Coding is an act of faith.

I am not sure what but there is something in this man, Paulo Coelho that makes him think out of the blue. Read his books, I mean any of them, and you will confront your own secret demons who were always there lurking inside you but you could never have them such vocal. His writing has the power to inspire and sometimes to conspire. This time, he has come up all along the universe to conspire in helping a young, beautiful and gritty but yet sensitive woman from the interiors of Brazil as she takes on with her own destiny only to concede later.

The title is “Eleven Minutes”. In case you are wondering what the title could hint for, let me tell you more about the story to help you out: Once upon a time, there was a girl in a small town in Brazil. She wanted to become famous and different and rich and happy and content – all at the same time. There entered a show-man from the Swiss-glamour-industry and she went with him following her dreams of money and fame.

But what did she find? A confusion – if violence is a way to reach one’s limit? If one can know oneself only at the edge? If violence can help in reaching hallowed? Whether sex is divine or curse?

What happened next was a pool of misery, confusion, confrontation and love and of course sex. This book is a journey – a journey through a woman’s heart touching her soul. And this is special because never before any one had ever tried seeing the immortal soul passing through the boundaries of the mortal body. Because, it is a reverse journey. The duration allowed is of only eleven minutes, but the destination demands more. How would she cope with it? Would she concede or fight?

Paulo has the same ‘The Alchemist’ style magic all ready to rekindle you and your thoughts. But, instead of framing it like an allegory, he prefers it saying like fairy tales though he claims that the story is a true.

This book has History – tracing the lost lacuna of love, Psychology – threading the human confusion and Love – speaking for itself. But beware, this is a daring step and would try to break many of your prejudices that you inured to while growing in a society like ours.

If it succeeds it’s good; and it not then the entailing debate would make it worse for you to believe that Love is not different from Sex.

Only let this one teardrop, the Taj Mahal, glisten spotlessly bright on the cheek of time for ever and ever…

-Rabindranath Tagore

“The past is the prologue to the future.” The novel – violent, erotic, romantic, and sacrificial all in varied dosage in various chapters – starts with a didactic phrase that enchants a romantic saga lost in the silence of eternity visible only with an immortal emblem called the Taj Mahal.

There is a small allegory we read in primary school about the Taj: Once upon a time there was a king Shah Jahan who loved his queen, Mumtaj Mahal, very dearly and when she died he built a mausoleum, Mumtaj Mahal – that after years of rusting against time and people left to be known only as Taj Mahal, in her remembrance where eventually she was buried. But behind-and-beneath this sacred love there was a sacrilegious politics-and-power of great Moghul which ran on the principle of “Taktya Takhta” (Throne or coffin). The age of kingship, the kingship has no kinship- as the author says, must have affected the barrage of this eternal love as it was channelized through. This book is an attempt to wipe out the dust of the past to see the gleam and grief of the lovers. The author, Timeri N. Murari, has done a wonderful job in bringing the fact and the fiction together as he weaves the story through the adventurous history. And excitedly enough, he chooses an unusual but classical style of narration. Even numbered chapters (The Love Story) chronicle the age between 1607 and 1630 AD depicting the love story tormented by the politics; while the odd numbered chapters (The Taj Mahal) talk of the time between 1632-66 AD when the monument was built with 20,000 labors working day-and-night. The edge between past and present blurs as the legend builds up.

Shah Jahan, son of the Emperor Jahan Gir, falls in love with a noble man’s daughter Arjumand at a very tender age. But the destiny, the throne and the kins were all set against the union. They suffered for 5 long years before they could marry and this much-depressed passion found a new body-cal path to evolve and the queen was bestowed with 14 children in a very little duration of their marriage. And eventually, she died during gestation at only 35 – Sex played a superior role in their hallowed love. Another major player was Mehrunissa (Nur Jahan) who plotted un-conspicuously to perch on the throne. Besides, there is Isa – the only witness-cum-messenger of the flourishing love and the most favored eunuch of Arjumand and a trusted attendant of Shah Jahan. In the later half, there is a couple Murthi and Sita – mysteriously employed – sent by their king to help building the Taj together with 20,000 other labors from all over the world.

They all have a special tale to tell. But the beauty of the book lies in the connection the author connects all-of-them with. The lady-love who was long caged inside the grandiloquent building gets a fresh breath as people remind her first name “Arjumand” while her man vanishes to fog and her malignant hard-liner Islamist son Aurangzeb succeeds to power.

