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anjansWorld.rediffiland.com/
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A Drop of Honey
Many
years ago somewhere in the southern tip of India there lived a hunter.
He hunted wild animals or birds for their flesh and skin and would sell
them to the village market. At times if he had luck he would find
fruits, berries or even honey.
One morning the hunter started from home early. He was accompanied by bhola his dog, a dagger he always kept with himself, his bow and arrows and a bhinstee.
He had to start early to get a good catch. But the whole day he scanned
through the whole forest without any luck. He was so desperate, it did
not occur to him that it was getting dark. Black clouds were enveloping
the sky and in no time it started pouring.
The hunter, seeing no other alternaive, ran towards a den and somehow
managed to save himself from the rain. Hunger and fatigue had the
better of him and he fell asleep. The next morning he woke up and tried
to scan the den. A buzzing sound drew his attention and he looked up at
a distance to see a bee hive, its bosom swelled with the treasure it
hid inside.
The hunter immediately drew his dagger and with the expertise of a
seasoned honey gatherer cut the hive and gathered almost all the honey
into his leather pouch, the bhinstee. He did not take all of it. He had the kind heart and an intelligent mind to leave some honey for its rightful owners the bees.
It was going to a good day for him, some money to splurge and some handia to have at night. Some meat for bhola too. He quickly packed his dagger, picked his belongings, shoulderd the bhinstee and started towards the village market. He had to reach the village grocery store-keeper before the honey fermented.
At the shop the shopkeeper meticulously transferred the honey from the bhinstee
into a jar, but somehow a drop spilled into the floor. Few ants were
immediately drawn towards it. A bird was watching the whole proceeding
from a tree top. It swooped to feast on those hapless ants. The
shopkeeper had a pet cat which immediately pounced on the bird. Seeing
its eternal enemy, bhola
the dog pounced on the cat. Seeing such a brutal end to his cat the
shopkeeper, all in rage took out a stick and craked the poor dog's
skull into two. The hunter immediately got up, pulled out his dagger
and ripped apart the shopkeepers heart. Then it dawned upon him the
brutality of his act. So he ran away.
But being from neighbouring villages the news spread like wild fire.
The villagers clashed with each other and led to a lot of bloodbath.
All this for a drop of honey.
PS: Nobody knows what happened to the honey. But surely, it was not meant for either the hunter or the shopkeeper.
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Soul curry: The magic of giving
I believe everyone in their lifetime comes across a bit of magic that reminds them of the importance of the word ‘give’.
The incident, which reminded me of the well known saying “it's more
blessed to give than to receive” happened a few weeks before my
sister's wedding. With a heavy heart, I left the wedding cheer at home
for another town to attend some important lectures. My parents had the
room ready and waiting for me and as I entered, I walked into what
seemed like a Christmas floral shop. Red poinsettias and other bouquets
crowded the windowsill, along with a stack of cards that waited to be
opened. I felt overwhelmed by the love and attention.
Just then, a voice broke into my reverie. “Hey, I'll be sharing the
room with you,” said the 20-something girl who had stepped into the
room. She had short, curly grey hair and brown eyes. She stared at the
flowers with child-like wonder. She introduced herself as Dollie and we
chatted on till it was time for dinner. Not once did she mention her
family and neither did I ask. Being in her company, life suddenly
seemed easier and she also continued to exclaim excitedly at the cards
and flowers I continued to receive.
On our last evening together, Dollie decided to visit the market. As I
walked through the room alone, I noticed for the first time the stark
contrast between our sides of the room. There was Dollie's bed that
stood neat and sparse except for a red candlebra with holy sprigs,
which she had brought along. In fact, I realised I had never seen her
getting any calls either during her stay. In contrast, my bed was
filled with gifts and I was flooded with calls from friends and family.
I decided to give her something of mine as a parting gift. I looked
around at the things I had and wondered if I could part with any of it.
Of course, I couldn't give mom and dad's Yule log with candles, I
thought.
