Browsing through a book on philosophy, I came across some lines that I thought would be good to share, something different from my occasional gyan-sessions about the Bullet.
Human behavior, says Plato "flows" from three main sources: desire, emotion and knowledge. Now that is some heavy globe :P
So to make normal mortals like us understand the sentence in a better fashion, Plato elucidates. Desire, appetite, impulse, instinct - these are one. Desire has its seat in the loins; it is a bursting reservoir of energy, fundamentally sexual. Emotion has its seat in the heart, in the flow and force of the blood; it is the organic resonance of experience and desire. Knowledge has its seat in the head; it is the eye of desire, and can become the pilot of the soul.
Plato must have had quite a time, challenging other learned people with thoughts like these. But the most interesting word he had used in this dialogue, is "flow". He believed that human behavior flows, like a river, and can be tapped, interfered and used for overall development. Also, when he says that emotion is the organic resonance of experience and desire, he might be talking about the conflict humans experience when they desire, when experience on the other hand reminds them of the risks and rewards that might stem from the pursuit of desire. Hence the greater the knowledge or desire, the greater the flow from emotions.
In other words, there are only two prominent sources of human behavior - desire and knowledge. And the by product of the interaction of these two main sources are emotions, another source.
Here are a few more thoughts.
Knowledge is the greatest good; negligence - the greatest evil - Socrates
Justice can be better studied at a macro-level - Socrates
Every science starts as philosophy and ends as art - Will Durant
View Large on Black.
Title Dedication: Judas Priest
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Of Wolf And Man
Sunsets are getting better by the day. 2 kilometres from the campus, on a dhaba's terrace, we watched the sun set sipping on sweet tea after a late sunday lunch. The sky looked as if someone had smudged it with a brush using various colors. A jet plane surged across the horizon, shining when rays from the sun below hit its frame. It felt great to see the orange sky linger for a few seconds, even after the sun had set. When it was dark, the mango orchards could no longer be seen, the men who were grinding wood into powder, filled the sacks with wood dust and left on a rickshaw.
On the way to the campus, I realize that exams are getting nearer and nearer and I haven't started ghoting yet. I also remember that I have to analyze a case study, the submission of which was due the next day. The Prof. had declared in the class one day, in a dialect that was close to Hyderabadi. 'Case study sabji ki tarah hote hai. Accha nahin lagta hai, phir bhi khaana to padta hai' (Case studies are like vegetables. Even though you don't like them, you have to eat.)
In the campus, when we came to know that the case study submission has been postponed so as to give us more time to study for the exams, we left for Genesis :P
Over draught beer, Chelsea had beaten Arsenal 2-0 and the Chelsea fans in the group could not cheer aloud as there were "families" around. After chilli chicken, spring roll, omlets, chicken tikka and biryani, we dispersed to the campus. Half way, we realize Bhooka had left my bag at Genesis, with the cam inside it. When Raavan and I went back, I was shocked to see my bag near the main gate on a Bajaj Chetak.
Later, in my room, when I dozed off with the case study under my cheek, I dreamt of the echoing voice of the Prof, 'Case study sabji hai. Khaana to padega!' Then I hear another voice. When I realize it's mine, I hear... 'Arre yaaron! Hum to non-vegetarian hain.'
Title Dedication: Metallica
On the way to the campus, I realize that exams are getting nearer and nearer and I haven't started ghoting yet. I also remember that I have to analyze a case study, the submission of which was due the next day. The Prof. had declared in the class one day, in a dialect that was close to Hyderabadi. 'Case study sabji ki tarah hote hai. Accha nahin lagta hai, phir bhi khaana to padta hai' (Case studies are like vegetables. Even though you don't like them, you have to eat.)
In the campus, when we came to know that the case study submission has been postponed so as to give us more time to study for the exams, we left for Genesis :P
Over draught beer, Chelsea had beaten Arsenal 2-0 and the Chelsea fans in the group could not cheer aloud as there were "families" around. After chilli chicken, spring roll, omlets, chicken tikka and biryani, we dispersed to the campus. Half way, we realize Bhooka had left my bag at Genesis, with the cam inside it. When Raavan and I went back, I was shocked to see my bag near the main gate on a Bajaj Chetak.
Later, in my room, when I dozed off with the case study under my cheek, I dreamt of the echoing voice of the Prof, 'Case study sabji hai. Khaana to padega!' Then I hear another voice. When I realize it's mine, I hear... 'Arre yaaron! Hum to non-vegetarian hain.'
Title Dedication: Metallica
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Breaking The Law
When there is nothing left to do, there is everything else.
Read a novel after long. It is called White Fang! Must confess it was pure fiction. Just like the old times. Like BITS Pilani. Adored it, adored the wolf, White Fang.
There is a line in this novel, that I would prefer to share. In White Fang, Jack London, the author of Call of the Wild narrates, "All the fighting blood of his breed was up in him or surging through him. This was living though he did not know it. He was realizing his own meaning in the world; he was doing that for which he was made - killing meat and battling to kill it. He was justifying his existence, than which life can do no greater; for life achieves its summit when it does to the uttermost that which it was equipped to do."
