Emotional pot-boilers!

"A book, film, or other creative work produced solely to make the originator a living by catering to popular taste" - This is the definition given for the word 'pot-boiler' on the internet. 

But the pot-boilers I am about to discuss have a similar as well as an additional meaning - "Creative work that make people forget their pots that remain boiling (and eventually spill out) on their stoves."

If you have not yet picked up what this post is about, I would be happy to lay it down plainly - Tamil tele-serials!


The following account describes an episode of a tele-serial I was forced to watch as I sat down for lunch at my home one fine day.

An old man in the tele-serial had been informed that his son-in-law urgently required an operation for his damaged kidneys that would cost a few lakhs. The old man, whose family belonged to the lower-middle class, had been shocked hearing it from the doctor and had left the hospital, devastated. 

I honestly admit that I was a bit intrigued as to what would follow. And, to my utter shock, this is what followed.

The old man came walking down a road as slowly as possible. A melodramatic music started playing. The camera showed, primarily, the left side of his face. Then a shot with the camera before him showing his entire face. A shot followed showing the right side of his face. And finally a long shot showing him walking down the road. I was surprised for a moment at the way the cinematographer had tried to effectively convey the old man's emotions when it all began again. Left face. Entire face. Right face. A long shot. Repetition to probably stress the character's emotional state, I thought. And it happened again, the melodramatic music reaching its peak. Left face. Entire face. Right face. A long shot. And the character started speaking to himself, not worrying about the helpless situation but instead, literally - and I stress this to the maximum, literally - started narrating the incidents that had happened in their home from the çommencement day of the serial to the present day. 
Seriously?! What the hell?!

And having mentioned 'repetition' and 'emphasis', the one aspect of the Tamil tele-serials that drives me totally crazy is the so called 'close-up shots'.

Most of the families in these tele-serials have a considerably large number of members. And if a happy event occurs (which is quite rare) in the family, the viewer is guaranteed to be subjected to two full minutes of 'close-up' torture where a close-up shot of every single member of the family is shown. The mother is happy. The father is happy. The son is happy. The daughter-in-law is happy. The sister is happy. The younger brother is happy. The elder brother is happy. The grandmother is happy. The maidservant is happy. 
Fine!! We get it that every single member is happy!! Move on!!
And if a sad event occurs (which is close to every episode), the viewer is guaranteed again to two full minutes of 'close-up' torture of the family members' sadness.
And the one thing that never fails to miss out in any of these 'close-up' torture scenes is that in the occurrence of any happy event, the entire family would be happy except one fat aunt who would be twisting her lips in frustration and in the occurrence of any sad event, the entire family would be sad except the same fat aunt who would be smiling a cold,evil smile.
Seriously?! What the hell?!


With the increasing availability of foreign tele-serials in a very easy manner, I find a lot of my friends, here at college, dismissing Tamil tele-serials outright. And they wouldn't be wrong since every tele-serial that comes out of the foreign land (especially the United States since 'foreign' automatically relates to the U.S. to many) - be it The Big Bang Theory, be it Breaking Bad, be it House of Cards, be it Homeland, be it Da Vinci's Demons, be it Suits, be it Orange is the New Black - represents a different genre varying from science-comedy to crime to political to espionage to historical to legal to prison drama whereas every Tamil tele-serial that comes out here falls under one simple genre - Heroine's struggle.

The role of a tele-serial is often undervalued in our state, perhaps even in our country. The tele-serials have the great responsibility of entertaining (and if possible, educating - which I would say is mandatory) every family that watches them together, in the comforts of their home, giving it a status equal to a family member. But most of the Tamil tele-serials fail to do so sticking to the so called pot-boilers with a self assurance that families - women in general - prefer emotional dramas.

In spite of having had experimental and yet successful predecessors like 'Marma desam', 'Balu Mahendra'vin Kathai Neram', 'Veetuku veedu looty', ' K.Balachander's Sahana', the Tamil tele-serial makers hesitate to switch to different genres/storylines. I wouldn't call for an extreme leap to the science-comedy genre as in The Big Bang Theory or a CIA operational thriller as in Homeland. But why not set more tele-serials in a rural milieu? Why not showcase the life of women attached to the gangsters of North Madras?  Why not set a tele-serial with the Koyambedu market as its backdrop - if the marketplace does not buzz with life and stories, I don't know which other place does?! Why not try a tele-serial based on the so culturally rich Tamil history? Why not showcase the lifestyle of a local tribe like the Toda tribe settled near Ooty? 
The stories (even the emotional dramas which can be handled in a different way) that suit the taste and sensibility of the Tamil audience lie aplenty around us.

But then, I guess a significant part of the blame should be directed towards the settle-for-the-average audience as well. A maker, after all, caters to the general taste of the audience. When the viewers begin setting their standards high and the general taste surpasses the mundane 'evil aunt-struggling heroine' banalities, would the maker have a choice other than resorting to newer and higher forms of storytelling?!

And discussing the general taste of the audience, I remember a conversation I recently had with one of my friends. We had been talking about films and for some reason, the conversation had moved towards television and had landed on the now cult-status-attained 'Mahabharatham'. 
Though I had had reservations earlier (a result of the memory etched watching the many over-the-top mythological serials telecasted in DD national when I was a kid), I had changed my opinion and had developed respect for the serial as it had made 'our' so called Eminem-listeners and Gucci handbag-wearers sit back and notice one of India's greatest legends.
And so, I asked my friend eagerly as to her opinion on the serial. I expected a comment about the Kurukshetra war or the Pandava/Kaurava clan or something related to the story. But her statement stunned me. She said, 
"The guy who plays Duryodhana - with his free flowing hair and well toned physique - He is just too damn hot!"

Seriously?! What the hell?!  

Interstellar/Maryan = Love

"What a film about love!" I exclaimed as I and my friend walked out of the theater, having watched Interstellar. He turned towards me shocked. "The science part? The Time travel? Black hole, Worm hole? The triumph of the human spirit? Did you notice that the film was also about all these stuff?" he asked sarcastically. 

"They all had their fair share but still, I would prefer to call it a film about love" I replied smiling. 

"Kip Thorne has worked on it. Neil deGrasse Tyson has commented on the scientific accuracy of Interstellar. Spare the efforts on the scientific front some respect." he said, solemnly. I smiled again and nodded in an agreeing manner though I knew deep inside that Interstellar would always remain a film about love for me. 

And hence I type down this post - an analogy - about how Interstellar and Maryan are closely related (at least in 'my' opinion) - a thought that has been haunting me for quite some time now.


From a 'crew & cast' point of view, they do bear a significant number of similarities. Cinematography handled by European cinematographers. Music composed by regular collaborators of the directors. Both the films co-written by authors (though I am still doubtful of the 'author' tag given to Jonathan Nolan in the Wikipedia page). The protagonists - actors who have begun establishing a firm place for themselves after their rightly deserved recognition (Matthew McConaughey after his Academy Award and Dhanush, after his National Award). 