What about the new jacket? But, then, my sister badly wanted me to wear
it when I reached home. The justifications kept coming even as I
climbed onto my bed, placating my guilt by promising myself to call the
nearby gift shop to order some flowers for Dollie the next day.
I
awoke the next morning with thoughts of returning home, with some of
the guilt resurfacing as I remembered that the gift shop wouldn't open
for another two days. Moreover, Dollie's train was scheduled before
mine.
“I've really enjoyed getting to know you, Dollie,” I finally told her.
My words were sincere but I felt guilty for not having followed up on
my intentions.
To my surprise, she picked up her only possession, the red candled
centre-piece, and gently laid it in my hands. “I'll miss you,” she
said, giving me a big hug. “Thank you,” is all I could manage to
whisper. As she left I dropped my moist eyes to the small memento in my
hand...“Dollie's only gift”, I thought, “and she gave it to me.”
As I heard the doors closing behind Dollie, I knew in my heart that she possessed much more than I did.
Courtesy: Times of India, 16 Jun 2008, 0024 hrs IST, TNN
To read the original visit ...
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Lifestyle/Spirituality/Soul_curry_The_magic_of_giving/artic
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Happy Birthday Anne
"Whoever is happy will make others happy too. He who has courage and faith will
never perish in misery!" "I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are still truly good
at heart" (excerpts from The Diary of a Young Girl) Today is Anne Frank"s birthday ( Jun 12, 1929). Some of you may be wondering who she is.
Apart from everything said about her by others and by her too, she represents the power of a liberated mind, a sacred thought and the ultimate perseverance of human heart on the face of mortal danger.
The two most defining personalities of the WW-II were in absolute contrast toeach other. At the one end was Anne a common yet so uncommon teenager and at the other end was Hitler. Both penned autobiographical memoirs. Both of them talked about their lives and beliefs. But unexpectedly it was Anne"s that prevailed. With a diary written while hidden in a secret attic with her family, she braved the Nazis and lent a voice to the fight for human dignity.
This historical document holds such immense value in today"s world that any doubt cast upon the authenticity of these memoirs are considered nothing less than profanity by many. As Roger Rosenblatt, noted journalist says, "there are some stories the world so needs to believe that it would be profane to impair their influence”. It"s really a wonder how a book, basically a diary, written by a person between the age of thirteen to fifteen evokes so much interest that it remains no longer a mere book. Anne through the pages of her diary has transcended all barriers of cast, creed, race or religion. She is no
longer a mere Jew or a victim of holocaust, she is much more than that, an eternal sense of perseverance, and eternal hope on the face of abject despondence. Every word of hers is full of hope and a jest for life. One year before her death from typhus in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp at the mere age of sixteen (actually less than sixteen), she wrote, "I want to be useful or give pleasure to people around me who yet don't really know me. I want to go on living even after my death!". Useful she did become, and immortal too through the pages of her diary. If you have ever been a teenager (which you have surely been), then you will certainly be able to connect to all the trepidations and self-doubts that you see in the pages of this epic. And do not forget all these under the constant fear of being found out by the Nazis. As someone correctly said this book is one of the most conclusive and moving evidence of the shocking pogrom perpetrated on any race in the name of creating a superior race.
On August 4, 1944, the Gestapo discovered the hiding place of the Frank family after being tipped off by an anonymous Dutch caller. The Gestapo found them hidden behind a door protected by a book case. They arrested Anne the human being. But they could never fathom that Anne had already escaped through her diary.
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The flip side of the IT-boom... RoadToHell
The flip side of IT-boom in Bangalore
1. Roads inundated with chartered vehicles or the so called office cabs.
Always in a hurry for no apparent reasons, with absolutely no road
sense, these cabs are a BIG headache for fellow road users.
- Recruitment procedure should be very strict.
- Deterrents for errant drivers in the form of temporary or permanent cancellation of license.
- Deterrents for the agencies providing the cabs in the form of black listing.
- Well maintained vehicles.
