Sudipta's Life

Karna from the Mahabharata is a character you keep running into from time to time. Two brilliant posts by the Jabberwocky and Mr. O-V-Shake just reminded me of my trysts with Karna, and I want to recount them here. Actually, even before I dive into Karna's character and the dramatic mix of luck, valor and cowardice in his life, let me tell you about when I first heard or read about Karna. No it wasn't a textbook (or the Mahabharat TV series). It was during one of Soumitra Chatterjee 's visits to my home town. For those of you who know him from just the movies, you definitely do not know the great elocutionist and reciter that is he. I have been fortunate enough to listen to his recitation of the " Karna Kunti Sangbad " - a great poem by Rabindranath Tagore. The poem depicts Karna's last and only honest conversation with Kunti when she begs for her other son's life.If you ever get a chance, definitely listen to it. When I came across this poetic novel...

Ever since I was a little boy, I have seen the following thought thrown around in various flavours all across dinner table discussions: if the inept and incompetent politicians could be replaced by some people who actually know something (are educated, etc.) - our country might have some future. Otherwise, we are all doomed for sure. A good rebuttal to this armchair rhetoric was a story which my grandfather used say on these occasions. A king was roaming through his kingdom one night in disguise and came across a group of men sitting around a fire having an animated excited discussion.One of them was most vociferous: - "Oh the prime minister is a lazy bum. I don't know what he does all day, but he is always there as a sidekick when the king wants to address the kingdom" - "And seriously, why can't he take care of these money lenders who are sucking our blood? Why do the main highways get fixed first and nobody ever cares about our side roads?" - "I...

The story below is the first of a three-part translation of a short story by Rabindranath Tagore, called " Shasti ", which means 'punishment'. And as even embark upon this project, I find the English language simply too impoverished to capture the magic he weaved through his Bengali. But, here is my feeble attempt nonetheless, using a thousand consultations of the thesaurus. Read on. =================== When the brothers Dukhiram and Chhidaam Rui started from their household that morning for their daily wage work, sickle in hand, their wives were already shouting and screaming at each other. But like so many other noises in nature, their neighbourhood had gotten used to this daily clamour. Whenever one of the shrill voices would begin to echo around the locality, people would roll their heads at one another and remark, "Here we go again"; meaning things are going exactly as one would expect them to: nothing exceptional today. The way no-one ever asks quest...

Thank you everybody for all those comments on the last post - yeah it made me feel a lot better :). Actually, I was curious about who are the 181 readers who show up on FeedBurner but I don't get to see them ever on comments, etc. But now I know - cheers! :) About this post - the editor of a magazine from Bangalore had asked me to write a chatty gossip column (you know he found the right person, didn't you? :P). However, it has been three weeks since I have sent the article and he hasn't replied to my emails or my phone call. So I'm publishing this article here. If he contacts me, I'll write another article for the magazine again. Enjoy :) --------------- 7:00 am – I woke up. No new Orkut scraps – life is boring. Nope, my cute hubby is still asleep. His drooling mouth looks so cute. Nudged him – leaving bed now. 8:00 am - Hubby still in bed. This has become a daily routine. You try to wake him up, kiss him, and he wants to drag you into bed. Then a littl...

Mihir was asleep, finally. Usually, it took him less than five minutes to be snoring from the time his head had hit the pillow. But these days it was different... ever since Mihir's mother had died, it was almost impossible to put nine-month-old Mihir to sleep. He would cry, scream and flail his little limbs about, while everyone looked around helplessly. Poor old Baidehi: she struggled and wept a lot in her last days. "Please take care of him", she had muttered from her deathbed to everyone who stood around it. No-one in particular had nodded to accept the responsibility from the withered frame, though. After all, who wanted to take custody of the cursed child. People referred to him as " Bhutey " or the ghostly one. Mihir's father had died the day he was born. The village lore held that his father had run all the way from his paddy field to the Sadar Hospital 10 km away upon hearing the news of his birth. Actually, he had limped: the snake that bit him in ...

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, and I am from Pluto. From the book : How it usually goes: For example, Mary comes home from an exhausting day. She wants and needs to share her feelings about the day. She says, “There is so much to do; I don’t have any time for myself.” Tom says, “You should quit that job. You don’t have to work so hard. Find something you like to do.” Mary says, “But I like my job. They just expect me to change everything at a moment’s notice.” Tom says, “Don’t listen to them. Just do what you can do.” Mary says, “I am! I can’t believe I completely forgot to call my aunt today.” Tom says, “Don’t worry about it, she’ll understand.” Mary says, “Do you know what she is going through? She needs me.” Tom says, “You worry too much, that’s why you’re so unhappy.” Mary angrily says, “I am not always unhappy. Can’t you just listen to me?” Tom says, “I am listening.” Mary says, “Why do I even bother?” How it is supposed to go: Mary says, “There is so much to do. I have ...

Why do I have to do this? Why, why why? Why can't life be simpler? Why do I have to kill, maim and destroy? Why can't we just sit down and get this over with? Tell me, O Krishna, is that little piece of land called Indraprastha really worth all this? Look at them, dear friend, look at them. That old man you see there, thats Bheeshma: I used to play in his lap as a child. He helped me stand on my feet as a kid, taught me how to hold a bow and an arrow. Today you want me to shoot at him? See those bunch of people my age yonder? They are the brothers of Duyodhana. We used to play in the orchards together. That small guy there, he used to run and hide behind me when he was afraid, I used to protect him from the bullies. And today you ask me to go and stab him in his face. How can I do it? I still see in his face the child I used to protect. Today you ask me to butcher a child? I don't want it, I don't want any of this! How can I forget the love, how can I forget the feeling...