But then, any two films from any two Indian languages or even any two countries might boast of such similarities or perhaps even more. 


It was the core upon which both the films were built that struck me as interesting. 

The story-line of each of the films, on its surface, seems starkly different - Maryan deals with the devastating hostage situation of a group of Indian oil workers in Sudan while Interstellar lays down beautifully the attempt of a group of astronauts humans in finding another planet that would help save mankind with the earth having become increasingly uninhabitable. The global issues they touch upon seem different - The increasing oil consumption by the developed/rapidly developing countries in Maryan and the very possible futuristic scenario of food shortage in Interstellar. Even the treatment of the material seems different - Maryan more subjective whereas Interstellar, very much objective.

Agreed. But the heart?

Both the protagonists (Maryan in Maryan and Cooper in Interstellar) seem to be pushed to a corner - be it to provide financial support to Pani (the soul-mate of Maryan) in Maryan or be it the larger task of saving the human race in Interstellar - in order to set out on a journey to an alien territory - a metaphorical Sudan in the former  whereas a literal alien territory in the latter. Whilst cheetahs (mirage) and bullets serve as the 'alien' threats in Maryan, high altitude waves and time dilation do the job in Interstellar.

But do all these make up the heart of the films?

No. The heart lies in a deeper place.

A place filled with playfulness, regret, hopelessness, struggle and triumph. 

Playfulness of Pani as she stands at the doorway of Maryan's house adorning his outfit and smiling a wicked smile and the playfulness of Murphy (Cooper's daughter) as she sneaks under the blanket in Cooper's car when he sets out to find the 'co-ordinates'. Regret of Maryan as he gazes yearningly at the sky remembering Pani from his captive-hole and the regret of Cooper as he cries profusely looking at his grown up son's recorded video after he returns to his spacecraft 23 years late. Hopelessness of Maryan when he tries to fake a call to Pani under the pretext of contacting the Indian government as his captors watch on and the hopelessness of Cooper when he tries to hold back his breath, his helmet having been damaged, in a faraway oxygen-less planet remembering his daughter. Struggle of Maryan as he walks exhausted and bare-footed on the burning desert with the sole purpose of getting back to Pani and the struggle of Cooper as he tries desperately to alter history in the 'Tesseract' trying to get back to his daughter. Triumph as Pani gazes dreamily at Maryan who has returned to her side after his marvelous escape and triumph as an elderly Murphy gazes dearly at Cooper who is seated beside her bed, still young. 

And this heart, according to me, is what makes these films epic.  

The exploration of another galaxy and the worm hole does matter and so does the plight of Indian workers in foreign lands. The oil crisis faced in the under-developed nations is important and so is the very possible futuristic scenario of food shortage. 
But without the one feeling that would make immeasurable sand or infinite space mere obstacles, how would a man progress, let alone a nation or a species?! 
Without the one feeling that makes a man overcome cheetahs and the gravity of the black hole, how would life go on?!


Mankind has from a very long time and will (undoubtedly) continue for a very long time to overcome the unimaginable odds stacked up against it. 
The scientific techniques might probably evolve. 
The survival strategies might probably evolve. 
But the heart would always be in the same right place that it has been in for a long long time.

Love.

A happy half-century!

A grandfather who till the last days of his life was a voracious reader

A grandmother who at the age of 75 uses headphones more than I do, being a music lover

A father who was an epitome of radical ideas and social concern

A mother who is an artist by birth and a handicrafts-woman at will

A brother who is an excellent musician, a brilliant writer/photographer and a true film-lover

A sister who is an amazing cook and an expert when it comes to any issues emotional/romantic

A friend who is an intellectual in the truest sense and has been the silent victim of every single creative outing of mine for the past 12 years

My life has never really been mine. And I say it without the slightest tinge of regret.

I have and I continue to be a collection of the shadows of all these people who have made my life worth living.

When I began this blog, I did not imagine that my writing interest would survive a month, let alone survive 49 posts. But seeing that it has, a slight doubt arises as to if I have really developed a strong liking towards writing and if it is the path to tread further (which I am sure would gladden a reader/writer friend of mine).

But then, for a feat so trivial compared to professional writers/bloggers, I shouldn't be making much fuss about.

And so I end this happy post iterating,

My life has never really been mine. I have and I continue to be a collection of the shadows of all these people who have made me a better human being and of course, for this blog, a better writer.

Thank you all!

P.S.: I have luckily got hold of a post that I could re-post by simply editing the numbers in case I accidentally make it to a 100 :D 
#PerksOfaLazyWriter  

The loss of innocence

Dawood is his name. A 15 year old boy. 

He had attended a family function the previous day and his alarm had failed to ring the next morning. The result - He had to miss school. 

This just seems like a pretty normal activity out of a student's life, right?

Now read this.

Dawood is his name. A 15 year old boy.

He had attended a family function the previous day and his alarm had failed to ring the next morning. The result - He had to miss school. The Army Public School at Peshawar. The school where 148 people (133 students) were killed that day. His IX standard classroom had been subject to a suicide bombing leaving him the only survivor of his class. 

The only survivor when every single one of his classmates had died. The only survivor when six of his closest friends had died. 

Dawood, according to the news report, had not spoken a single word ever since he had heard about the attack on his school and the death of his classmates. He had become SILENT.

And that ended the childhood of another unfortunate child.



Of the many beautiful lines The Kite Runner is filled with, one of my favorite and one of the most unfortunate line goes - "There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood".

A single attack at Peshawar has done a very similar thing to the children of Pakistan. 133 killed and the fortunate-to-be-alive ones - scarred and haunted for the rest of their lives. 

Would a child, filled with dreams of becoming a doctor, have imagined that it would lie in a pool of blood on its classroom floor holding onto its dear life, surrounded by dead friends? Would a child, filled with dreams of becoming an artist, have imagined that the only image that would become etched on its mind forever would be the one of its teacher tied to a chair and set on fire, screaming for help? Would a child, filled with dreams of becoming a police officer, have imagined that it would be left to run for its life as a friend was being shot down a few meters away? 

We pride ourselves of having invented vaccines to eradicate polio and small-pox. What about a vaccine for such attacks that leave a child crippled for the rest of its life?

It hurts. A lot.

It hurts knowing that every single fortunate survivor of this attack would go through every day henceforth at school with constant fear. It hurts knowing that even the ringing sound of the school bell would henceforth traumatize some poor kid. It hurts knowing that a kid has to go through his entire life constantly being reminded that he was the only survivor when his entire class was blown to pieces.

And what crime did they commit?
They happened to be at school.


"Education is the key to unlock your golden door of freedom" goes a quote. True enough.
But if such inhumane acts are about to follow, I would suggest that the children be deprived of their education rather than their childhood. 