So, is it a history book? “No” says the author, “It made me so mad, their vision of India, especially in America, is limited to the Taj Mahal. I promised to write about it in my next book if only they’d remove it from the cover of my book at that time. Once I started researching, the story became absolutely fascinating and so tragic that I got taken up by it. I’ve enjoyed writing this I book the most.”

With all the flaws of love and with all the astute advancements of politics this book promises a journey through the perpetuity offering reader a chance to witness the past that never was such candid.

Kashmir! Is it a paradise? Or a perdition? Or is it just an illusionary fallacy to people like you and me? Every time, when Kashmir appears in newspapers, it carries its inevitable curse bloating its very significance of once ago heaven. So, How about the people there? What is their life all about? Is it different from the rest or is peculiar for the guns that shed their dreams, aspirations and above all their destiny? Mirage! Or, bliss?

Puro Anand, in her thirteenth book “No Guns at my son’s funeral”, strives to find the lost answers. She has a fable, not a fairy one though, a raw reality that takes you on a journey through the Eden valleys, depicting every slip of it naked and provoking. This is a story of a boy, who was supposed to be innocent and sinless which he faithfully pretends behind a dour veil of a dangerously dubious life, who is just a next door kid, unless it gets dark outside because then, he mingles with the vultures of darkness only to make the paradise – his own heaven – gory. This story has ‘Aftab’ (the protagonist), his mentor ‘Akram’ and his sister ‘Sazia’.

Aftab hero-worships his mentor and is very eager or perhaps desperate to earn a respectable place, a place of a man, in his eyes. Akram is a terrorist, shrewd, scheming and calculative who lives only to kill. He says “I kill because I love it.” Aftab has a small family: a caring and suspicious mother, a demanding younger brother, an overtly outrageous father, and persuading Sazia who is dramatically mysterious and secretive. Besides, he has one other family –a family of terrorists. And he lives torn between them, harboring love for one and awe for another. Each has its temptation. Each has its repercussion. Which way he chose to? Or rather, he didn’t really choose but fell prey to the circumstances? “The cause lives on” supports Sazia. Perhaps, he just conflated with the cause assuming it holy and must. Ah! How easy it is to drive men?

And, together, they, the depraved trinity, weave equations to resonate with echoes of the valley: Jehad…

Puro Anand’s candid tale incites an awesome trance of complexity raised beyond the rubbles of simplicity – a rare, mundane simplicity. Here, life means blood. And you got to behave “MAN” by not doing it differently but by doing entirely different. Her simple and eloquent words iterate the helplessness and inutility of one who is lost to false dreams, to false hands.

More than anything else, this is a story of a mother who lost her son; a sister who lost her brother; a wife who lost her man and a ‘movement’ that has forsaken its métier to the cannons of fire. And with so many mothers of valley, mourning their sons, this whaling saga effectively connects with reality, growing from a small, unknown suburb in Kashmir to toll a national alarm asking “whose fault was it?”

The book primarily targets teens but adults, at least the ignorant ones, must read it once for sometimes reality reincarnates into fallacy. And by the time, we understand, it might be too late.

This book is a kind of a “reality fiction” that renders an undone cause assaying its abandoned attention. From all of us?

Can we save our paradise from guns? Can we? … Would the cause live on?

It is high time again for political brouhaha to stem in, for feminists to harp on security, and for common people to vent over the early morning news paper. It is not uncommon and very soon, like always, the cacophony would fade out and people would turn back to their hypocrisy – to their life very much compromised and settled upon the doldrums of inaction – unless we do something urgently to materialize our concern.

A young girl was raped in a police chowky – set amid the afternoon crowd of Mumbai’s famous Marine-Drive – by none other than a policeman. Her shocks gradually changed into resistance, then plea and finally into scream. Her two male companions, with whom she had come for her maiden visit to sea-shore, stood outside the chowky shouting for help. Then, after a significant time during which the girl was raped thrice, like a blockbuster bollywood movie climax, the so far sane crowd went insane and the chowky proved to be vulnerable to the barrage. Soon, the chowky met its fate. And there stood the vulture, Constable Sunil Atmaram More, Mumbai Police, brazenly zipping up his trouser. Tipsy, as he was then, constable unrepentantly shouted over the crowd with the usual police-maniac threats and repercussions.

Mrs. Y. D’ souza, who works in the near-by building, came to support the tortured and later helped in informing her family, out cried in anger “When policemen deputed for our protection do something like this, what else can we expect from others?” And the media promptly and appropriately flashed all the details on the next days’ front page. Mumbai Police commissioner, A. N. Roy, pleaded with media not to paint entire picture black while another senior officer backed him claiming this as the first incident and must not be made too much of it.

