The Ghosts of the Present and Future - Part 2

Read Part 1 of the story here.

Rachel shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips as though she didn’t want to let out a secret.

‘I took it from you when you were…umm…. distracted.’

‘You mean, you stole it!’, said David and turned towards her.

‘If you say so, then yes. Sylvia found it in my purse yesterday night and pushed me to meet you and return it’

‘Why?’

‘Because it belongs to you.  What do you mean why?’

‘I mean, why did you steal it?’

Rachel looked at his stubble. She thought it suited him. She didn’t want to look at his eyes. She felt that the black thick rimmed square glasses he wore magnified his condescending gaze.

‘It is a habit of mine, which I got into after I lost my mother to cancer. It started off without my knowledge. I realized I could do it without getting caught and I just continued taking stuff', said Rachel

‘I am sorry to hear about your mother. But, thanks for returning my watch.’

‘I am sorry I took it too. I am thankful that I have Sylvia now. The authorities put me up with her after I was caught in the mall, stealing a heart shaped pendant made of sterling silver. Under her watchful eye, I am getting out of my… my habit.’

‘Good to know that. Good luck.’

The wind whistled. Rachel pulled her multi-colored woolen cap over her ears. Even though the cap looked weird, she could never let go of it. It was the last purchase she made with her mother. She remembered how she argued with her that she will never wear it.

Rachel asked him, ‘Did you ever have a ghost?’

David rubbed his hands together. He gave a shy smile.

‘I did. He is liberated now.’

‘Oh wow! He must have done you a great favour.’

‘Yes he did. He got me out of my drug addiction’

‘You have deeper secrets than I do.’

David leaned on the bench and looked up at the sky. It was getting dark, stars twinkled in the twilight.

‘My ex-girlfriend introduced me to drugs. The intensity of the drugs increased after we broke up. My ghost, Michael was assigned to me after I ended up in a puddle on a street, with no consciousness of what happened. Michael lost his life to drug overdose. He was perfect for me. He understood me and was patient with me. He came to AA meetings with me. Under his companionship, I slowly gave up. I am sober for two years now. ‘

Rachel thought for a few seconds and asked, ‘David, do you think we will also end up as ghosts, being miserable ourselves, but help others out of their misery?’

‘I don’t know. I hope not. As long as we are, what do they call, law abiding citizens? My granddad told me once, ‘Back in the 2000s when we were young, we used to have something called as conscience. Now you kids have ghosts to keep you in line.’

‘I hope not too', said Rachel.

Rachel liked David. They spoke about their innermost secrets in their second meeting, which would have never happened without Sylvia. 

Rachel asked him, ‘Can we meet again?’

David winked and asked, ‘Did you steal anything from me again?’ and checked his pockets. He then looked at her and said, ‘I am just kidding. I would love to meet you again.’

‘How about tomorrow, at the same time, at ghost town bar…no wait…the same coffee shop should be good.’

‘I will see you tomorrow then.' David kissed Rachel on her cheek. He rose up from the bench and walked away.

On the jogging track, Rachel saw a jogger stop abruptly. He quivered from head to toe, in one fluid motion, as though something or someone cold passed right through him. Rachel guessed who could’ve caused it. She waved her hand and signaled Sylvia to join her.
   
                                          The End.

The Ghosts of the Present and Future - Part 1

Rachel and her ghost were sitting on a bench in Grant Park. A few feet ahead of them was the joggers’ track. The breath of the joggers’ mingled with the cold air, tried to stay alive, but died after a few seconds.

‘It is chilly today’, said Rachel, tugging her ash tweed coat close to her. Rachel hasn't gotten used to Chicago’s cold weather yet.

‘ It is good that you are all covered up’, said her ghost.

‘Do you ever feel the cold?’

‘I used to … but not anymore’

‘Hmm…’, Rachel fiddled with the  bronze buckle on her purse and looked at the jogger who passed by.

