was angry with her for no reason. How could she go, without any warning, burdening me with all the responsibilities!

Now who would bathe the children? Who would cook for them? Who would look after them when they fell ill?

"My wife died," he whispered to himself, "my wife died suddenly today of a heart attack. I need two days’ leave."

A great leave application. Leave, not because the wife is ill. Leave, because the wife is dead. The boss might call him to his room. He might express his sorrow. His sorrow! Who wants it? He didn’t know her. He didn’t know her hair that curled at the ends, her tired smile, her slow step. All these are his losses.

When he opened the door his youngest son came running up. "Mother isn’t back yet," he said.

How quickly he has forgotten! Did he really think that the body that was taken away in the taxi would come back alone?

He took him to the kitchen.

"Unni," he called.

"What is it, Achha?"

Unni came into the kitchen.

"Balan is sleeping."

"All right. Have you all eaten anything?"

"No."

He removed the plates covering the vessels kept on the sill. Chapatis, rice, potato curry, chips, curds — the food she had made. In a glass bowl, the neipayasam that she sometimes made for the children.

No, they should not eat this food. It is touched by death.

"These have gone cold. I’ll make some uppumavu," he said.

"Achha..." it was Unni.

"Um?"

"When will Mother come back? Isn’t she better?"

Let the truth wait for another day, he thought. There was no point in giving grief to the child tonight.

"Mother will come," he said.

He placed the washed bowls on the floor. Two bowls.

"Let Balan sleep," he said.

"Achha, neipayasam," Rajan exclaimed happily. He dipped a finger in it.

He sat down on the wooden plank where his wife usually sat.

"Unni, will you serve? Achhan does not feel too good. Headache."

Let them eat. They would never again be able to eat their mother’s cooking.

They started eating the payasam. He sat motionless, watching them.

"Don’t you want rice, Unni?"

"No, we want only payasam. It’s very tasty."

"Yes, Mother has made splendid neipayasam," Rajan said happily.

He got up and walked quickly towards the bathroom.

A story- 'Put aside our old baggage'

Eagles are the most long-lived bird in the world. By the time they reach 40 years old, their claws will start to age, losing their effectiveness and making it hard for them to catch prey.The life-span of an eagle is up to 70 years old.

But in order to live this long, it must make the toughest decision at 40. At 40, its beak is too long and curvy that it reaches its chest. Its wings, full of long, thickened feathers, are too heavy for easy flying. The eagle is left with 2 choices:-

(1) do nothing and await its death; or(2) go through a painful period of transformation and renewal.

For 150 days, it first trains itself to fly beyond the high mountains, build and live in its nest and cease all flying activities. It then begins to knock its beak against granite rocks till the beak is completely removed. When a new beak is grown, the eagle will use it to remove all its old claws and await quietly for new ones to be fully grown. When the new claws are fully grown, the eagle will use them to remove all its feathers, one by one.

Five months later, when its new feathers are fully grown, it will soar in the sky again with renewed strength and is able to live for the next 30 years.

In life, as an individual, in an organization, sometimes, we have to learn to make difficult decisions so as to make room for changes. Changes bring about renewal. And the only way for us to soar again is to let go old ways, old habits, old lives.

For as long as we are prepared to put aside our old baggage - past glory or shame, past success or failure - be willing to become zero, with an empty cup mentality, we will be able to discover our potential and head towards a renewed perspective in any aspect of our lives

- anonymous

India’s demographic dividend

By Varun Agarwal | Yahoo! India News – Fri, Aug 12, 2011

[Varun Agarwal is 25 years old, and has 3 companies to his credit: Alma Mater, a memorabilia company for schools and colleges in India; Reticular, a Social Media Marketing Agency that has worked with some of India’s top brands, and Last Minute Films, an independent production company founded in 2008.]

It was just another usual day at home, and my mum was on the phone, engaged in casual conversation with Anu Aunty. (In India, these phone conversations between aunties tend to move in the direction of the accomplishments of their children, whether they are in school, college, working, or even married).

I remember when I was in the 6th standard, my mom was telling me about Anu Aunty beaming over her son Arjun, who stood 2nd in class, and had the teachers raving over him at the Parent-Teacher Meet. Unfortunately I never beat Arjun, and couldn’t give my mum the chance for a comeback.

Returning to the latest phone conversation, which went something like this:

Anu Aunty: So Purnima, what are your children upto?

Mom: Ah, nothing much Anu, the elder one is doing an MBA, and the younger one is studying at Christ.

Anu Aunty: OMG, I still remember them as little kids Poo! But what about Varun?