Because, the last thing this world needs is an endangerment to childhood.

I know that this is not the solution. And I know that I am terribly wrong.
But honestly, should they be forced to face the harsh realities of this world at so early an age?

Abso-f**king-lutely not.

Let them have their own worlds of superheroes and cartoon characters and video games. Let them have their own worlds of pixie fairies and teddy bears and glittering gowns.
Let them have their own worlds of eraser-attached pencils and glass sharpeners and scented glue.

Let us leave them out of our world. The world of politics and religion and bloodshed.
Their hearts are way too pure for it.

Tales from a granny

“They were our neighbors. The father was a government official and so, obviously, they were well off. The first time he brought it home, the entire compound had gathered inside their house. The women of his house had their faces splattered with a huge smile that their hands could henceforth be given the rest they needed. The next day, I walked off to their house with a bag full of grams. I handed it to my friend and asked her smilingly if it could be ground to a powder. She herself still knew not how to operate the machine and the both of us figured a mechanism half an hour later and emptied the contents of the bag inside the jar and as we switched it on, it swirled for a few times before bursting off in a puff of smoke. A few minutes later, I looked into the burnt jar and saw that the gram had been powdered but not in the way I had wanted!”

This was a story I was audience to as I stood in the kitchen roasting curry leaves in the stainless steel pan, en routé to the preparation of ‘Paruppu podi’. The story had been told by my grandma as she had started readying the mixer for grinding the grams.

Apart from the fact that I would be spending priceless hours with my mom and my grandma, the two other factors that excited me on the entire length of my every journey to my home from my hostel were:

• The delicious food, of course, which never failed to add more fat to my waistline and made me struggle for a minute or two on the night of my departure with the same jeans pant that I had gotten into easily before my visit to home
• The tales that came out so easily from my most favorite storyteller and always made me gape in awe at the life she had lived

“I think that the distance would have, at the least, been about two to three kilometers. And I couldn’t carry just one pot. A family of ours required a minimum of two pots of water. Hence, I would start from my house with two pots, walk for the stretch of two kilometers, fill them with water from the corporation tap and then rest one in my hip holding it with one hand while carrying the other in my other hand, walking back the two kilometers again taking care that the water did not spill. All this at the age of twelve. And I would have to get back to doing my household work at the house where I worked immediately. But look at your sister now.” she paused waiting to see if my sister heard her and continued ”I am sure that she would have done all these better than me.”

I let out a chuckle as my sister let out a grunt, an angry stare at my grandma, and walked out of the house to the terrace.

The tale had been a result of one hour’s pleading of my grandma to my sister to fetch the clothes that had been pinned to the clotheslines on the terrace for drying. My sister had been replying with ‘In a minute’ for every statement of my grandma’s, absorbed with the Tamil dubbed Hindi tele-serial she had been watching. Finally the tale had presented itself achieving its purpose.

It amazed me by and large as to how come my grandma had a tale ready for every single instance that presented itself worth talking about.

There was a tale about how the ‘Kadalamaavu sambhar’ was a regular at most of the Brahmin food-stalls in her days and how the recipe had been passed on from her two earlier generations to her as she poured a steaming spoonful of the same on my neatly arranged idlis one night.

There was a tale about how the Carnatic legend M.S.Subbulakshmi had performed during one of the ‘Margazhi’ seasons at their residential compound and a comment on how easily accessible and down-to-earth the celebrities and artists were in her times compared to the hype that preceds the visit of even a small television anchor nowadays as I pointed out an article on the ‘Margazhi  Music season’ in the newspaper to her.

There was also a tale about how her mother would only buy milk that cost 50 paise and would avoid buying milk that cost 55 paise as the 5 paise saved would help her out with other food materials as she shut the door having paid our milkman his monthly charge for delivering half a litre ‘Aavin’ milk everyday morning – 625 rupees.

Be it an ‘Arisi upma’  or the Taj Mahal, be it a ‘Phulka’ or the economic inflation, be it a ‘Sikarne’ or T.V.Sundaram Iyengar – the founder of T.V.S. Motors , be it the ‘Mullu murukku’, ‘Rava laddu’ or the Indian National Congress’s history, she has a tale. 

A tale that always has me spellbound through its entirety.

A tale from a lady who had lived in a pre-independent India, in a post-independent India, in a coming-to-terms-with-westernization-India and in a searching-for-its-culture-having-submerged-deeply-in-westernization India.

A tale from a lady who could make me aware of up to four generations prior to mine and make me feel proud being the newly (!) sprouted plant of our family garden.

And the interesting (or perhaps, not so interesting) fact is that this amazing old lady that I have mentioned above isn’t the only old one having her heart filled with tales that span decades and generations.

Every single lady and every single man with wrinkled hands and feet, with labored breaths and bent backs, with arthritic knees and walking sticks, with insulin injections and faces weathered by time – every single such lady and man have their hearts filled with innumerable tales that span decades and generations.

All they yearn for in the sunset of their lives is a patient ear that would hear them out.

For these people who have toiled so hard in taking care of themselves and in taking care of our parents, for these people who have been indirectly involved in the process of us having been endowed with the best of genes, I guess dedicating a little time off our daily lives shouldn’t be much of a compromise. Though it is an act of gratitude in the tiniest measure, it would be a heartening gesture to these souls burdened with more than just the tales.

And well, frankly, does listening to a story hurt?!

When God became Man!

This post is a continuation of sorts to an earlier post of mine - If not for you, my man...

I had read only three chapters of 'Playing it my way' when I had typed the aforementioned post. I had lashed out at the media for calling 'Playing it my way' a disappointment and stating that the book provided little insights into the great little man. I still do stand by my statement that the media allowed very little privacy to a man who provided not just hope but a reason to unite and celebrate for the millions of this country. 

But having finished 'Playing it my way', I have sought to a totally different perspective from my earlier childish one of trying to idolize and immortalize SACHIN RAMESH TENDULKAR to the heights of an eternal being - or in simpler terms, God.

****

When I came across the part where Sachin had described how he, in his childhood, had kept circling his friends with his new bicycle to evoke a bit of jealousy and to show off his riding skills, I was shocked a bit. 

More so was the shock when I came across how Sachin (with Ganguly as his batting partner), after having faced majority of Andrew Flintoff's deliveries in a test match had mocked at Ganguly who had stated in the dressing room that they had handled Flintoff well with his statement - "Humne jhela? Saale maine jhela hain!" (We handled? It was me who had handled alone!)

I had never thought that Sachin could dispense with his humility. Could he also be a guy who would occasionally have fun at others' expense?

When I came across how he had cried profusely after having missed his first test century in the 1990 tour of New Zealand, I paused for a moment. Why did it matter so much when he had already contributed 88 runs to the team score, I thought. Did the century, perhaps, matter to him so much?