2. Untamed exuberance of youth. When software engineers (like us) are out
of colleges and away from the eyes of parents, with load of money; bike
becomes the ultimate symbol of virility. And faster the better.
- Steep fines. When salary is Rs. 50,000 per month, a fine of Rs. 100 sounds ridiculous.
- Even a fine of Rs. 100 is not imposed if the rider agrees to give Rs. 20 or 50.
- Strong enforcement of road laws.
3. Roadway buses. They stop anywhere and everywhere.
- Drivers to be fined if bus is stopped at non designated stops.
Let the bus driver concentrate on driving. Multitasking like vending
tickets, keeping track of coins, along with an eye on the road is an
explosive combination.
4. Jay walkers who think a highway is just an extension of the home corridor.
- Dissemination of information. Pedestrians should be made aware of the hazards of jay walking.
- If caught let them attend a one hour coaching. For nonvolunteers this can be a real headache.
But last and certainly the least too (in big font size :) )... who cares
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Never Let Me Go
It was always there in the library, only I never bothered to borrow it. Then last week while browsing through the library catalogue I saw the book again and picked it up, and no I was not disappointed. Never let me go by Kazuo Ishiguro.
I have read God of small thing by Arundhati Roy, and ever since felt these booker prizes are like (in Indian context) Presidents award for movies. The more incomprehensible a movie is the
better chance it stands to win the award. In my limited "literature appreciation faculty" found that book boring, and ever since tried to keep a safe distance from these award winning novels. But how wrong I was. The story is told in a flashback mode. Right from the onset it seems like any school days reminiscing story, but some where there was a disconnect, craftily created by the writer, but not at all decipherable until towards the end. The story revolves around three primary characters Kathy, Ruth and Tommy, with Kathy being the protagonist, who leads us through the ups and downs of an unnatural or para-natural gripping life and times of growing school kids. The growing up of small children into adults, a life beyond school, a world where dreams are bought and sold, love, hate, self-doubts, the trepidations and a rainbow of human emotions have all been craftily worded.
The people Kathy, Ruth and Tommy are clones who along with several others have been reared to serve the human society in the form of donors as Ishiguro calls them. The word death has been renamed complete and very aptly too. The story is touching because it so wonderfully captures the double-standards in the contemporary society. Simply replace the clones with the have-nots and what we will find is a true reflection of our times. On second thoughts may be Never let me go didn"t win the booker because it was too easy even for me to understand, nay, feel.
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Long time no see
Time management is a virtue. And the ability to strike a balance between professional life and personal life is a quality which is rare.
But there is another angle to it. We always get to hear that professional life should be absolutely segregated from personal life. But is it at all possible?
When I was in school, i made scores of friends, very few are on the radar. In college i made another set of friends, again, only a few are on the radar. Same thing happened in University.
Now in my professional life, my colleagues are becoming my friends.
I love to spend my time with them. I don't mind coming to work on Saturdays or for that matter even Sundays. Where my personal life amalgamated with my professional life, I do not know.
Now if someone tells me, "Go man, get a life" what can I tell that person. That, this is my life, this is what I always wanted, this is where I belong. And even if I say this (which certainly is true) hardly anyone will believe me.
In India somehow a mindset exists that if you are an engineer or a doctor or a lawyer then you are their by compulsion. In contrast your being a player, singer, dancer proves that you were academically challenged, again, you are their by compulsion.
Yes, agreed if you are like Tendulkar, Sonu Nigam, or for that matter Azim Premji, Narayan Murthy, then you are spared this "If you do then be damned, if you don't then be damned" cycle. But how many reach that haloed zone.
For a commoner(at least for the time being) like me their is only one way out of this predicament. I just give a damn.
And that brings us back to the original issue of work-life balance.
Hey, this is my life. I love it, I revel in it. I am here by choice, not by any compulsion or chance. Fate had a role, but only till one point. This is my work, nay this is my life.
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First day first show
First day first show.
Finally blogging got the better of me, and now I too have my own blog space. I do not know what I will do with it.
Let the first srap be short.
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