The Naked Past

Certainly, this would have been the first incident if we could forget the past statistics. For instance, in 2002, 147 custodial rape cases were come up against different police officers out of which 132 were tried and only 4 were convicted. Unfortunate events, like this, need Police to restate their vow, but often their tall claims are hid under their inaction.

India, which is suitable to gain the title of rape-a-moment capital of the world, though is not alone in confronting such vicious acts against women but is definitely slow in registering any fast change. Few sporadic events, unquestionably, brewed the masses and sometimes the litigations too but in the perspective of larger gain they proved to be futile.

Enciphered in the annals of time, who can forget the much noised Mathura case – that led an amendment in IPC almost a decade later – where a 16 year old tribal girl, Mathura, raped by 2 Policemen in Desai Ganj (Maharastra) police chowky, which dates back to march 26, 1972. The verdict of Bombay high court, that convicted the two Policemen, was tumbled by the Apex court stating that she was “habitual to sexual intercourse” on the ground of her eloping with her boy-friend. The perpetrators were let go. In another, more regrettable, Bhanwari Devi case judgement was made on the hypothesis that victim – being a “Dalit” – could not be raped by the upper caste accused. Rameeza Bi, while retuning from cinema with her husband, was raped “openly” by four Policemen in Hyderabad and her husband was beaten to death causing a relentless noise in the local community that resulted in burning the Police Station. Yet, eventually, the accused were finally freed by the court.

Why does it happen such? Even after such a mass clamor and a respectable constitution behind, the vultures in almost 77% registered cases are freed. And there is no record to incidents that go unfurrowed. “Most parents of sexually abused children who come to us for help seek advice, but refuse to get the case registered,” says Kavita Srivastava, an activist closely involved with two centers in Jaipur for victims of sexual violence. (TIMES NEWS NETWORK, MAY 07, 2005)

Is there a problem in our society or we harbor some fallacies in our very perception of rape?

What is rape?

There are two different schools trying to understand rape: sociology and biology. Sociology touts the existence of violence and control behind rape, as a construct of male hatred of women in a specific intent to harm and humiliate them, in the complete disregard of possible sexual desire. While, biology says that rape is an “evolved behavior” that led, in the past, to the increased reproductive success of some men. There are two ways that rape behavior could have evolved. It could either be an evolutionary adaptation or a by-product of other adaptations. Hence, biologically rape is deemed as a consequence of a sexual, or more prominently, reproducible desire.

Whatever! Both would unanimously agree that rape is a kind of barbarous perversion of the most shameful kind in nature. Justice Arjit Pasayat observes, “While a murderer destroys the physical frame of the victim, a rapist degrades and defiles the soul of a helpless female.” Rape, no matter how it came into existence, denigrates the obvious integrity of the victim and we as members of a mature society realize its threat, but then, how come people have dubious opinions about it? At one end, we blow hot against it while at another we promote it – Bhanwari Devi, in Rajasthan, was gang raped by the upper caste vultures when she protested against the ethnic child-marriage. Rape was used as a tool to instill fear and threat.

A seven-year long study in 1960s, in Australia, concludes that following the closure of brothels in Queensland, the conviction rate for rape and attempted rape was increased triple fold that also tripled the rate of increase in convictions for other violent crimes over the same time period. (Code to Violet – Diane Boudreau) If we follow this trail, then looking onto rape, as in separate perspective, would be foolish. It must be treated as an inter-disciplinary subject. Laws, however, always remained patron to the social repercussions endorsing rape as a bad phenomenon but never did it look into the reasons that cause it stem. The goal was to reduce sexual aggression and it was positively achieved by shielding the rapist. But, still rape ramifies like a plague. Why?

“You cannot look just to sociology or feminism or any of the other disciplines, you have to look at their intersection and try to come up with something that looks at people as whole organisms,” says Owen Jones, a law professor at Arizona State University. “There’s simply no way you can have a deep understanding of the human brain without understanding some of the evolutionary processes by which the brain was designed.” (Code to Violet – Diane Boudreau)

Sex and violence, however contrasting our prejudices might suggest, go parallel to each-other in the case of rape. Reasons might differ but the pain and trauma that victim is made to confront later remains the same.

Our Law

Laws fundamentally deal with constructing a moral and ethical code of conduct for people. Indian constitution and legislation does protect the rights of victim but somewhere down the line everything remains so vague that every new case attracts a unique kind of protest.