Similar was the case when an entire chapter had been devoted to his recollection of how much he had struggled for the 100th hundred. He had described in length about the mental pressures he had gone through the twelve months he had gone century-less. But did one more hundred matter? After all, 99 hundreds in itself is a remarkable feat. So why burden oneself so much for one more? 

And all these questions pointed to only one direction that I had never ever given a single thought of during my following of his entire career - Did Sachin, after all, play only for the centuries?

"The world cup was promising to be the biggest tournament of my life. It was the one title that had eluded me..." - As I read this statement, I was shocked again. 

'..one title that had eluded me...'? Didn't the world cup belong to the entire nation? 

Even after I completed the book, these questions still kept haunting me. I was honestly rattled by the questions and I couldn't bring about myself for some time as I kept staring at the huge blow-up of Sachin that adorned my bedroom wall. 

A man I had worshiped without an iota of doubt lay caught amidst a web of questions resulting from the 450 pages of his book.

An entire day passed with these thoughts and the next day, I decided not to spend anymore time giving thought to the questions. 

I had been blown away by Interstellar which I had watched the earlier week and had started reading about time travel, retrocausality, bad wolf resolution etc., and had taken an immense liking to the 'Parallel Universes resolution' theory. I had tried really hard to form a short story trying to bring together 'Hitler's Paradox' and the theory of parallel universes with an idea of making Hitler's character travel back in past from one universe to kill his existing counterpart in another universe. The idea had seemed to be very shallow and I had given up on it taking in my hand 'Playing it my way'.

But now having completed the book, I went back to the idea of the story. As I tried to imagine a common man as the protagonist,  trying to develop a back story for him, it hit me.

During the process of developing the back story, I had been trying to make the protagonist a man with noble intentions but also one suffering from a few drawbacks. It was owing to my firm belief that no character in a story could be completely rid of follies/guilty pleasures/ambitions as it would make him a hero, which I needed not.

And this conscious effort to bring in a few drawbacks in my protagonist had subconsciously led my thought process to Sachin. 

I stared from my seat on the floor at the blow-up of Sachin again. And I couldn't help smiling.

What a fool I had been?

I had expected Sachin to be a being free from the common trivialities of human life. I had expected Sachin to be a being so noble that he would have had to force himself extensively to punish a ball by hitting it harshly.

But I had been wrong. 

Sachin had been a being as simple as you and me. He had had his share of ambitions and desires. He had had his share of shortcomings. And that is the exact reason why he had been pushed to a status so high by the common mass. 

(By the way, I guess a filmmaker crying for not winning an award he deserved for a very sincere film of his or an artist crying for having spoilt a piece of art with one wrong stroke of his brush cannot be deemed to be wrong or selfish. So why accuse Sachin, an artist in his own right, for trying to have his fair share of achievements and accolades?)

An eternal being going around performing heroic deeds is not a significant achievement. But imagine a mere mortal doing the same trying to set aside his true feelings in the pursuit of achieving a reality as close to the one his worshipers want/expect out of him.

I had so long been admiring and adoring a mere mortal who had been trying to brave every single obstacle that had presented itself in his path and not an eternal being who had pushed them away easily. I had so long been admiring and adoring a mere mortal who had been trying to achieve the impossible feat of bringing an entire country to standstill with the rise of his bat and not an eternal being who had done it with a swish of his wand.

This thought, ever since it took birth in my head, has left me overwhelmed with happiness and I feel proud - immensely proud - for having been an ardent follower of a mere mortal and not an eternal being for all these years.

Confessions of a hypocrite

“God!” my sister cried out and turned her face abruptly, hiding it behind my brother’s back.

I had only seen the rear portion of the two-wheeler when it had risen above, hitting the 2 feet concrete slab that had been placed as the median of the M.T.H road. But my brother and sister had seen the guy, driving the two-wheeler, flying in the air and hitting the slab before the vehicle had taken flight by the impact.

It took me a few moments to put together what had happened. My sister was still reeling from the shock as my brother slowly removed her hand that had firmly grabbed his shoulder. He then went running towards the fallen guy from the place where we were standing. My sister had come to her senses by then and she went following him to the spot. I should have followed her but for some reason, my feet just wouldn’t move. I stood glued to the spot.

“Go and help them, you idiot!” my mind screamed but I stood right at the spot unable to move.

A few people had gathered around the fallen guy by then and my brother lifted the two-wheeler that lay a few feet apart as a few others lifted the guy. As the guy stood up with their help, I could see a cut on the left side of his face with the blood flowing down. The guy took out his handkerchief and pressed it against the cut. “Somebody needs to take him to the hospital” shouted a guy in the group that had gathered around.

A 24-hour emergency hospital, fortunately, was a few meters behind the spot I was standing. My sister held the guy’s hand as he kept pressing his bleeding forehead with his handkerchief and slowly walked him in my direction. As they crossed me, she told me to hold his hand and accompany him to the hospital. I stared at her from my spot frozen. “Get hold of him”, she shouted, as I slowly grabbed his hand and started walking him towards the hospital. 

As we entered the hospital, a guy at the entrance seeing the blood on the victim’s face led us quickly to the dressing-room. As a nurse entered, I came out of the dressing-room to see that my brother and sister had also arrived after having parked the guy’s two-wheeler at a corner. About 5 minutes later, a syringe was asked to be bought and my brother rushed to the pharmacy nearby to buy it. Half an hour later, the guy’s wound had been dressed and he had regained consciousness. He then thanked my brother who asked if he needed further help. He asked my brother to take leave saying that he would take care from then.

“Are you still thinking about the accident?” my sister asked, noticing that I was unusually silent. We had left the hospital ten minutes earlier and were on the road walking. “I should have also come with you to the spot where he had fallen and helped the guy. But I stood fixed to my spot like a coward” I told her, voicing the thought that had been circling in my head ever since we had left the hospital. “You were the one who accompanied him to the hospital. So, why say this? Just let it go” she said, trying to convince me. “We ourselves didn’t do much. I was trying to set aside the vehicle instead of helping lift the guy” said my brother smiling, trying to make the mood a bit lighter. But I couldn’t accept it.

I thought for some time as to what I would have done if I had been alone when the accident had occurred and taking into account the response I had shown earlier, I was sure that I would have probably hurried away a good ten meters before turning back to see if anyone had come about to help the victim. The only reason I had stayed glued to the spot earlier was because my brother and my sister had ran forward to help the guy and I had not known what to do. Similarly, I had accompanied the guy to the hospital only because my sister had told me to do so. And these realizations, as they dawned, hurt me.

They hurt me not because I had a good conscience. No. They hurt me because I had been a full-fledged hypocrite trying to lecture anyone and everyone on the need for helping fellow beings when I had not even taken a step forward to help a person in pain.

What good is it when my posts are full of social concern when in reality I am just another bystander in an accident? What good is it trying to give away lectures of serving humanity when it takes the compulsion of a sister to do one such service of the tiniest magnitude?