Mom: He is doing some work Anu. What’s Arjun doing?

Anu Aunty: Oh he is a marketing manager with Info*** Purnima. They just promoted him, you know. He is thinking of going for an MBA also. To America. Oh, I can’t wait to start looking for him! (The guy’s only 24, and she’s thinking of marriage).

Mom: Arre wah. I’m so proud of Arjun. (She isn’t really). Why don’t you get him home sometime?

Anu Aunty: I will, I will. But what is our Varun upto?

(This is the moment most women wait for all their lives. The comeback. This is what my mom wanted to say: "Oh, your son is in Info***? My son’s working for Microsoft in USA. Haha. Beat that.")

This is what she actually said.

Mom: He makes some films and music videos, Anu. And he is selling T-shirts.

Anu Aunty (shocked): What are you saying Purnima! Selling T-shirts?

Mom (depressed): Yes, Anu.

Anu Aunty: Is Varun a salesman, Purnima?

Mom (almost going to cry): Something like that, Anu.

Anu Aunty: Haw. Should I ask Biju (her husband) to speak to Varun?

Mom: Will he, Anu? Oh I’m so worried all the time. He doesn't listen to me, Anu.

Anu Aunty: Arre, I can’t believe this. I must ask Arjun to meet him sometime also.

Mom: Thank you, Anu. I don’t know what to do. Who will marry him now??

Conversations like these aren’t new to me. When I was in the 12th standard, I decided I would study filmmaking. I applied to a bunch of colleges, but forgot that it wasn’t so easy to do what you like in this country. My parents were quick to trash all my plans, and I was forced to study four torturous long years of engineering.

I naturally didn’t want to give up on my passion, so I started making films whenever I got the time during engineering - which seemed to be filled with never-ending tests. There were times I got so depressed I was on the verge of breaking into some tragic Bollywood song. Using the best “filmy” emo dialogue I could muster, I got my mum to buy me a camera. After I got the camera, I taught myself to write, shoot and edit film.

In 2007, I made a music video for one of India’s top rock bands, Pentagram. The video got noticed, and was played on VH1 like 51 times a day. (Actually 51 times a day!). A production company in Bombay saw the video, and flew me down to offer me a full time job to direct. Not to be some assistant or intern, but to actually start directing. I was 20 years old then. My mum still wasn’t convinced, and asked me to come back to finish my engineering.

In 2009 I decided to start a company with one of my friends. Yet again, I faced a lot of opposition from both family and friends. It was an E-commerce company, and no one around me got it. The idea was born over a drunken night at one of Bangalore’s famous pubs ‘Noon Wines’. We actually wrote down the entire business plan on a piece of tissue. Ideas like these are born every time young, enthusiastic entrepreneurial minds meet up over drinks. But in the light of day, everything fizzles out.
Thankfully for us, it didn’t.

My mum didn’t know about my little company until about 3 months into running it. When she did find out, she freaked. My dad thought I was a t-shirt salesman only until recently, when we were profiled in the Economic Times.

Be it filmmaking or starting my own company, I have gone through a lot, which only makes me wonder at how difficult it is to pursue your own dreams in this country. To me,India at 64 is a country which is still very insecure. Success here is defined by a plush job with a multinational, or if you have aced your CET. Right from school, we’ve always been taught to follow the system, and to be very afraid of going against it.

With the advent of the internet it’s become easier than ever to do exactly what you want. But our upbringing has instilled in us such a strong sense of fear that few of us dare to venture out on our own. Most entrepreneurs here are seasoned professionals, having worked for a good 4-5 years for someone else. There are no college dropouts like Zuckerberg or Gates, and you’re treated like an outcast if you even dream of doing so. Our generation talks like the American, acts like him, but when it comes down to actually doing what they want, most turn into pussies. We can’t boast of 18-year-old inventors, or 24-year-old billionaires. In fact, even now when my partner and I go to meet potential investors, the first question we are asked is, “How old are you?” In spite of the fact that there is a 25-year-old guy who started Facebook when he was 18, and is now worth 10 billion dollars.

Things are changing no doubt, but in remote pockets. What needs to be changed is the way we are brought up. I believe that this country will grow up the day our kids are taught not to be scared. The day the students of this country are encouraged to learn, and not ‘mug’. The day we are taught to lead, and not follow. The day we are taught to think, and not just write exams. I wait to see that day, because when that happens, India won’t be entering retirement age, but will actually be born again.
We will be waiting for you, India.

Adoption

Source: rachelvernot