For instance, in the recent Shanti Mukund Hospital nurse rape case which was not just a sexual violation but a viciously gory physical assault, where the perpetrator offered marriage proposal to the victim on the ground to wipe out her stigma and re-establish her in society. And to add more to it court deferred its procession asking the victim to respond to the offer. Though, the court sentenced life imprisonment later, the consideration of marriage proposal stirred much agitation among female right activists.

The very fact that our society despises rape victims and ceases any further chances for their redemption has incarnated rape as a tool for men to anguish women. Krishna Iyer, J., in Rafique’s case (1980 Cr. LJ 1344 SC), observed “When a woman is ravished, what is inflicted is not mere physical injury but the deep sense of some deathless shame… judicial response to Human Rights cannot be blunted by legal bigotry.” But all these holy words remain hidden beneath the fuzzy subjective evaluation of dignity and integrity.

Womenexcel.com lists few flaws in our law and seeks an immediate review. Among many other, “non-uniformity of age” under section 375 and 376 and “no statutory compensation for victims” make a vital impact. Besides, they want reform in Indian Evidence act 1869. Kiran Bedi, Joint Commissioner Special Branch, supports: “The law of rape is not just a few sentences. It is a whole book, which has clearly demarcated chapters and cannot be read selectively. We cannot read the preamble and suddenly reach the last chapter and claim to have understood and applied it.”

We have statistics whaling one rape in every five minutes. Something is there in it adding vexation to the society. But it lay indifferent even after such massive brewing. I wonder when it will reach its activation. And till then, what would we do? Would we keep paying a mere lip-service to it? Venting out our, so called meditated, concern over an evening gathering? Or are we ready to act in tandem to ease rape victims, if not cease it happening altogether.

It’s high time to think: are we grown “complacent” or is it something like we are inured to the situation?

ALOHA! I am Animesh. I was born on March 16, 1982, to a middle class banker’s family, in a small town Sindri, near Dhanbad, in Jharkhand, India. Like, any other middle class family, my family, too, was debris of dreams; dreams that were conceived but couldn’t be realized; and as in legacy, I was offered to carry them further. And I did, as they lay my path there-on, as they shaped my destiny there-after.

Dreams beget dreams! Slowly…slowly, the treasury manifolds like an assortment of positive and negative battles, sometimes like slow realm over dust, sometimes like sudden rout after long-fought success. Dreams kindle hope and hope kindles life. Life is an itinerary with hope as its mile-stones, at some you lose, at some you win …and you keep going on and on, conceiving one after another, betting one after another until among those obvious, you find a dream – of much more importance, of much more significance than rest in the flock – suitable enough to bet your whole life upon and then, you decide your destiny.

A layer of dream upon the rubble of dreams! Looks bookish! But this is exactly what my life is all about.

A man has one destiny. And so is mine!

Destiny is a protocol, a destination that emerges when you shape your dreams against the evens and odds of the universe; an adamant idea that you cease to abandon; the ultimate reward you put yourself at stake for. Destiny is one’s own religion, one’s own faith, one’s own cause to surrender. It is the definition of man. he is unique if he makes his destiny unique.

None other than an engineer can really understand the multinomial equation of the destiny, the ever increasing entropy of the dream. I do, not merely because I am an engineer or I believe that I am something extraordinary sort of, but because I chose to pursue such, to understand such.

The world has two types of people, first: a conscious activist, who chooses his steps and thus takes the onus of the consequences, second: an unconscious actor, who lets others decide what should he dream of? Which one is better? … I can not hear a single voice. Quot homines, tot sententiae! No two men can think alike. It is exactly this fundamental instinct of humans – to pretend to differ, to deny others – that has caused a society like ours’ to evolve and to weave us with its multiple forking adherences. Some people choose to govern while some are chosen to be governed. Governance is not of people but of ideas that few have chosen to bestow their faith upon, thus, have colonized the fundamental lineament of humanity.

Who am I then? The former or the later… I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Perhaps, I am an object of the super-class; who has inherited all the public qualities, by default, that he bears at the core of his existence; who has grown inured to the gloom of captivation …gradually after begetting, executing, and terminating… and then again resurrecting; who is nothing but a sound replica of the template code – generated by the routine process of cut-copy-paste.

Or may be, a “human” – a byproduct of a retrogressive alchemy; a settled and quite grain of the finality; a manicured boulder abandoned by nature; an ethnic perennial ruined off by the age-old ethnicity; a kind of a biological fauna, heavy of his past, light of his future.