I have been thinking about it for more than a day now and by every hour that passes, the flow of these thoughts only pave way to the further accumulation of shame. I thought about for quite some time as to stop filling my blog henceforth with posts about social issues and projecting forward my social concern.

But I decided against it, the reason being a simple one. I still remember the message I received from a friend after I had posted ‘Currently not available’ – a post about how I had failed to recognize the affection of my mom after having come to college. The friend had admitted to having cried at the post’s end and had told me that she would never ever vent her anger at her mom from then.

I might be a hypocrite but I am sure that most of the people who come across the posts in my blog aren’t as lame as I am. Some random post about some random incident might trigger something in a reader and he/she, at the onset of a similar instance, might resort to a braver response. I know that I am absolutely wrong in calling my posts an eye-opener but if it could evoke even the slightest expression of anger against a social ignorance, then I might have helped in the tiniest way possible to a courageous fellow being.

So henceforth, when you come across a post (or perhaps even if you chance upon an older one) in my blog that projects social concern, do read it and give it a moment’s thought but please do also know that the writer, though having expressed very strong views of his, is still in the process of building himself up to the very same ideals.

The next time an accident occurs, I promise to put in my best efforts to take a step forward to help the victim. But if you – the reader of this post – do the same very well before one such instance of mine, I would be more than happy.

A happier human being than a writer. And I guess the former, on any day, precedes the latter by a huge margin.

The hopeless romantic

As I saw them fallen
Brew an anger inside uncontrollable
A sight, not the first time, to my eyes
But the blood boiled nevertheless
'How vile an act!' my mind screamed
I kept staring at the culprit
My heart filled with despise
Despise for a being so rid of love
And I determined to question him
Question how he could be so loveless..

Looking above at his face, I screamed
"Do you not know love? Is your heart so wooden?"
There came not a reply
"Speak out, you big fellow!
Do you not feel an iota of attachment?"
There prevailed silence
"Why hold back now? Not the first time, is it?
Every year happens this cold act. And you seem not a bit affected."
The leaves rustled a bit now
"See how close they stay to you. 
And what in turn do they get? Separation under the veil of autumn!"
A branch squeaked somewhere
"And now these poor ones?" my hand pointed to the fallen flowers
"Were you burdened by their beauty?
Did you sell them out to the wind and the rain?"
The burning anger in me was expressing itself
Every single word, its play
But not came even an alphabet in reply from the big fellow
And I scorned at him
This was after all, a routine to him
A big old wooden tree that he was
Why then would he care?
And I walked a few steps ahead..

But I stopped and looked up at him again
I needed not a reply from the cruel fellow
But I wanted justice and I walked towards him
Looking above, I raised my leg
Pulling it backwards, I directed all the energy to my feet
And landed a blow on his wooden heart
A blow so solid and strong
Oil would have sprung out had it landed on earth
But on this guy, it had no effect
Or so thought I for a moment
Before happened something unexpected
A reply for all my questions he gave
Not in words, but by that act -
A shower of tears poured down
A shower he had been holding back for long
A shower he had been holding back in his leaves
A shower he was so relieved to have poured out
Intermittent were the tears for a minute
And as they slowly stopped
My feet took a few steps back..

Drenched in his tears, I looked at him..
The blow I had landed had shook him
But his response had shook me, my perspective now altered
And as I looked at him now, I understood
Why he had been silent
Why his heart had become wooden..
I thought for a moment the pain he would face every year
Letting go of the ones he had so long cherished
Be it for the season or be it for the wind
And having to start over all anew
Year after year after year after year
And I closed my eyes
A silent prayer that never should one be faced with such a love affair..
I apologised to him, a terrible blunder on my part
And slowly walked away
Only to turn after some distance
And see the poor guy silently standing there
Rooted by the grave of his loved ones!

Picture-perfect!

(A short long story based on not one but many true incidents)

“When you don’t have evidence, why try to refuse it?” argued Ali, shrugging his shoulders and closing his lunch box.

Shekar gave him a cold stare and said, “Fine. I don’t have evidence. But, do you have any evidence to prove that they exist, sir?”

Ali paused for a moment and snapping his fingers, shouted, “Area 51!”

“Area 51? Seriously? Is that your evidence to make me believe in extra-terrestrial beings?”, asked Shekar, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well.. You can’t say that the happenings there and the reports about…” and Ali stopped abruptly. His eyes widened. Shekar asked him why he had stopped. Ali signalled Shekar with his eyes to look behind.  Shekar turned and saw Reshma standing by their desk.

“Yes, Reshma! What is it?” asked Shekar. Reshma tilted her head slightly and continued staring at Shekar without replying. Shekar looked at her confused for a few moments before he remembered the text message she had sent him last night. “The book review, right?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with the joy of discovery. She nodded without answering.

Shekar quickly turned to Ali and asked for his English assignment note. Ali, who had been looking at Reshma till then, quickly bent down and fetched the note from his bag.

“Here Reshma!” said Shekar, handing her Ali’s assignment note. “You will probably never come across a better review of a book. Ali is the best when it comes to books. ” Shekar added.

Reshma smiled and looking at Ali, she said, “I will return it in a day or two.” Ali nodded and quickly added, “No problem. Keep it as long as you want.” Shekar turned towards Ali and glancing at him for a moment, he turned to Reshma and said, “Yeah. You can probably even tear it to pieces after you complete the review.”

Ali nudged him as Reshma let out a chuckle. She opened her mouth to say a statement when the hour-bell rang. She quickly turned and hurried off to her desk.

“Keep it as long as you want? So weak a romantic line?” Shekar asked Ali after Reshma left. Ali stared at him plainly. “Why didn’t you tell me that she had asked for it yesterday?” he asked Shekar. “If I had told you, you would have jumped up and down in joy. But how could I let you be happy, my dear?” asked Shekar, his eyebrow raised. Ali punched him in the stomach and as Shekar raised his hand to hit Ali, entered the Physics teacher and everyone in ‘XII -B’ classroom rose from their seats for greeting her.

****

“Did you notice the way she smiled when you said that I was the best when it came to books?” Ali asked, a large smile spread over his face, looking at the road below.

“Yeah! But I guess she smiled taking it as a joke.” snubbed Shekar. Ali raised his head and gave Shekar a nasty look. “Are you going to rejoice because she smiled when I said something about you?” asked Shekar, in a bit serious tone.  Ali remained silent.

“But it doesn’t matter much anyway, Ali. She already knows that you like her.” said Shekar, in a very calm tone. Ali froze and stopped in his track. Shekar kept walking forward not paying heed to Ali who had stopped.  Ali continued looking at Shekar hoping that he would turn but as Shekar kept walking on, Ali quickly ran ahead and stopped Shekar.

