what i was doing when i got the sms!

The 20th of November 2009 started out like every other day... Normal, unexciting, usual, except for two things - it was rumoured that the ISB results for R1 applicants to the Class of 2011 were to be out today and that my favourite uncle informed us in the morning that he was coming to Hyderabad.

so here how the rest of the day unfolded. I went to office, actually managed to get some work done, hell even wrote an article for a leading financial daily, and then met my uncle for lunch.

He then went off w/ my dad and around 5:30 in the evening i was picked up from my office as were to go drop off my uncle at, hold your breath, ISB. why? Coz he's here for a four day executive programme.
So off we went. Trudging through the hyderabad traffic (it was particularly bad this friday evening). Honking, swearing, fist pumping, cursing, and all in all, having a ball of a time.

On the way we stopped at Hitech City and finally reached the hallowed portals of ISB. Drove straight through to the executive housing reception. As i as crossing the mail building (the academic block that is the heart of ISB), i was tempted to stop, run to the admissions and financial aid office and ask them to put me out of my suspense and misery. But better sense prevailed and I continued to drive down. Sigh!

Reached the Executive housing reception, parked the car, was invited to join my uncle for a drink and despite the storm in my heart agreed. I had mango juice! :P

As we walk towards the bar counter to pick up our drinks who do I see, but Dean Rangnekar himself! My heart nearly stopped beating and my brain went into overdrive saying that this could not be mere "coincidence". Once again, i regined in my feet and my heart, maintained a stright face and picked up the drinks, walked outside and sat down at the table. What we spoke about, I have no clue. All i wanted to do was to get out and get home and somehow make time pass faster.

Anyways, R1 of the drinks were almost done, i was sending sms' to my friends to keep my mind occupied and was getting replies in double time... the phone beeped once more, i picked it up with the same disinterest and opened the message. That is when the world stopped!

That was the message that i'd been waiting for. the coveted message informing me that i'd been offered admission to the ISB Class of 2011 and to check my mail for further details. I read it three times to make sure that i was not in a dream and that i wasn't misreading it. The first words were "OH MY GOD!, I've made it!". I wanted to let out the loudest whoop of my life, but considering where i was, I controlled myself. It was, i think, the greatest act of self control for me, so far! grin!

I excitedly showed the sms to my dad and shared the news w/ my uncle - both of whom were excited beyond expression! I jumped off my chair (as soon as my legs had stopped wobbling w/ the excitement) and ran to call my wife and share the news w/ her. I've no recollection of what i said or did, but she says that i was screaming my head off and was all hyper and was making no sense! (like I cared! :P)

So then other calls followed - mom, sister, etc etc etc.... and after a few mins my heart started beating normally and the adrenalin levels had approached some semblance of normalcy. And the gentlemen were ready for R2 of their drinks. Back we went to the bar counter and this time i just could not control myself.

Despite the fact that Dean Rangnekar was now surrounded by an even larger crowd, i walked right over to him, excused myself and said, "Good Evening, I just wanted to say hi". He was sitting, i was standing to his right and behind him and he was looking at like I'd just landed from mars. Being high on adrenalin I continuted unabashed, "I've just been offered admission to the Class of 2011..." At this point he stood up, and shook my hand and congratulated me profusely. "I was on the campus and seeing you here I decided to come over and say 'hi'". "Congratulations!! What is your name?". "Jaideep Chowdhary". "What are you doing on campus?" "i'd come to drop off my uncle who's here for an executive programme." "What programme?" "the Ericcson one." "Ah! (and then suddenly realising the date), But, are the results out? they must've just been out. I know that till yesterday they were working on it" "I've just received the SMS sir, and I happened to be on campus. And i decided to walk over to meet you" "Well congratulations once again and hope to see more of you soon"

I was elated.

I think that i must be the only person (apart from spouses of studetns) who got an offer of admission while they were already on Campus! And i'm pretty certain that no other admit has shook hands with the dean within such a short gap of having received the admission offer"

So there. that is the long, boring ( ;) ) story of what i was doing when i got the sms!

A new begining...