Or rather, I am a parasite, feeding myself upon the generous humanity and the complacent society; stealing my share of sustenance against their simplicity, against their complexity.

I don’t know!

I may be many. I may be one. Like a cone that remains faithful in one frame but suddenly changes its shape in another – not in a deliberate attempt to equivocalise the truth, but in a normal tendency to cease candidness, to keep from simplicity – I too may be deceitful. I don’t want to become a victim of “TRUTH”; neither would I like to fall prey to the manly strictures. So, I leave it to be answered by my destiny.

It will take time, I know, but I am certain that eventually it will answer. Until then, I will wait. Will you?

“This is the only that I ever did in IIT. It is my passion, my sweat, and my belief. No, how could I give it up?”

So far, all we know about IITs is their righteous greatness, tall achievements and other so called elating panegyrics like IITians-are-the-best. Getting into IIT is like a dream-come-true for many. For? For the assured success ahead backed up by the brand IIT itself and one added fillip is its eminent alumnus. Pick any big multinational company and you would find at least three IITians among the top ten there. It’s a mecca of engineers. True to its stature IITs do imbue a sharp edge into its disciples through its stringent, disciplined and demanding pedagogy but one thing that we almost have never thought of is the life about staying there. How is it?Fun, drama, awe and excitement? Chetan Bhagat (author – himself a graduate from IIT-Delhi) has a different say. As per him, it’s about pressure, assignments, lectures, GPAs and above all mugging up to the throat if you want a certain job later and recognition among Profs through. But, as the two sided coin has it, IITs too have it there – people like, Hari, Ryan and Alok.

There are two kinds of creatures in the menagerie of IITs. First are of type Vekatesh, a respectable figure among IIT Profs, sitting in front of the lecture auditorium while second are the underperformers (the protagonists of the Book), unimportant entities with negligible GPAs, who prefer to avoid limelight by filling up the last rows. This story is about the condemned underperformers – their ventures, their philosophies, their life, their friendship and their love. “…it is not just a praise-filled work about IIT. It is more real – and real life doesn’t work that way” Says the author.

The story starts with a ragging scene where Ryan saves two of his wing-mates from a horrendous coca-cola event only to discover a true friendship among them later. They fall prey to the trap of GPA system – which once screwed offers no further chance to improvements – mustering enough reasons for them to grow intimate. Besides, they were in the same department – Mechanical Engineering. Soon, after continuous failures, they harbor an inexplicable hate for the system that, according to them, allows no room for originality and creativity, and ploy against it. Some ripples and they take a vital decision of procuring the question papers. Why do they do it? How do they do it? This manoeuvre makes it an interesting read. Author promises a hilarious journey through – the ups and downs of their lives for the entire four years. To add a pink tinge to its flavor, we have a female lead Neha, daughter of Prof Cherian – who coincidently happens to be the Head of the Mechanical department. No! It’s not a written version of “MOHABATEIN” or “DIL CHAHTA HAI”. It’s different. Not merely because of the brand IIT but because of the “witticism” and the “marvelous one-liners” of the author that took him more than 3 years to compile.

This book doesn’t teach you how to get into IITs rather tells about the myths associated with it. The author says, “The primary idea of this book is to entertain the reader. The genre is humor, and it attempts to bring the reader back into their college days where money was scarce, friends were plenty and even when facing deep life issues – you were having fun.” His attempt goes unquestionably successful. IITians might be the study-freaks of the greatest kind but some of them are – indeed – normal and this escapade appropriately bolsters this opinion.

It’s a fun book. Anyone who has seen the hostel life would be able to relate with the story. This book scores well in dealing with the insight of adolescent temptations but leaves some questions un-answered. Perhaps, to urge reader to dwell more in it!

Besides all quipping, the book comes with a moral. Think Stright and never stop making friends. You might discover something precious. Who knows?

You got to go out to hunt a job? Or a college admission? Or for any simpler kind of interview? Then, you would probably see the lioness there asking you to list down your hobbies, skills, sometimes the special ones, interests, sometimes the special ones, and somewhere down the line this would instigate your inner vulture while she would keep justifying that it’s a kind of a retrospection to help us understand ourselves better? Do hell with it. To know ourselves better? Who wants it?