“Does she really know?” Ali asked, fear visible in his tone. Shekar let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head in denial. “But we can actually change that.” he added to Ali. Ali punched him on his shoulder and continued walking.

They kept walking for a few steps, their footsteps the only sound that could be heard on the 5^th main street that led to their homes.

And suddenly breaking the silence, came Ali’s statement. “I want a good photograph, Shekar.”

Shekar looked at Ali confused. “Profile picture! I want to change my profile picture.” Ali explained.

“Why suddenly?” asked Shekar. “I just felt like changing it. Why? Can’t you take a photograph?” Ali asked him. Shekar smiled and a few steps later, he suddenly stopped. “Reshma? Are you changing your profile picture for Reshma?” he asked, a bit shocked. Ali did not answer. “Ali, this seems silly. Do you seriously think that changing..” but his statement was stopped halfway by Ali.

“Please. I felt like changing it. Let alone the reasons.” he said. “Could you possibly take one today?” he asked, a minute later. Shekar nodded. Ali’s face brightened up.

”You know.. I have always wanted a photograph with the sun-setting-orange-sky as the background. The beauty it brings about is something amazing. Especially, the sky with the sun slowly.. ” Shekar placed his palm on Ali’s mouth. “I will take care of the setting. Walk quietly.” he told Ali.

About half an hour later, Ali was adjusting his hair for the fourth time as Shekar stood patiently, holding his camera. They had come over to a small pond that lay at a five minute walk’s distance from Shekar’s house.

“Do you think that my shirt colour would match with the background? Shall I perhaps rush to my home and change my shirt?” Ali asked with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Yeah. Please proceed to your home.” Shekar said bluntly. Ali quickly sprinted ahead. “You bloody fool! Do you think the sun is going to keep waiting for you to change your shirt?” shouted Shekar at Ali. Ali stopped immediately and slowly returned back to the spot where Shekar had told him to stand. He dragged his shirt a bit down and adjusting his collar, he pulled his stomach in. He then showed a thumbs-up signal to Shekar who removed the lens-cap and bent down a bit, holding the camera near his eye. He slowly adjusted the aperture setting and as he tuned the ISO, he lowered his camera.

“Why are you holding your breath trying to keep your stomach in?” he asked Ali. Ali let out the breath he was so difficultly holding and as his tummy came out protruding, he slowly moved his hand over it. He then looked at Shekar asking for some compassion.

“If you are going to be your normal self, I will go ahead with taking your photo. If not, I am leaving.” he warned Ali.

“Shekar, please! Just see how big this fellow is!” Ali pleaded, shaking his tummy.

“If you are going to hold your breath, I am not taking your photograph.” iterated Shekar. Ali remained silent for a moment. “Fine. Let’s do this. One photograph with the stomach in for my sake and one with the normal self for your satisfaction. How about it?” he asked Shekar.

Shekar opened his mouth again to argue but he looked at the sky. He was already losing the lighting required for the photograph. So, he agreed and asked Ali to stand with his head lowered a bit.

He then started clicking the capture button, slightly lowering and raising the camera angle with every photograph. “Two is enough, Shekar” shouted Ali from his spot. “Stand quietly.” shouted back Shekar and continued snapping photographs. A few clicks later, he slowly lowered the camera and pressing the play button, he looked at the photos that had been captured. Ali quickly rushed to join him and watched the photos along with him. As the photos went by one after the other, stopped Shekar at a photograph and handed the camera to Ali. “I guess this one’s the best” he told Ali.

Ali took the camera from him and looked at the screen. On it was seen a beautiful photograph of Ali, till his waist level with a bleak smile on his face, at the left corner with a blurred background of the pond and a magnificent orange sun, occupying a majority of the top-right corner. “It’s fantastic Shekar” Ali delighted in joy. Shekar nodded and asked back the camera.

“Wait for a few minutes. I need to take some photographs” he told Ali and walked towards the pond. Ali walked behind him. Shekar wore the camera’s strap around his neck and sat down on the ground. He then picked a peculiar looking stone and placed it at the edge of the pond. He searched around for a bit and at some distance, he found what he was looking for. He looked at Ali who was standing nearby and asked him to fetch a dried-up yellowish leaf that lay a few feet away. Ali quickly brought him the leaf.  Shekar placed the leaf resting on the top of the stone and moving the stone a few inches more to the edge of the pond, he removed the camera from around his neck.

“Move back a bit” he said to Ali and as Ali moved back, Shekar prostrated himself on the ground. Adjusting the aperture setting, he focused on the leaf resting on the stone and started clicking a few photographs. “Why did Sheela aunty take a break from photography, Shekar?” asked Ali suddenly. Shekar gave him an angry stare and Ali quickly placed his hand over his mouth.

A minute later, Shekar got up and seated himself before the pond. He then slowly took the peculiar looking stone and threw it inside the pond, very close to its edge. As the stone fell inside, started spreading ripples and he quickly threw the dried-up yellowish leaf into the pond. The leaf flew in the breeze and landed on one of the ripples getting carried away. Shekar quickly rested his camera on the ground and focusing on the ripples, he slightly adjusted the aperture setting to bring the leaf into focus and a moment later, he got the ideal image that he was looking for which he photographed.

“Why did Sheela aunty take a break from photography?” asked Ali again, as Shekar stood up dusting off the mud from his shirt and pants. Shekar looked at Ali for a moment. “Why this question suddenly?” asked Shekar, continuing to dust off the mud.

“The last time I visited your home, I noticed the ‘India Today’ cover photograph that aunty had taken hanging on the wall. I thought of asking about the photograph and as to why she had taken a break then but for some reason, I didn’t. I suddenly felt like asking now seeing you engaged in photography” Ali explained.

Shekar hung the camera around his neck and signalling Ali to proceed, started walking towards his home. “It was that photograph which you saw hanging on the wall that caused the break” Shekar said, as they had taken a few steps. Ali looked at Shekar. “Do you remember the photograph?” Shekar asked him.

“Yeah. A little girl smiling from inside an overflowing garbage bin. It kind of shook me a bit” Ali said.

Shekar nodded and explained, “It shook my mom more than a bit. She had managed to capture the photograph easily. But when she saw her photograph on the ‘India Today’ cover, she broke down. She ran to her room and smashed two camera lenses that came to her reach. She then grabbed this camera..” Shekar pointed to the camera around his neck and continued, “.. and was about to smash it too. But my dad hurried in and snatched it from my mom. It took him more than a week to completely console her. She felt ashamed for having taken the photograph of the girl inside the garbage bin and told my father that she was never ever returning back to photography. ” Shekar ended.

A minute of silence prevailed as the two of them kept walking towards Shekar’s home.

“Why then hang the photograph on the wall?” asked Ali slowly, looking at Shekar. “To remind herself not to get back to this” Shekar said, pointing again at the camera that hung around his neck.