The last four years have been crazy....

the more I think about it, the more I realize, just how crazy the years have been. There was some that was amazing, there was some that was average and then there was the absolutely terrible. I fell in love, was "rejected", got depressed, fell in love again. I also was in one city, then another, then back to city one. I traveled more in each of the last four years than most people travel in their whole lives. I mean more times and to more places.

I also got married and traveled abroad for the first time. Also, for the first time in my life, I wrote an exam with the intent of scoring marks. In the past, for me an exam was just something I had to do before I moved ahead; a diversion before my destination.

To cut a long story short and to fast forward here is what happened up untill last night.

I started believing that i could do more than what I was doing, and took up the task of the GMAT. I wrote the GMAT and score a decent 710. I said, "why waste this score and applied to ISB". ISB, I guess liked what I said in my essays coz they called me for an interview. Interview happened and then came the days of twiddling thumbs and biting nails. Exactly a week after that the results were announced and I was in.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been offered admission to the ISB, class of 2011.

How the news broke, is all together a different story. Update in 24 hours or less.

until then, adios amigos!

Coffee, Tea, or Should We Feel Your Pregnant Wife’s Breasts Before Throwing You in a Cell at the Airport and Then Lying About Why We Put You There?

The following post is NOT original and has been taken from http://www.lewrockwell.com/orig3/monahan1.html The only reason I have done this, for the first time ever, is that the story is compelling, engrossing and touching. It is something that all of us can relate to. Freedom? Ironic!

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This morning I’ll be escorting my wife to the hospital, where the doctors will perform a caesarean section to remove our first child. She didn’t want to do it this way – neither of us did – but sometimes the Fates decide otherwise. The Fates or, in our case, government employees.

On the morning of October 26th Mary and I entered Portland International Airport, en route to the Las Vegas wedding of one of my best friends. Although we live in Los Angeles, we’d been in Oregon working on a film, and up to that point had had nothing but praise to shower on the city of Portland, a refreshing change of pace from our own suffocating metropolis.

At the security checkpoint I was led aside for the "inspection" that’s all the rage at airports these days. My shoes were removed. I was told to take off my sweater, then to fold over the waistband of my pants. My baseball hat, hastily jammed on my head at 5 AM, was removed and assiduously examined ("Anything could be in here, sir," I was told, after I asked what I could hide in a baseball hat. Yeah. Anything.) Soon I was standing on one foot, my arms stretched out, the other leg sticking out in front of me àla a DUI test. I began to get pissed off, as most normal people would. My anger increased when I realized that the newly knighted federal employees weren’t just examining me, but my 7½ months pregnant wife as well. I’d originally thought that I’d simply been randomly selected for the more excessive than normal search. You know, Number 50 or whatever. Apparently not though – it was both of us. These are your new threats, America: pregnant accountants and their sleepy husbands flying to weddings.

After some more grumbling on my part they eventually finished with me and I went to retrieve our luggage from the x-ray machine. Upon returning I found my wife sitting in a chair, crying. Mary rarely cries, and certainly not in public. When I asked her what was the matter, she tried to quell her tears and sobbed, "I’m sorry...it’s...they touched my breasts...and..." That’s all I heard. I marched up to the woman who’d been examining her and shouted, "What did you do to her?" Later I found out that in addition to touching her swollen breasts – to protect the American citizenry – the employee had asked that she lift up her shirt. Not behind a screen, not off to the side – no, right there, directly in front of the hundred or so passengers standing in line. And for you women who’ve been pregnant and worn maternity pants, you know how ridiculous those things look. "I felt like a clown," my wife told me later. "On display for all these people, with the cotton panel on my pants and my stomach sticking out. When I sat down I just lost my composure and began to cry. That’s when you walked up."

Of course when I say she "told me later," it’s because she wasn’t able to tell me at the time, because as soon as I demanded to know what the federal employee had done to make her cry, I was swarmed by Portland police officers. Instantly. Three of them, cinching my arms, locking me in handcuffs, and telling me I was under arrest. Now my wife really began to cry. As they led me away and she ran alongside, I implored her to calm down, to think of the baby, promising her that everything would turn out all right. She faded into the distance and I was shoved into an elevator, a cop holding each arm. After making me face the corner, the head honcho told that I was under arrest and that I wouldn’t be flying that day – that I was in fact a "menace."

