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.