Let’s assume you to be an engineer just to make things more explicable for me for I am an engineer. You are a final year average student and desperate to get a job. Options? Softwares! So, you start mustering your nerves and notions to take the job. You solve many puzzle books, language test books, building your aptitude and other so called skills in order to sail smoothly through the test. Luck favors you and you are up for the second round. It’s a personal interview round. But, wait! Before that you need to fill a form. And there they ask your hobbies, your special skills and lots of other petty stuffs. You try. Hard enough to strain your brain! But nah, nothing can really be summed up as a hobby. You remember your ragging days; seniors used to fire the same cannon at you asking you your hobbies. Oh! Not again. You wonder if this is a ragging session, though somewhat official. You struggle yourself to trace out your hobbies. But to no avail. Like seniors, your employer would be laughing at you now.

Stressed? There is a clue.

One senior had once told righteously the definition of hobby. He said hobby is something that you pursue in your leisure time. At first, I don’t get leisure, and even if I get I don’t want my brain to work overtime for me. After all, it too does need some peace from the rapid grinding. “But still there ought to be something that you like doing most”, he said. Hmmm! Yes! Sleeping. Is it what they call hobby? And if this is the stuff they want to listen to I am sure they are as worthless as the hobbies are. Probably not. I didn’t answer him and he went wild forcing me to think – against thinking. What do I like to do most? Sleeping! But it’s not a hobby. Thinking of girls! No, it can’t be a hobby either.

Shobha de, while releasing her latest myth resolving tool “spouse”, said “people watch birds, I watch marriages.” So, watching marriages can be a hobby. But do I watch it? Of course not. who will? When he has so many glittering, gleaming, charming girls around. Hah! So I don’t have a hobby. But I needed one to answer. None! Eventually, my senior couldn’t persevere much and stamped, god knows how many, slaps on my face. Even that couldn’t help me finding a hobby. But, perhaps, I knew his. Then onwards, to save myself from their curse, I kept changing my hobbies ranging from “wandering in fields” to “cricket” to “watching TV” to “reading books”. But the questionnaire doesn’t end here. They chase you to prove that what you claim is not your hobby just because you don’t have enough profoundness in it. Then, why the hell they ask us to choose one for ourselves?

Don’t worry! Do you watch TV and are able to name few serials with their directors and all? Then this could be your hobby. If you read novels and remember few authors, this too could be your hobby. So, write something. Anything! Just fill the blank.

To add more hazards to your nightmares, your employer asks you nothing but your hobbies? You fear him like you feared your seniors. Why is he interested to know if you play cricket and remember the latest records of Tendulkar? Your prospects of programming are ruined by your ignorance of TV serials. How unfair?

Hobby is ok. You can somehow mould things coming up here-and-there in different directions. But, what about the special skills?

I have to apply for journalism course and having a background in engineering, what special skills can I show to secure a seat there? I tried to discover some hidden skills and when I got nothing I went to my friends. They said I can present well, I can talk convincingly, I am good at computers, and I am eloquent at languages. Phew! Are these the special skills they want to know? I personally don’t even know what non-special skills of mine are, how come I can list down the special ones? And even if I do, how will it affect my decision to pursue journalism? What if, I have a special skill to rotate my ears in some weird manner, should I write it too? Yes, why not? I can get into circus without much toil or training but it is a complete no-no to journalism.

My mentor explained this. The process is not of selection, but of rejection. If you don’t stand out you will be made to stand out. And this is not merely a lip-service, they do mean it. Thousands of applications are sent every year for admissions. If they find a guy who knows “French” why should not they pick him onboard than offering your haunches a place? If this is the case, skills certainly got to play an important role. She said, your interests should be the one to decide your career. Yes. True. But, then if I feel interested, why do I need to explain it to a mortal?

Imagine you are a 24 years old guy with no music background so far. And, suddenly one fine day you start fascinating guitar and want to learn playing it. Now, what words can you frame to convince the music teacher about your dedication toward it? It’s absurd.

Our system or say our society fears giving us the liberty to choose because it drives on the past and is stagnant on risk taking activities making it impossible to foster new ideas. That is exactly why you need degrees, insignias that too from good colleges to prove your worth. We need a flexible channel to channelize our skills. Then the question is: is skill a by-product of hobbies or an aftermath of evolution?

Whatever! If every one endorses its importance, why doesn’t our system support its incarnation? Why is it always when to get a job we are forced to think about ourselves? Why is it not in our daily life, in our culture?

Alas! Even after writing a treatise on “SKILLS”, I am at a loss. Hey wait! I got mine. I can elaborate things well. I can talk for hours without actually saying anything. I just did that. Would this help me get in? See, even our politicians have it in them.