It took me a while to regain my composure. I felt like I was one of those guys in The Gulag Archipelago who, because the proceedings all seem so unreal, doesn’t fully realize that he is in fact being arrested in a public place in front of crowds of people for...for what? I didn’t know what the crime was. Didn’t matter. Once upstairs, the officers made me remove my shoes and my hat and tossed me into a cell. Yes, your airports have prison cells, just like your amusement parks, train stations, universities, and national forests. Let freedom reign.

After a short time I received a visit from the arresting officer. "Mr. Monahan," he started, "Are you on drugs?"

Was this even real? "No, I’m not on drugs."

"Should you be?"

"What do you mean?"

"Should you be on any type of medication?"

"No."

"Then why’d you react that way back there?"

You see the thinking? You see what passes for reasoning among your domestic shock troops these days? Only "whackos" get angry over seeing the woman they’ve been with for ten years in tears because someone has touched her breasts. That kind of reaction – love, protection – it’s mind-boggling! "Mr. Monahan, are you on drugs?" His snide words rang inside my head. This is my wife, finally pregnant with our first child after months of failed attempts, after the depressing shock of the miscarriage last year, my wife who’d been walking on a cloud over having the opportunity to be a mother...and my anger is simply unfathomable to the guy standing in front of me, the guy who earns a living thanks to my taxes, the guy whose family I feed through my labor. What I did wasn’t normal. No, I reacted like a drug addict would’ve. I was so disgusted I felt like vomiting. But that was just the beginning.

An hour later, after I’d been gallantly assured by the officer that I wouldn’t be attending my friend’s wedding that day, I heard Mary’s voice outside my cell. The officer was speaking loudly, letting her know that he was planning on doing me a favor... which everyone knows is never a real favor. He wasn’t going to come over and help me work on my car or move some furniture. No, his "favor" was this: He’d decided not to charge me with a felony.

Think about that for a second. Rapes, car-jackings, murders, arsons – those are felonies. So is yelling in an airport now, apparently. I hadn’t realized, though I should have. Luckily, I was getting a favor, though. I was merely going to be slapped with a misdemeanor.

"Here’s your court date," he said as I was released from my cell. In addition, I was banned from Portland International for 90 days, and just in case I was thinking of coming over and hanging out around its perimeter, the officer gave me a map with the boundaries highlighted, sternly warning me against trespassing. Then he and a second officer escorted us off the grounds. Mary and I hurriedly drove two and a half hours in the rain to Seattle, where we eventually caught a flight to Vegas. But the officer was true to his word – we missed my friend’s wedding. The fact that he’d been in my own wedding party, the fact that a once in a lifetime event was stolen from us – well, who cares, right?

Upon our return to Portland (I’d had to fly into Seattle and drive back down), we immediately began contacting attorneys. We aren’t litigious people – we wanted no money. I’m not even sure what we fully wanted. An apology? A reprimand? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter though, because we couldn’t afford a lawyer, it turned out. $4,000 was the average figure bandied about as a retaining fee. Sorry, but I’ve got a new baby on the way. So we called the ACLU, figuring they existed for just such incidents as these. And they do apparently...but only if we were minorities. That’s what they told us.

In the meantime, I’d appealed my suspension from PDX. A week or so later I got a response from the Director of Aviation. After telling me how, in the aftermath of 9/11, most passengers not only accept additional airport screening but welcome it, he cut to the chase:

"After a review of the police report and my discussions with police staff, as well as a review of the TSA’s report on this incident, I concur with the officer’s decision to take you into custody and to issue a citation to you for disorderly conduct. That being said, because I also understand that you were upset and acted on your emotions, I am willing to lift the Airport Exclusion Order...."

Attached to this letter was the report the officer had filled out. I’d like to say I couldn’t believe it, but in a way, I could. It’s seemingly becoming the norm in America – lies and deliberate distortions on the part of those in power, no matter how much or how little power they actually wield.