Rachel asked, ‘Do you think he will come?’

‘The way he looked at you yesterday in the pub, he is attracted to you. I think he will’

‘Did you like his ghost?’

‘He is too silent for me’

Rachel looked at her ghost. She was a young woman in her twenties. She had a translucent body, through which everything permeated. Her name when she was alive was Sylvia. At the time of her death, Sylvia was doing Masters in Anthropology at University of Illinois. On the day of her death, Sylvia was cycling to school. A cab hit her. The impact killed her instantly. The cab driver said that the brakes failed. He warned her, but her headphones blocked the cacophony on the street.

The sunset colored the sky with streaks of deep orange. Rachel rubbed her hands together.

Rachel saw a man walking towards them, covered from head to toe in black.

‘There he is! He is finally here’. Rachel was relieved that he arrived on time. The cold was getting unbearable by the minutes.

‘I don’t see his ghost with him’.

‘Yes, he isn’t there’

‘Do you want me to leave?’

‘Hmm…it is up to you, you can stay well’

‘I will leave. There are too many joggers’ today. I am planning to make their jog more interesting. Remember what we talked about. Call me when you are done’.

Rachel nodded her head. Sylvia disappeared.

David came to the bench where Rachel sat. Rachel got up. She wondered what she should do next, should she give him a hug or a kiss on the cheek. She did not do any of that. Their acquaintance was too short and her meeting with him yesterday didn't go as well as she intended. 

‘Hi’, said David and sat on the bench

‘Hi ', said Rachel and sat down too. After a moment of silence, Rachel asked, ‘Where is your ghost?’

‘Oh! You mean Andrew. He isn't my official one. He is my friend. He hangs around sometimes. Other times he is gone’

‘Oh! I thought he was yours’

‘Nope. What about your ghost? I don’t see her’. David looked around. They were surrounded by trees cloaked in white.

‘She has gone to play some mischief on the joggers’

‘I don’t know if you mind. Can I ask you a question?’, David said that and looked into Rachel’s deep blue eyes.  He was attracted to Rachel the moment he saw her eyes. Her shiny black hair fell silently on to her shoulders.

‘Of course not. What is it?’

‘Why do you have a ghost? Is this your first one?’

Rachel sighed. He deserved to know the truth, after what happened last night at Starbucks. ‘I was assigned to Sylvia. She is my first one. The reason is …’ Rachel said that and opened her purse. She took out a beautiful watch. It was a stainless steel watch with a navy blue dial.

David grabbed it out of Rachel’s hand. ‘Hey! It is mine. I thought I lost it. You know, I went to Starbucks today morning and enquired about it. How did you get this? Did I leave it on the table or something?’

To be continued ... tomorrow

Why should anybody write?

I subscribe to a few writing blogs. As a wanna be successful writer, I have to keep abreast with the developments in the writers' world, through blogs. I read a wonderful article about why anybody should write. You should write, not to earn millions or booker prizes. You should write because no one else will do it for you. So true! Who else is the best person to put my thoughts on paper other than me. Read the complete article by Jeff Goins here. 

Whenever I think about the long road ahead of me to become a successful writer, I sometimes get discouraged. I know that it will take a ton of time to improve my craft, get my grammar straight and find my voice (If you remember the 10,000 hour rule postulated by Malcolm Gladwell, to perfect anything, I haven't accomplished even a fraction of it).When I feel low about my writing goals, I remember a beautiful quote from Earl Nightingale.

'Never give up on a dream, just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. Time will pass anyway.' 

A beautiful quote, distilled from Earl Nightingale's life time experiences as a motivational speaker and author. This quote is the last thread of hope I hang on to and it propels me forward to pick up a pen and scribble away in my diary. 