It is said that there is a small difference between fiction and reality – the former has to make sense. Dwelling into the cryptic reality, which itself is a vague concept, fiction has to choose precious gems to stand guard of its very own purpose. Given the boundaries and possible temptations, fictional sayings often tend to digress, and hence go redundant into the literary paraphernalia. The mid way between the extremes is the only path to ‘Santiago’, to salvation. And the one who knows the limits writes great fiction. One person of such kind is Paulo Coelho. Touting the need to stand by one’s dreams and the true path of one’s heart, he sounds, sometimes, didactic but his writings, always, go beyond inscribing trivial thoughts. His writing has the power to inspire nations, as The Times garnishes.

Though, the ideologies wander more or less around his previous works, he successfully maintains a peculiar kind of freshness while he deals with dreams, destiny and universe. “To love is to loose control”, he says appending a doubt “to whom?” which drives the book through the labyrinth of desire, hope and purpose.

This time, he goes beyond destiny and teaches us how to build up our past – not in fantasy but in the need of urgency. “The superior told me that if I believed that I knew, then I would in fact eventually know” says the protagonist who is trapped into the ethnic spirituality and arcane love. His love, Pilar, is grown up into a self oriented valiant woman for whom life is all about business – a kind of a commerce. She has buried the inside child of her and now, is indifferent, if not callous, to the universe emotions. They meet after 11 years, both in search of solace, but their moves are fixed with the prejudices they, themselves, had reaped. And then, the journey begins. A journey that had a lot to tell them not about the external world but about their inner existence, leading them to the river Piedra, in a small town in French Pyrenees, where they met their true metier and understood the reason and importance of their being together. Until then, the conflict prevails, shaping their paths, thoughts and emotions.

The web of words tinged with spirituality and inner conflicts that Paulo weaved around them is as exciting as the events running parallel to it. More than a love story, this book has life and faith. “Our dreams are our own and only we can know the efforts required to keep them alive” seems to be the driving fuel of Paulo’s philosophies. He talks of dreams, love, faith, god, soul and self and says that everything is connected to the soul of the universe and every act is written by one hand, hence there is nothing called coincidence. Something happens because it was destined to happen in order to fulfill a purpose. He doesn’t discuss love because “love doesn’t need to be discussed; it has its own voice and speaks its own language.” Rather, he intends to unveil the canopy that was erst put on it.

Love remains the same; its facets, however, do change. Childhood imbues innocence while adolescence brings another hue of reasons to it. And the path of change suffers dramatic reincarnations in its purpose. This book gives us an insight to such rekindled births.

Recently, the largest democracy of the world had to face tumescent bloating as the parliament burst into political brouhaha of ethics and principles. To whom would we confer the blame? NDA or UPA? Or the Judiciary? Or the constitution?

How vulnerable a government – that stands on fragile feet of mere numbers – might prove was apparent in the recent advent of Railway Minister’s vilification and opposition’s demand of his instant removal. However holy the demand may appear at first, it fumbles around the flawed number game of our very democracy. Mr. Lalu Prasad Yadav controls 29 crucial seats out of 543 in Lok Sabha. If he is out, whole governing equations would have to be re-written. Certainly, in a sane democracy, he must have been kept out, but then, how would have UPA evolved? And in the premise of multi-party ( note the recent formation of national congress (indira) party ) democracy, like ours, where single party majority is unimaginable, if we see a criminal capturing a good number of votes, should we feel contempt? If yes, then on whom? From Rajiv Gandhi to Pappu Yadav everyone is “tainted”. If we can tolerate “tainted” Deputy Prime Minister, what’s a big deal in accepting another “tainted” Railway Minister?

No hand is a clean hand here. Had BJP forgotten its very own past, its own sullied Murli Manohar Joshi, Uma Bharti and even George Fernandes? Mr. Fernandes, however, had resigned with a solemn vow to defer his incumbency until his offences are cleared by the court; but impatient NDA had soon taken him up, without waiting the verdict of the court that is still in haywire, throwing an imperial canopy over the public and the legislation.

Keeping aside his own sullied past and similarly “tainted” brothers, former Deputy Prime Minister, L. K. Advani, vociferously shouts that people with criminal records can be tolerated as M.P. but not as ministers – ignoring completely one fact that Indian constitution doesn’t recognize any such differences. What does he want to do? Does he want cleansing of the Indian democracy as a whole or is it just another political propaganda to topple the incumbent government and, above all, to divert people from the recent hiccups of its leadership issues? Or this old man has other plans?