I entered this story for a short story writing contest on the theme "Hope", organized by Asha foundation at Austin . It won the first prize :) So the proud owner of a medal, two certificates and a book called "Timeless Wonders" by Robert J. Moore presents to you, Anu's dilemma: -------------------------------------------------------------- Anu was confused, very confused. After all, how do you expect a six-year-old girl to figure out what to do with the gift of Shishu? "Use it wisely", the Tantrik [1] had told her, and tied the little amulet around her tiny arm, in exchange for the five-rupee note that she had found earlier in the morning. She was quite happy with the exchange --- that little piece of paper was not any fun: this amulet was a nice shiny cold thing to wear around her arm. The Tantrik , or the village god-man, was highly regarded by the women in the village. On many occasions she had seen her mother sneak out to visit him along ...

[Yes, I know that the last post made little sense to any of you. Yes, the English and the presentation may have been completely outlandish and incomprehensible. But you know what, me trying to explain what it was all about is like an artist who has to explain that the portrait he has drawn is really supposed to resemble someone we all know. So I will just go ahead and enjoy writing the second (and concluding) part, while you contemplate all possible combinations of the phrases "rat's ass" and "I care".... just kidding! ;) But yes, I honestly expected everyone would get it! :(] ... continued The reader must excuse me for not revealing the full nature of the circumstances surrounding our presence at the university at that time. Events such as this cannot be referred to without referring to the private lives and affairs of some people, and the nature of that investigation can jeopardise the peace of many lives peacefully settled by grace of the intellect of my comp...

It was raining all across the university campus, and Loneliness* and I had been sleeping together for some nights under a thin bedsheet. It was early in the morning, and fogs had been lazing across the university boulevards since the night before. My loneliness had been letting out small wisps of sighs, every now and then. The room filled with the smoke of her drowsiness, and my thirst was growing every minute as the warmth of our bodies spread below the thin sheet, trying desperately to fight the cold breeze from the fan whirring softly across the ceiling. I reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. "It will be too cold to drink". The sudden remark brought me out of my reverie. "My dear loneliness! How did you know?" I was forced to ask. "Sudipta, my dear...", she began, "I have told you on numerous occasions how one may deduce the exact thought process in the mind of a person by just following his actions." "Well, I must admit tha...

She was a sweet little thing. In her flowery tresses and hippety-skippety-jumpy attitude, with a spring in her feet and a twinkle in her eye. The whole world seemed like a gift waiting to be unwrapped for her. Down the slope of the road she had come, her little fingers wrapped tightly around the firm hand of her father. Her five-year old self could barely contain the excitement of seeing so much happen together. It was festival time, and place was literally dazzling with colour and lights. The buzz of flashing electric bulbs, the humdrum of so many hawkers flashing their wares, of so many children doing their own merry-go-rounds and laughing and running about. It was all so lively! And she stared at everything with innocent wonder, flashing a puppy smile and trying to keep up with her father while she gaped at the myriad stalls on either side of the road. The ice-cream vendor was doing average business --- fishing out strawberry candies and frozen choco-sticks for the bunch of giggling...

I was at the table. And he was there, too. And there was a gun, at the middle of the table. There were people all around us, around the table, standing on the top of other wooden tables, chairs and desks all around trying to catch a glimpse of the two of us. And we were here to play Russian Roulette. The rules of the game, I was told, were very simple. There is a revolver and two people, and the gun is loaded in only one chamber. You keep doing turns and pull the trigger at your forehead. The last man standing, literally wins. I don't know why or how I was there. It was like your dreams. When what is happening in the imemdiate vicinity matters and the how or why disappears. The man in front of me was slightly older: 40, maybe. The men around me were a mixed bunch. Their dusty yellow clothes seemed to be splattered with red spots. Some were older. Some even younger than I. And there was a man who was taking bets. His hands stuffed with notes and a small blunt greasy pencil and a pap...

The story so far: A monk died and went to heaven, but has not yet been able to go in because there are reservations for the non-general people. Finally he is asked to quit his berth from among the last 10% available. Hermit: Oh yes, God, I think I will be happier in hell. I am sure you sent others like me to hell as well. People who have mattered, people who have done your work and those who have been working this long for their brethren are there, right? So I will be happily off to hell, while let others enjoy heaven. Of course the cynics will always say that it was we who built this heaven, who made it possible. But then, we are going out of our way to help those who did nothing! It was us who have been able to bring together the communities so far, but now that the others who did not move a fig are here to reap the benefits, let us go to hell and see to it that things keep working. Thanks a lot, O God, ... Oh, to hell with us!!

A hermit was dead. What had killed the sadhu was not clear, and nobody was anyone interested in it. For all the villages around his cave, he was THE MAN. He did not do any miracles, he was just a good person at heart, listened to theier woes, gave them good advice and lived and talked about God. His death was just his discarding of this body and leaving for heaven. Now the hermit had done all the good things you could possibly imagine, as I told you before. He thought he had a sureshot berth in heaven. He was already licking his lips in anticipation. However, when he reached God, there was a long queue. Being a monk, he patiently waited until his turn came up. God: So, my man, there you are... let me look at your files. [The hermit was already smiling, he knew that he had done evrything perfect] God: Ahh... discourses, teachings and preachings, all 108 holy places visited on foot! Great!! Hermit: Thank you, O Lord! I feel blessed. God: Good, and I also find a lot of prayers for you by ...