I decided to take this craft to the next level. I want to find my voice. Most of the successful writers' recommend setting up some time everyday to write. Write without the internal editor on. Put the craziest thoughts on the paper, come back to it later and edit it. I started waking up half-an-hour early everyday, since last week, so that I can write. I am amazed at all the weird fictional stories my brain thinks. My blog is going to be a bit different from now on. You will see a lot more crazy stories, which are very unlike me. I am discovering myself in that half an hour. Sometimes, I am amazed at the outcome. 

I need your feedback so that I can improve and give 'you' the credit for my accomplishments. Tell me for every story I post

1) What makes my writing unique?

2) What could I do more/less of?

3) How can I improve?

One sentence reply for each question is good enough. You are welcome to write more than a single sentence.
I will also take one more step and submit the stories to online literary magazines. 

Thank you all for reading through this page and for your continued support.

My diary and a sample of my best hand writing

Desi street foodie

I was initiated into eating street food by one of my cousin sisters. She stayed at our home during her polytechnic studies. During summer vacations, we used to travel to her hometown, Hyderabad, on a train. The focal point of the train journey was the samosas at Aler station. All through the 3.5 hours journey, we used to wait for the Aler station. It would not matter how uncomfortable we were among other passengers; drenched in sweat, fighting for the share space for our butts, or standing holding on to the seats, the samosas had to be relished.  

At Aler station, the smell of the samosas, dominated by the smell of caramelized onions, would waft into the compartment. After that, we would hear the voice of the vendor, ‘Samosa, samosa, garam, garam samosa’. Our sensory organs would perk up, expecting something delicious and unhealthy. 

 The vendor came in front of us, with his brown basket, covered with newspapers on all sides. At our call for samosas, he would place the basket on the floor, which brought into our view, the triangular shaped samosas, which were half the size of my palm. 

      My sister would ask, ‘Bhaiyya, how much is the price? Are they hot?’ 
He used to say, ‘I got them out just now. Rs. 10 for five’. 

      My sister would open her purse and buy five samosas, which the vendor gave to us wrapped in a newspaper, carrying the news of the past in black and white print. Before we devoured the samosas, the newspaper greedily drank the oil, sticking on to the samosas. Then we slowly savored the samosas, biting into the crusty bland brown skin first, before getting to the spicy interior. After that, with our tummies were satisfied and a smile on our lips, we resumed the journey. The samosas at Aler were our little secret, never to be revealed to our mothers’. Those forbidden samosas were the best that I have ever tasted in my life.

After the summer vacations of the 90’s, I did have occasional street food with friends, during my engineering days, at Gokul Chat in Koti, in the early 2000s. After a gap of 6 years, I was reinitiated into street food by my hubby. The area we live in Bangalore is infested with the street food joints, making dosas, Vada pav, samosas, bajji, momos, pani puri and what not. Yesterday, as I  bit into the Schezwan  paneer masala dosa, I thought about why it was so delicious. I saw the cook sprinkling water on to the sizzling black pan, to make another dosa. I wondered if he cleaned the pan often, and if all those remains from the previous generations of dosas, gave an additional taste to the dosas. 

The variety of street food in India is enormous, with innumerable innovations. Take for example, the Schezwan paneer masala dosa, which is a fusion of South Indian, North Indian and Chinese food. Compared to the bland crepes of Europe, our street side non-descript chefs make their own international class dosas, which taste out of the world.

 Bless the Indian street food, which brings unexpected flavors and calories into our otherwise routine lives!

The famous dosa center where I had the Schezwan paneer masala dosa

The corn selling guy was kind enough to pose for me.

Famous bajji & jalebi stall

Lots of options on this side of the street, momos, chat, fried rice, noodles, gobi manchurian  and dosas

A guy busily making the tandoori chicken 

The Vada Pav and ice cream joint

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Happy Father's Day

Every morning, on my way to work, I listen to Michelle and Nathan on the radio. A couple of weeks ago, Michelle asked a question, “Do you say, 'Love you Dad' to your father or are you embarrassed to say that? Whenever I am on a call with my Dad, just before hanging up, I say, 'Love you Dad', as though I am in a hurry or something. I don’t know why, but it never comes out in the right tone. Do you guys have a similar experience?” When I heard Michelle, I thought, ‘I never told my Dad, I love you.’ Due to my  Sound Indian Hindu roots, that would feel weird for me and my Dad.