A minute later, they reached Shekar’s home. “So, does she never even touch the camera?” asked Ali, still pondering over Shekar’s mom’s break. “It’s not so. She does teach me a few techniques about lighting and camera angles. But it’s been about two years now since she captured a photograph.” said Shekar.

“Not even a selfie?” asked Ali, smiling.

Shekar raised his eyebrows in anger at Ali’s comment and as Ali’s smile slowly disappeared, he let out a hearty laugh and slapped Ali’s back.

****

Ali refreshed his Facebook page again.  It had been more than an hour since he had changed his profile picture. He had got only 6 likes.

He clicked the tab that lay nearby the current tab on his browser. He had opened Reshma’s profile picture on it. He looked at her photo – a simple image of her standing by a tree – and as he scrolled down, his heart sank a bit. 231 likes.

He banged his head on his computer table. A set of novels that lay at the edge of the table tumbled and fell below. Ali let out a sigh and got up from his chair. He picked up the novels and set them on the table. On his way to returning to his chair, he passed the full-sized mirror that lay attached to the wall. He stopped and turned towards the mirror. He walked towards it. As he stood a few inches away from it, he looked closely at his reflection on the mirror. He then turned to his left and looked at his sideways reflection on the mirror.

He slowly moved his hand over his protruding stomach. He then slowly pulled it in. Pulling it inside to the fullest, he looked at the mirror. He kept staring at his image having a flat stomach and he slowly moved his hand over the reflection’s stomach. As he kept moving his hand, his body couldn’t take it anymore and his stomach came back to its normal self. He abruptly stopped moving his hand and dragged it back from the mirror.

He then slowly walked back to his chair and seating himself on it, looked at the screen. It had Reshma’s photo on it and the likes had gone to 240. He moved his mouse pointer and returned to the nearby tab that had his profile. He closed his eyes as he clicked the tab and slowly leaning forward, he opened them. The same 6 likes.

Frustrated, he removed the photo from his Facebook profile and switched off his system. He then leaned back on his chair and began staring at the black screen of the computer, slowly punching his stomach.

****

“Who the hell told you that a girl is going to be impressed by the likes you get on a Facebook page?” Shekar asked angrily, as he opened his lunchbox. Ali did not reply. He sat staring at his unopened lunchbox.

“Are you not going to open it?” Shekar asked. There was no reply. Shekar dragged Ali’s lunchbox closer to him and opened it. Arranged neatly inside were 5 chappathis, rolled and stuffed with potato curry. “Wow! My favourite! Are you going to have one or not?” asked Shekar, holding the lunchbox to Ali in one hand whilst biting a large piece off a chappathi roll held in the other. Ali remained silent staring still at the spot the lunchbox had been before.  

“Fine.” said Shekar bluntly and placed the lunchbox by his side. As he completed one chappathi roll, he took out another and started eating it. Ali, still staring at the same spot slowly moved his hand towards his lunchbox. Shekar, seeing this, moved the lunchbox a bit further from Ali’s reach. Ali stretched out his hand a bit further. Shekar moved the lunchbox a bit more and Ali eventually turned and looked at Shekar. Shekar slowly dragged the lunchbox back and pushed it to Ali’s side. Ali got hold of a chappathi roll from the lunchbox and started munching it.

“So, tell now, my dear. Who the hell told you that the likes you get for your profile picture would impress a girl?” Shekar asked, smiling.

“Nobody” said Ali bluntly. Shekar smiled a bit more. “Why do you care if she gets 240 or 250 likes? It just means that there are those many jobless people in her friend list.” he told in a sarcastic tone.

Ali let out a chuckle, spitting out a bit of the chappathi roll.

“A profile picture is after all just an identifier, right? People need your profile picture to help them recognize you. Why the hell has it been made into a tool to measure your attractiveness? Does 240 likes mean you are handsome and does 5 likes mean you are ugly? ” Shekar asked, the last statement in an anger filled tone.

“Actually, it was 6 likes.” corrected Ali, still munching at his roll.

Shekar let out a hearty laugh. “Idiot!” he exclaimed, laughing. “By tomorrow morning, I want to see your photo back as the profile picture. If it doesn’t get even a single more like, I don’t care. I like you the way you are. I like your tummy. I like the entire 90 kilos of you. Be happy and proud of who you are and how you are, Ali. And I will kill you if you lay your hand on the last roll!” he finished, hitting Ali’s hand that had reached for his lunch box.

“You were saying something very seriously. So, I thought you might not notice” Ali said, laughing.

“You are important to me. Fine. But the chappathi roll is, on any day, more important” said Shekar, mocking. Ali let out a laugh and a moment later, his laugh abruptly stopped. Shekar asked him what it was. Ali signalled with his eyes to look behind. As Shekar turned, he saw Reshma standing.

“Ali, I completed my review last night. But I have given your assignment note to Kavya. She said that she would definitely return it by Monday. Hope you don’t mind” she said, looking at Ali.

Ali shook his head furiously, signifying a no, trying to swallow hastily the food inside his mouth.

“And I also wanted to say that your review was fantastic. I have not even heard of the book – The Reluctant Fundamentalist. But you had reviewed it so well that I felt like I had read the book after finishing your review. Really great, Ali! ” she said, smiling. Ali kept looking at her, his eyes widened. He wanted to thank her but he could not bring about his mouth to say it.

“Ali becomes a statue when someone praises him. I thank you on his behalf.” quickly added Shekar, smiling, looking at Ali. Ali nudged him but he still couldn’t bring himself about to thank her. “It’s fine. I should only thank you” said Reshma to Ali and turned to leave.

“Ask her which book she chose” whispered Ali to Shekar, hurriedly. “So, which book did you choose, Reshma?” asked Shekar, making Reshma turn.

“Twilight. I chose Twilight.” she said, smiling and walked away.

After she had gone a few steps, Shekar burst into a hearty laughter. He started banging the desk, unable to control his laughter. A minute later, still laughing, he slowly turned to Ali. Ali was still reeling from the shock.

“Hey! Your face seems to have become as pale as the Edward’s face described in Twilight.” exclaimed Shekar and started laughing even more. Ali landed a hard punch on his back and told him to stop laughing. But Shekar was able to control it only after about two minutes.

“What an irony! Of all the books in the world, your dream girl chose the one book – the only book – that you hate. I really feel sorry for you Ali” said Shekar, beginning to laugh again.

Ali was silent for a minute and then he said something which made Shekar laugh even more.

“The first thing I am doing after reaching home is keeping my photo back as the profile picture.”

****

Shekar looked at the clock. It was 8am. He wondered for a minute as to why he woke up early on Sundays when he found it extremely difficult to wake up on the working days of school.  

He switched on his desktop computer and shouted out, “Mom! A drinkable coffee please!”