The gist of his report was this: From the get go I wasn’t following the screener’s directions. I was "squinting my eyes" and talking to my wife in a "low, forced voice" while "excitedly swinging my arms." Twice I began to walk away from the screener, inhaling and exhaling forcefully. When I’d completed the physical exam, I walked to the luggage screening area, where a second screener took a pair of scissors from my suitcase. At this point I yelled, "What the %*&$% is going on? This is &*#&$%!" The officer, who’d already been called over by one of the screeners, became afraid for the TSA staff and the many travelers. He required the assistance of a second officer as he "struggled" to get me into handcuffs, then for "cover" called over a third as well. It was only at this point that my wife began to cry hysterically.

There was nothing poetic in my reaction to the arrest report. I didn’t crumple it in my fist and swear that justice would be served, promising to sacrifice my resources and time to see that it would. I simply stared. Clearly the officer didn’t have the guts to write down what had really happened. It might not look too good to see that stuff about the pregnant woman in tears because she’d been humiliated. Instead this was the official scenario being presented for the permanent record. It doesn’t even matter that it’s the most implausible sounding situation you can think of. "Hey, what the...godammit, they’re taking our scissors, honey!" Why didn’t he write in anything about a monkey wearing a fez?

True, the TSA staff had expropriated a pair of scissors from our toiletries kit – the story wasn’t entirely made up. Except that I’d been locked in airport jail at the time. I didn’t know anything about any scissors until Mary told me on our drive up to Seattle. They’d questioned her about them while I was in the bowels of the airport sitting in my cell.

So I wrote back, indignation and disgust flooding my brain.

"[W]hile I’m not sure, I’d guess that the entire incident is captured on video. Memory is imperfect on everyone’s part, but the footage won’t lie. I realize it might be procedurally difficult for you to view this, but if you could, I’d appreciate it. There’s no willful disregard of screening directions. No explosion over the discovery of a pair of scissors in a suitcase. No struggle to put handcuffs on. There’s a tired man, early in the morning, unhappily going through a rigorous procedure and then reacting to the tears of his pregnant wife."

Eventually we heard back from a different person, the guy in charge of the TSA airport screeners. One of his employees had made the damning statement about me exploding over her scissor discovery, and the officer had deftly incorporated that statement into his report. We asked the guy if he could find out why she’d said this – couldn’t she possibly be mistaken? "Oh, can’t do that, my hands are tied. It’s kind of like leading a witness – I could get in trouble, heh heh." Then what about the videotape? Why not watch that? That would exonerate me. "Oh, we destroy all video after three days."

Sure you do.

A few days later we heard from him again. He just wanted to inform us that he’d received corroboration of the officer’s report from the officer’s superior, a name we didn’t recognize. "But...he wasn’t even there," my wife said.

"Yeah, well, uh, he’s corroborated it though."

That’s how it works.

"Oh, and we did look at the videotape. Inconclusive."

But I thought it was destroyed?

On and on it went. Due to the tenacity of my wife in making phone calls and speaking with relevant persons, the "crime" was eventually lowered to a mere citation. Only she could have done that. I would’ve simply accepted what was being thrown at me, trumped up charges and all, simply because I’m wholly inadequate at performing the kowtow. There’s no way I could have contacted all the people Mary did and somehow pretend to be contrite. Besides, I speak in a low, forced voice, which doesn’t elicit sympathy. Just police suspicion.

Weeks later at the courthouse I listened to a young DA awkwardly read the charges against me – "Mr. Monahan...umm...shouted obscenities at the airport staff...umm... umm...oh, they took some scissors from his suitcase and he became...umm...abusive at this point." If I was reading about it in Kafka I might have found something vaguely amusing in all of it. But I wasn’t. I was there. Living it.

I entered a plea of nolo contendere, explaining to the judge that if I’d been a resident of Oregon, I would have definitely pled "Not Guilty." However, when that happens, your case automatically goes to a jury trial, and since I lived a thousand miles away, and was slated to return home in seven days, with a newborn due in a matter of weeks...you get the picture. "No Contest" it was. Judgment: $250 fine.

Did I feel happy? Only $250, right? No, I wasn’t happy. I don’t care if it’s twelve cents, that’s money pulled right out of my baby’s mouth and fed to a disgusting legal system that will use it to propagate more incidents like this. But at the very least it was over, right? Wrong.