My first lesson from my Father was, ‘Life is a learning process’. It didn't make any sense when I was a ten year old girl. Now that I am much older, I understand the value of his statement. As I grew up, I thought this learning process or whatever it is will end as soon as I complete my studies, but it continued. Every day, at my workplace, I have to learn new things and come up with innovative solutions. I have another good fifty to sixty years ahead of me. I have to be a humble student of whatever life intends to teach me.

When I complained about studying, my father used to say, ‘Imagine a daily laborer. He is working in the hot, scorching sun, which has no mercy at all. He extends his arms up and brings down the hammer, to break the stones. He does that all day. Compared to him, look at the comfort you have. You are sitting under the fan, on a table and chair. The only thing you have to do is to study. You are doing a much simpler task and still you complain’. Well, that got me studying.

I received innumerable lectures from him and their intensity increased during my PhD. He was a Professor himself, so he always reminded me, ‘PhD is not taken. It is given’. He told me all the simple tricks to remain focused on my studies and dissuaded me from getting into Department’s politics. We did fight on several issues as well. Owing to the bad phone connection, sometimes the calls used to drop. I would call him after 5 or 10 minutes, because I was seething with anger and wanted sometime to cool off. My father kept on lecturing into the open-ended receiver, for those ten minutes, and then he would receive a call on his phone.

Now, that I completed my education, these lectures have become scarce. When I look back and recollect all those countless lectures, I realize that he has guided me, ached for me when I was going in the wrong path and strove to put me back on track. He had to be harsh with me and deal with my anger and sullenness. Most of the times, I am thankful for those lectures.  In all those years, he has taught me how to face the ups and downs in life, how the society will perceive me, based on all the prejudices they have and how to fight against them or get along with them.

To my father, ‘Happy Father’s Day’ and ‘Yes, I do love him’.

                                                            My Father & I, at Kanyakumari

Telangana - The birth of 29th State of India

'I am going to roam on the streets until 2 AM tonight.'

 'Hmm ...'

'If you are not coming, I will take the car and go'
'No, it is not safe for you to stay out that late in the night'
'Everybody is out on the streets. Nothing will happen to me. I will go.'
'I will come Madam. How will I not come? If I do not come, first my daughter will, ask, 'How come you left my mother all alone?. Next my son-in-law will question, 'Mother-in-law is outside, why are you at home? I have to come with you'

This was the conversation between my parents on the night of June 1st, just before I stepped out along with them to participate in the birth of 29th state of India.

On June 1st, my Mother was so happy and excited. I have not seen her that happy even for my marriage. She was on the drug of Telangana. For days, my father spoke only about jubilation on the faces of the Telangana people and how everybody will be on the streets to participate in the formation of Telangana.

The festivities were spanned at five locations in the city. The city was decorated as a bride. All the government buildings were lighted up in an array of colors and the sight was beautiful. Our first stop was the collector office. Here, we saw students performing traditional dances, such as Bharatanatyam and Kuchipudi on an elevated stage. There was a fantastic dance performance of Shiva Tandavam at other location. Shiva Tandavam was performed overnight during the Kakatiya times, to rejuvenate the soldiers, before they step into battlefield. All these events were organized to bring to limelight the tradition and culture of Telangana, which was belittled and suppressed for 60 years. There was a crowd everywhere. People came out in their best attire and greeted one another saying, 'Jai Telangana'.