There was no reply for a few moments. He slowly peeped out of his room, sitting on his chair. A moment later, his mom came out of the kitchen and gave an angry look. “It would take at least 20 minutes. After all, I need to make it drinkable, right?” she smirked. Shekar grinned widely and nodded. His mom returned back inside.

Shekar opened the web browser and logged into his Facebook account.

The earlier day, Ali had been constantly whining about Reshma’s like for Twilight but by evening, he had come to a phase where he had started saying that everyone had a few negatives and it wasn’t a big issue. Shekar had become afraid that Ali might get back again to feeling sorry for his profile picture and had lied to him that Reshma, during a conversation with Shekar the earlier night, had mentioned that she had felt that Ali’s photo had looked good and had asked Shekar why Ali had removed it. Ali had not believed it but Shekar had threatened him that he would call Reshma right then and make her say that she liked the photo and so eventually, Ali had agreed.

Shekar had decided to ask Reshma, if she came online, to ‘like’ Ali’s photo. Shekar had told her a few months back about how much Ali liked her and so he knew that Reshma wouldn’t mind liking Ali’s photo. She, though did not like Ali in the complete sense, had considerable respect for him.

But as soon as he logged in, Shekar saw that he had received a message. It was from Ali. As Shekar opened the message, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Ali had sent him a screenshot. It showed a Facebook notification, from Ali’s profile, which said: “Reshma Saravanan likes your photo”.

Shekar was overjoyed. He wanted to congratulate Ali and as he glanced at the left bottom corner of the page for the list of people online, he could see that Ali’s name had a green dot accompanying it. As Shekar began typing, he noticed that Ali was also typing something and Shekar stopped.

A moment later blinked the message: “This is going to be a lengthy message. Please bear with me. I need to tell you this :P ”

Shekar was a bit confused on seeing the message but he waited patiently, expecting a long-winding message about Reshma.

And then came the lengthy message bit by bit.

“Kavya messaged me yesterday on Facebook. She had messaged to let me know that she was having my English assignment note :D”

“She told me that my review on the book was great. She admitted to have read only 3 books in her life and asked me how many books I have read so far. I shamelessly admitted as to have read about 300 books  :P I also told her to read more books and suggested a few good ones :D ”

Shekar smiled as he read the message. Ali was the only guy he knew who would type entire sentences instead of using short phrases even on Facebook.

“But here is the main part :D She told me that my profile picture looked good :D I thanked her and only then looked at her profile picture. It was a photograph of a small child. I asked her why she had not kept her photo as the profile picture.”

“And the reply that she sent made me feel really bad. She sent this – ‘LOL :P If I keep my photograph as the profile picture, I would probably not get any more friend requests :P :D’. I really felt very bad, Shekar. And you should not scold me for what I did after this :P ”

Shekar started imagining all kinds of possibilities as to what Ali would have done when appeared the next message.

“I sent her the following message – ‘The profile picture is just an identifier. Why do you say such stuff? Take me, for example. I have a huge tummy. I weigh 90 kilos. But I love my tummy. I love the entire 90 kilos that is me. Be happy and proud of who you are and how you are :D And sorry if I had said anything wrong :) ’. I know what you would be thinking after reading it but like I said, please don’t scold me :D ”

Shekar let out a hearty laugh reading the message. It was stuff like this that made him love Ali.

“And do you know what Kavya replied? She sent me this – ‘ No aplogies please :) No one has ever shared such things with me. Thanks a lot. I guess this book review has not just given me a book to read but also a great friend :) ’. And she actually changed her profile picture – it now has her photo :D ”

Shekar smiled reading it.

“All of this happened only because of you :D Be it Reshma :D Be it my photo :D Be it the advice that led to Kavya becoming friends with me :D I will somehow beg my mom and bring chappathi rolls tomorrow also :D Thank you my friend :D ”

The last message made Shekar smile even more. This was another characteristic of Ali’s which he loved. Ali never hesitated to express his gratitude even for the smallest of things. But Shekar knew that this time, he didn’t deserve Ali’s gratitude. He typed:

“ Congrats on Reshma’s like – I told you yesterday na? :D And hats off with Kavya – you have made a girl feel proud of herself :D Seriously super :D And stop thanking me. Everything happened only because of your book review :D Realize that and thank yourself :D And please Ali, somehow make your mom agree to the chappathi rolls :D”

And he sent it to Ali. He got back a “Definitely :D” from Ali after which Ali went offline.

Shekar read the messages that Ali had sent him one more time. As he read Ali’s thank-you message again, he experienced an overwhelming feeling of happiness but this time it was tinged with a slight guilt.

He recalled all the statements he had said to Ali the previous day about profile pictures. He looked at Ali’s message again and he couldn’t help feeling bad. He moved his mouse pointer to the top of his profile and clicked on his profile picture.

It was a photograph of a butterfly rested atop a torn shoe that Shekar had taken.

He kept staring at the picture for a few moments and began scrolling through his earlier profile pictures – a bird perched on a railway track, a line of water droplets about to fall from a clothesline, a lonely hibiscus flower that lay fallen on a long empty road, a dog resting on a bench with its one eye open, a caterpillar crawling across a leaf – all of them captured by Shekar.

He recalled the instance when Ali had asked him, a few months ago, as to why he never kept his photograph as his profile picture. Shekar had smartly answered him that he wanted people to recognize him by his ‘photographs’ and not by ‘his’ photographs.

But now, as he kept looking at the photographs he had assigned as his profile pictures, he felt sad. He knew the real reason as to why he had not kept his photo as the profile picture.

He did not consider a picture of himself worthy.

He slowly got up from his chair. He walked to the balcony and looked out at the sky. The sun was at its most powerful, shining brightly.

As he kept staring at the sky, he recalled Ali’s message. He also recalled Kavya’s message that Ali had sent him.

As his eyes became blinded by the sun’s rays, it slowly dawned on him.

He decided that he would no longer be a hypocrite and turned to enter his room. He saw his mom standing by his computer table with the coffee cup in her hand.

And his heart skipped a beat.

As he looked at her standing there, he recalled all the hours he had spent with his mom learning about photography. He had, on a lot of occasions, asked her to photograph various images that had caught his eye but she had refused outright on every single occasion.

He now remembered the one thing he had never asked her to photograph.

And he entered the room quickly. He took the coffee cup from her hands and placed it down on the table. He held her hand and dragged her to the balcony. He told her to stand near the entrance of the balcony and entered the room again. He grabbed the camera th and came back to the balcony. He told his mom not to move and hung the camera’s strap around her neck. She tried to lift the strap off but Shekar told her to wait for a moment.

He then walked towards the edge of the balcony. Looking at the sky and the sun for a moment, he positioned himself at a place where the sunlight bathed one half of his body while the other remained dark. He looked at his mom.

She was grasping the strap of the camera, ready to remove it.

Shekar looked at her eyes and bringing about a smile on his face, he slowly asked her,

“Mom, would you take a photograph of me?”

                                                

*****