When we returned to Los Angeles there was an envelope waiting for me from the court. Inside wasn’t a receipt for the money we’d paid. No, it was a letter telling me that what I actually owed was $309 – state assessed court costs, you know. Wouldn’t you think your taxes pay for that – the state putting you on trial? No, taxes are used to hire more cops like the officer, because with our rising criminal population – people like me – hey, your average citizen demands more and more "security."

Finally I reach the piece de resistance. The week before we’d gone to the airport my wife had had her regular pre-natal checkup. The child had settled into the proper head down position for birth, continuing the remarkable pregnancy she’d been having. We returned to Portland on Sunday. On Mary’s Monday appointment she was suddenly told, "Looks like your baby’s gone breech." When she later spoke with her midwives in Los Angeles, they wanted to know if she’d experienced any type of trauma recently, as this often makes a child flip. "As a matter of fact..." she began, recounting the story, explaining how the child inside of her was going absolutely crazy when she was crying as the police were leading me away through the crowd.

My wife had been planning a natural childbirth. She’d read dozens of books, meticulously researched everything, and had finally decided that this was the way for her. No drugs, no numbing of sensations – just that ultimate combination of brute pain and sheer joy that belongs exclusively to mothers. But my wife is also a first-time mother, so she has what is called an "untested" pelvis. Essentially this means that a breech birth is too dangerous to attempt, for both mother and child. Therefore, she’s now relegated to a c-section – hospital stay, epidural, catheter, fetal monitoring, stitches – everything she didn’t want. Her natural birth has become a surgery.

We’ve tried everything to turn that baby. Acupuncture, chiropractic techniques, underwater handstands, elephant walking, moxibustion, bending backwards over pillows, herbs, external manipulation – all to no avail. When I walked into the living room the other night and saw her plaintively cooing with a flashlight turned onto her stomach, yet another suggested technique, my heart almost broke. It’s breaking now as I write these words.

I can never prove that my child went breech because of what happened to us at the airport. But I’ll always believe it. Wrongly or rightly, I’ll forever think of how this man, the personification of this system, has affected the lives of my family and me. When my wife is sliced open, I’ll be thinking of him. When they remove her uterus from her abdomen and lay it on her stomach, I’ll be thinking of him. When I visit her and my child in the hospital instead of having them with me here in our home, I’ll be thinking of him. When I assist her to the bathroom while the incision heals internally, I’ll be thinking of him.

There are plenty of stories like this these days. I don’t know how many I’ve read where the writer describes some breach of civil liberties by employees of the state, then wraps it all up with a dire warning about what we as a nation are becoming, and how if we don’t put an end to it now, then we’re in for heaps of trouble. Well you know what? Nothing’s going to stop the inevitable. There’s no policy change that’s going to save us. There’s no election that’s going to put a halt to the onslaught of tyranny. It’s here already – this country has changed for the worse and will continue to change for the worse. There is now a division between the citizenry and the state. When that state is used as a tool against me, there is no longer any reason why I should owe any allegiance to that state.

And that’s the first thing that child of ours is going to learn.

December 21, 2002

Nick Monahan works in the film industry. He writes out of Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and as of December 18th, his beautiful new son.

Copyright © 2002 LewRockwell.com

programming is like sex because...

- One mistake and you have to support it for the rest of your life. (Michael Sinz)
Once you get started, you’ll only stop because you’re exhausted.
- It takes another experienced person to really appreciate what you’re doing.
- Conversely, there’s some odd people who pride themselves on their lack of experience.
- You can do it for money or for fun.
- If you spend more time doing it than watching TV, people think you’re some kind of freak.
- It’s not really an appropriate topic for dinner conversation.
There’s not enough taught about it in public school.
- It doesn’t make any sense at all if you try to explain it in strictly clinical terms.
- Some people are just naturally good.
- But some people will never realize how bad they are, and you’re wasting your time trying to tell them.
- There are a few weirdos with bizarre practices nobody really is comfortable with.
- One little thing going wrong can ruin everything.
- It’s a great way to spend a lunch break.
- Everyone acts like they’re the first person to come up with a new technique.
- Everyone who’s done it pokes fun at those who haven’t.
- Beginners do a lot of clumsy fumbling about.
- You’ll miss it if it’s been a while.
- There’s always someone willing to write about the only right way to do things.
- It doesn’t go so well when you’re drunk, but you’re more likely to do it.
- Sometimes it’s fun to use expensive toys.
- Other people just get in the way.