Warangal's weather does not need an introduction. It is sweltering hot in the summer. The temperatures shoot as high as 45 deg C. The body works as a machine and continuously generates sweat. The sweat is a  steady laminar stream, which flows from head to toe and gets absorbed by the clothes. It was not at all pleasant to be outside on June 1st night. People could have stayed in the coolness of their home and watched the activities on T news channel. But, they did not. They came out to the collector's house. They stood in front of the Keerthi stupam and even posed in front of it. They were rejoiced to be part of this new state. They were there to tell to the future generations, the story of Telangana formation, the sacrifices that went into the birth of Telanagana and the pomp and grandeur exhibited on the day of it's birth.

I hope that under the able guidance of Chief Minister K. Chandrasekhar Rao and his cabinet of Ministers our State will see steady progress and prosperity. The formation of the state was the first step, there is a lot more to be accomplished.

Jai Telangana! Jai Ho Telangana!

    The collector office decorated with lights. In front of the collector office was the Keerthi Stupam, which was built to honor the martyrs who sacrificed their lives for formation of Telangana

The crowd near Keerthi Stupam

                                      People posing in front of the Keerthi Stupam before it was unveiled 

Wonderful dance performance by the kids

                                              

                          Kudos to the kids who performed in the heat and under the glaring lights

                                                  Performers near the Keerthi Stupam

Unvieling of Keerthi Stupam at midnight. This video was captured by my mother (https://plus.google.com/u/0/111536935647647276632/posts). She did stay out along with my father until 1:00 PM on June 1st.

I am Malala

'I am Malala' is an autobiography of Malala Yousafzai. Malala is teenage education activist from the town of Mingora in Swat district of Pakistan's northwestern Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. She became renowned worldwide after she was shot by the Taliban and suffered fatal injuries.

Malala was born in the land where sons' are given greater importance than daughters'. Only her father rejoiced her birth. He asked his friends to throw sweets and dry fruits in Malala's cradle, something which is done only for the boys. Malala was named after Malalai of Maiwand, the greatest heroine in Afghanistan. Malalai inspired the Afghan army to defeat the British in 1880, in the Second Anglo-Afghan War. She came under fire and lost her life in that battle. Just like Malalai, Malala also fought a battle for girls’ education, she came under fire but she survived. 

Malala had a simple desire, to go to school and learn. Under the Taliban regime, Malala's right to education was revoked. The Taliban oppressed women. If women went outside, they were allowed to go only with their husbands or brothers, and they had to wear the burqa at all times. They also bombarded many girls' schools, so that girls would not go to school. In that age of oppression, Malala protested in her own way. She wrote a blog on BBC under a pen name. She revealed to the world, life under the Taliban regime and the atrocities of Taliban. After that she publicly went on to the radio and television, gave interviews and publicized girls’ education. In tough situations, it requires the courage to do the right things. At outset, I felt that this girl has done nothing extraordinary. But, if you are aware of the power of Taliban and how she could be punished for her acts, then indeed she has done a feat which requires extreme courage. 

I also understood the power of good will, how everything will eventually come back to you at the right time. Malala's father is an activist who supported girls’ education. He went through great pains to set up a school in Swat region. He gave free education to those who cannot afford to pay the fees. Malala's mother always cooked in excess so that she could feed anybody hungry who came to her doorstep. Her parents’ good will came back to Malala. 

When Malala was shot she was bought to the Military Hospital in Peshawar. The bullet grazed by her skull and lodged in her left shoulder. At the same time, two doctors from U.K, Dr. Javid Kayani and Dr. Fiona Reynolds were in Pakistan, on some other engagement. They suggested taking Malala to be treated in U.K, to increase her chances of survival. Dr. Fiona specialized in moving critically ill children and treating them in intensive care. She was the right person for the job. When the issue of transporting Malala to U.K. came, the ruling family of United Arab Emirates offered their private jet to take Malala to U.K for treatment. All the decisions and actions were taken at a swift pace; otherwise Malala would not have survived. I felt that the Universe has conspired to save her.

I wish Malala’s dream to become a politician and help people will be realized soon.