Truly enough, this is not a matter of ethics that BJP is trying to portray! There is another skin beneath this much noisy present cacophony. There is a temptation of power. A win-win situation, where even if UPA doesn’t fall down, Mr. Advani’s continuance as BJP chief will certainly be bolstered. The change in government, if any, will not be an easy thing to achieve. And even if it happens, somehow, would it be sufficient to satiate the thirst of lately born ethics among opposition leaders.

Third front might have become an alternative but think, can Janata Dal (U), Shiromani Akali Dal and Shiv Sena shun their links with BJP? Can Lalu Prasad, Sharad Pawar, Shibu Soren and M. Karunanidhi turn away from Congress? Even If yes, the combined strength of BJP and Congress is 283 that makes it impossible for them to gather majority unless being backed up by either of the two vital players. BJP could have done some miracles but it is busy mending its internal disputes and relations with RSS.

Then, where do we look at for sanctification? To the apex court that would certainly be reluctant after the recent Jharkhand episode? And even if it butts in, people like Somnath Chatterjee, Speaker Lok Sabha, would come forward with a copy of Indian constitution in hand – that refrains Judiciary, constitutionally, from peeping into parliamentary affairs – in resistance to the act; that would eventually only denigrate its stature in people’s eye.

What does it all entail? Is the complete hierarchy paralyzed? Is opposition meant only to offer reluctance? Or, to channelize proper consensus, righteous debate, and long awaited development?

The parties must retrospect their past and deeds before they speak out to denigrate their fellow politicians – especially the vital players. The incumbent and the opposition both are digressed from their role and the Indian democracy is slowly becoming flesh-savvy and if something is not done urgently the remaining faith would also perish.

A sane democracy must accommodate differences but not at the cost of development. It is high time. Let’s behave mature. Let’s welcome opinions. If not now, then when?

…And the phone again went dead. All of a sudden! Exactly after 55 minutes as if they wanted to refrain the talk. I called again only to find her slightly more irritated, slightly more testy. Either on me or on the telecom service. I did not know? And I did not want to know either. May be, because of my premonitions.
She said if I had been a singer I would have sung after four solicitations only. That is why she did not force me further. I reckoned the signal and retorted at her “sing for me…please!” continuously for four times with a gasping utterance “Let’s see if you are right!” She chuckled and asked for the song I wished her to sing. Lost in the quagmire of uncertainty, where I still dwelled in the mixed emotions of grey and blue, I could suggest none. Eventually, her words fluttered against my ear-drums modulating the very essence of mine with the stability of hers. My senses ceased to grasp anything and vanished with the lyrics; but the “ambiance” had something that gave me comfort. A share of rare solace! Until, she had finished, I didn’t know what was happening. The seething smooth barrage stopped and the environs again beckoned their trapping predicament. How ephemeral contentment is? One moment you are swimming triumphantly, the next moment, you are drowned.

Are relations also short-lived? She warned me against me growing habitual to talking to her. In the end she added a caveat, flimsily, perhaps not to appear ill-mannered, that habits appear when necessary and disappear if not required. Habits are always a subject of reincarnation. Its birth, however, doesn’t matter as much as its demise. It may end with a sweet note, or with a bitter taste. To which end we were leading?

But the habit had already settled down, and I could not deny. “It is very late now.” I said anticipating the growing creaks of vexation on her face. She remained silent. Was she empty of words? Or was she getting ready for the bigger confrontation? At last, I heard her smile. I sighed back. The courage came back and unknowingly I took another risk. “My dad did the same. His caution for smoking, too, came very late.” At first, I did not expect her reacting so sarcastically. But, in reality, all she uttered afterwards were full of strictures.

I thought of it being ephemeral too; but situations ratify their life themselves and this one had a prolonged existence. “Good. Anything else to add to your qualities? Like, occasional boozer, chain smoker, late slumberer? Huh… ” And I had no words to defend. I laughed foolishly, more on myself than anything else, as if I could diffuse everything in it. But, imbecility can never fool concern. My pretending stupidity only worsened things. “How many did u finish in last one and half hour?”

It was tacit that she “hated” smokers more than smoking? But a man is known for his ego. His ego nourishes him. His ego kills him. And the persuasion, such as this, only fortifies the negative facet of ego. And then, men stand strong, indifferent to everything. “Six” I said. In a sudden gasp of mine, she went silent. No noise, nothing. I could not imagine how she might have been feeling then. I tried to pinch into the bitter quite, but she remained silent. Soon, I was left abandoned. She had gone. Our phones were longing to connect – the ashes of cigarettes had to inure them.

Why do girls hate “smoke” so much? Does not their kitchen oven emit smoke? Then, why to make such a big deal with a petty and negligible destitute?