Books and me...

What have I read?
These are the 25 most popular overall books at What Should I Read Next?

I liked it!

I didn't like it!

I want to read it!

The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown

The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - Douglas Adams

The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger

The Great Gatsby - F.Scott Fitzgerald

To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

1984 - George Orwell

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling

The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger

His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman

Animal Farm: A Fairy Story - George Orwell

The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien

Life of Pi - Yann Martel

Catch-22 - Joseph Heller

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon

Lord of the Flies - William Golding

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut

The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold

The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini

Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden

Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card

The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien

Angels and Demons - Dan Brown

Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk

Take the 'What have I read?' test now!
Eight different categories to try!

The land of the five rivers...

hmm....

A lot has happened in the last few days.. I have moved and am now living in Chandigarh, in Nothern India. Wile Chandigarh is a Union territory (meaning that it is fedral territory and does not belong to any state), it shares a lot of it's culture with Punjab. In fact it is also the capital of the states of Punjab and Haryana....

The appended text is from a letter i'd written to a friend describing the place and my feelings about moving here... Happy reading.
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Staying here in Punjab, the land from which I hail is a very different experience. I feel like a traveler who after a long journey has returned home. The people, the food, the culture, everything here makes me feel so much at home. I dunno why. I’ve never lived here bfr… In fact bfr I came here I was apprehensive – I wondered how it would be, I’d heard about rich, uneducated landlords and buffoons. I’d heard of lawlessless and anarchy and of a land that does not respect it women. I’d heard to hot headdenss and a changed topography. But what I found has left me speechless…

Wide open spaces with lots of greenery, a air so fresh that one feel charged at all times, water in the tap so pure that one could drink rigt out of the taps…. Food so yummy tht the stomach is full, but the heart wants more. Bread so soft that I’ve barely eaten rice since I reached here….. I’ve not taken to any place as soon as I’ve taken to this one. I’d really like for you to come and spend some time here with me. I’d like to introduce you to some real Punjabi food and to show you a part of this country I’ve called home since I was born and to show you a part of the land from where I culturally hail…. I’ve never felt this way bfr. I’ve traveled and seen quite a lot of places, I’ve lived in eight other places apart from Chandigarh. But somehow this is different. In a very weird way. The closest I can come to explaining the feeling is – homecoming.

I wish you weren’t going back and I wish tht we could be together. But then as they say, Que sera sera….

Lots of love,

Jaideep

hhmm....

I am really happy today. I have been telling almost everyone I know about my blog and a few ppl have actualyl been kind enough to read the blog and then to also comment on some of my work!

It makes me feel honored to know that i have such wonderful people around me. Infact a couple of ppl even called me up and requested that i read out the last post to them.

I am feel all inspired and can literally feel the creative juices flowing once again. Life sure has it's own ways of moving up and down!

As i was speaking to people and reading out my own post, i suddenly realised that there was another, very powerful kind of human being who had not been addressed in my last post...

I have appened this to my previous post...

Do use the link on your left to send me mail to jsut leave ur comments...

aios amigos,
Jaideep

It seems that there are those of us who treat life as journey to be completed. So intent on reaching the destination that they just miss out on the fun of the trip. Though they know not (or atleast pretend that they don’t know) what the destination is, all they want to do is to rush toward it. Not wanting to stop and smell the flowers along the way. Not wanting to sit and admire the sunset of that glorious evening. Not even smile at the angel that touches them. Not waste anytime at all...

Then it seems like there are those of us who treat life like a blank page waiting to be filled. They want to write a story. The story of their lives. They expect a lot from life. They want to be the authors of their own destiny. Even they have no idea what the final destination is, or where life will finally take them. Or what words their pens will draw on the sheet of their lives…

Then again there are those who think that life is just another... Another what? They think that a lot of things happen that they cannot explain, it is mysterious, magical, scary, uncontrolled and wild… Life too just happens. Just like the rising sun, the singing of the birds, the falling of the rain, the beating of the heart. They do not make those things happen, they just happen. So why bother...

But then there are those of us who just love life. For no reason whatsoever, we are hopelessly in love with it. Everything is so beautiful. Perfect. So wonderful that no matter how bad things get, they could always be worse. These are the people I personally am inclined to like more than the others. They are the ones who are always full of jest. Full of wonderful warmth that infects the others around them with a feeling of joy. There are also those who have learnt a lot in life. They know that life is not all that bad, as it seems the first time around. They too travel. They have acknowledged that there is still more to be learnt. They take all the time in the world getting from one place to another. Though they may not be travelling all that fast, they are getting there. They lead a quiet life, not getting into any tangles just enjoying the simple pleasures that life has to offer.

There are also those who live life like a battle to be fought. Like many wars to be won. They fight. With people around them, with things that happen; wth themselves. They struggle through life giving each task everythng they have. They wonder if there was a ever a god - for if there was, then would he have ever let those thngs that happened, happen? They struggle, and fight and sacrifice. But to what end? What is their stand? What is their cause? Who are they fighting against? What is their live's mission? They just go on fighting and fighting and fighting....

Then there are those who awaken and suddenly discover that they have already embarked on a journey. And that they have lost a lot of time. They start doing their best to make up for that lost time. Running, scrambling, panicking, crying, sobbing, laughing, getting hysterical, taking a deep breath. But doing…

But from those too there are those who lead a life a life so complex, so intricate, that maybe even God himself could not help but smile at the life that they have led. They rise from the bowels of poverty and want, from a position where love and care, and comfort are but mere words in the mouths of others. They lift themselves up from there to a position where they can now give to those less fortunate than themselves what they had once craved...

Stories of those who rose from rags to riches are not wanting. But even of those there are the people whose lives takes them a full circle. Bringing them back to the very crossroads of life from where they had once started their journeys. They think that they will never again look their old ways, but can one predict what colours life shall weave?...

sunday musings...

In pursuit of my new found determination to make sure that i keep this blog updated, Here I am...

In the morn of a lazy sunday, mug of coffe in hand i bang away at my key board. "Whatever for?", i hear myself ask. Is there anyone who actually will ever even read this?

Anyways.. I ahve got around to telling a few ppl that this place exists and i have been getting pretty interesting feedback on the blog. A friend of mine was really curious abt what had happ on the 12th of march? To be very honest, i'd forgotten. When i read read my posting of that 12 of march 2004, it hit me that the post was intense indeed. But what happpened on that day to make me post that post, I have no clue! :)

Then there was another person who came back and told me that the posts seems to be forced! That got me thinking. How can posts be "forced"? I mean it is not like ppl put a gun to a man's head and say "write". I look back at my own blog and think, i have been irregular. Why? Is this important to me at all?

I sit and i ponder, seeing the clouds in the coffee... There seems to be a larger issue here........ I used to write. Infact I was working on two books of my own. And then something happened. Somwehere down the line I stopped. I kept fooling ppl into believeing that i still wrote, and tht my works were still works in progress. But c'mon! Gimme a break! No one can have work in progress for nearly half a decade! That is just so unbelieveable!

To me writing is important. It is an important outlet for all that i think, feel, experience. I want to get back to writing and more. I want to restart a life and here i am.... This to me is important. It matters not who reads this, or wht they think. What matters is that I write!

However, you sending in ur comments / mails will really help motivate me. ;) Use the link to your right and send me a mail. Also any comments / tips on how i could improve this blog are most welcome!

adios,
jaideep

misc musings...

hi...

this is once again a post after ages. Life just seems to go on and on an on for ever, wihtout ever taking a break.. what i've also realised (as of last weekend) is that YOU have to take a break. And not expect life to take a break - pretty obvious, but when it hits you, it hits you.

Its like having the knowledge and then having an insight, two completely differnet things...

why is life like this? infact wht is life itself?.................... more this soon... think abt it...

jaideep