Beautiful lines, I thought. And now, listening to Chiranjeevi's 'Bangaru Kodi Petta', I think, time surely flies. This song reminds me of SFS School, the fresh lovely sunlight. For years, I roamed trying to search for that shade of sunlight I saw then, 20 years ago, and may be the same song in the background. I can find it nowhere now. May be it was a thing of that old house, which has been demolished. A five floor apartment now stands there... My Territory! Only I know how many times I marked it. :P
Life's all spring at times with all the new colors now visible without the fog. I understand brown and can talk about it. If brown, it isn't dull, but radiant, coffee or chocolate. Of course it would be, with the beginning of spring et all. Rumours say that psentis have even started planning out their musical greeting cards! I, on the other hand am contemplating clearing my hefty account at Guptaji. At times, when Guptaji gets crazy and asks me to clear the account, I miss Munnaji. Munnajii, I miss you. When I'll ride to Pilani on my Bird, I would stop at your redi first, and eat Sam Chat and Jamoon Rabri.
0or1 said we have an extra class in the morning, at 9AM. If I miss this time, I'll get a second grade drop.
I better not break the law, a second time ;)
Title Dedication: Judas Priest
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Anarchy at IIT KGP
It is 01:06 AM. Many students here, apart from grappling with their marketing projects, HRM presentations and studying, are, in every room, talking or thinking of the ‘violence’ triggered by students in IIT KGP. It can be observed that a majority of the websites are aligning with the KGP administration, which I am sure must be thoroughly disgruntled due to the students by now. Come to think of it, this backlash was necessary.
I shall not comment on what is happening in IIT KGP because I am sure there are people with more authentic information who can shed light on it. This post, in some ways, is dedicated to the students of KGP and to every student who had felt small joys, comforts and dreams being shattered in the name of academic excellence in one point of time or the other.
Students in premier institutions, right when we enter them at the tender age of 17, are presumed to take any kind of policy the administration comes up with or any action they seem to take, however ridiculous it might seem to our untrained eyes. Let’s face it. Premier engineering institutes in India are not as advanced as their counterparts in the West or increasingly, in the booming South East Asia. We do not have proper medical facilities or strong avenues for students to develop their creative talent. We do not have psychologists to counsel students. Grievance management systems are a trifle. Mentor is a rarely used term. And all this is shelved under the banner called ‘Lack of Funds’ of which I am unaware of and hence resist the urge to comment.
Institutes of such calibre, constantly teaming with incredible brain power and ideas should have a wider vision. Phrases like all-round sustainable development should not just be seen in the PowerPoint slides. When every academic institute in the world worth its salt is trying its best to be global, why are we still stuck up with age old systems? Why not be more than just academic bulldozers?
The demise of Rohit Kumar has surely saddened many of us. But a backlash from the students of IIT KGP stresses the fact that students are not just a herd of sheep. When we came into the system, most of us bowed our heads, metaphorically at least, before entering it as a form of respect. We respect our institutes. We love them so much they become part of our identity. We believe in them. We trust our second home.
I hope to see at least some changes in the way our second homes are run, after this incident, the one that marked the rise of a collective outburst from some of the best brains in the nation, and the plunder that said that Another Brick in the Wall isn’t just a song.
Dedicated to Rohit Kumar. May you R.I.P.
-Bharat Chintapalli
I shall not comment on what is happening in IIT KGP because I am sure there are people with more authentic information who can shed light on it. This post, in some ways, is dedicated to the students of KGP and to every student who had felt small joys, comforts and dreams being shattered in the name of academic excellence in one point of time or the other.
Students in premier institutions, right when we enter them at the tender age of 17, are presumed to take any kind of policy the administration comes up with or any action they seem to take, however ridiculous it might seem to our untrained eyes. Let’s face it. Premier engineering institutes in India are not as advanced as their counterparts in the West or increasingly, in the booming South East Asia. We do not have proper medical facilities or strong avenues for students to develop their creative talent. We do not have psychologists to counsel students. Grievance management systems are a trifle. Mentor is a rarely used term. And all this is shelved under the banner called ‘Lack of Funds’ of which I am unaware of and hence resist the urge to comment.
Institutes of such calibre, constantly teaming with incredible brain power and ideas should have a wider vision. Phrases like all-round sustainable development should not just be seen in the PowerPoint slides. When every academic institute in the world worth its salt is trying its best to be global, why are we still stuck up with age old systems? Why not be more than just academic bulldozers?
The demise of Rohit Kumar has surely saddened many of us. But a backlash from the students of IIT KGP stresses the fact that students are not just a herd of sheep. When we came into the system, most of us bowed our heads, metaphorically at least, before entering it as a form of respect. We respect our institutes. We love them so much they become part of our identity. We believe in them. We trust our second home.
I hope to see at least some changes in the way our second homes are run, after this incident, the one that marked the rise of a collective outburst from some of the best brains in the nation, and the plunder that said that Another Brick in the Wall isn’t just a song.
Dedicated to Rohit Kumar. May you R.I.P.
-Bharat Chintapalli
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Ride
A hundred and seventeen milestones away from Vizag, in a roadside dhaba, Sachin ate the last piece of a hard aloo parantha and sipped the remnants of lukewarm tea. The glass was sticky but he could not complain due to the weariness that resulted from the long, arduous bike ride from Hyderabad to Vizag. Sachin was on the road for ten hours then, dodging glitzy semi-sleeper Volvos with cosily-sleeping passengers, noisy trucks farting smoke and scary stray dogs that chased bikes in the dark for fun. While most of it was witnessed on village roads, the ride on the highway was exhilarating.
On an impulse, the previous day, Sachin had decided to ride his Enfield from Hyderabad to Vizag to meet his fiancee. He had signed out of office early and was ready to hit the highway by 9 PM when he made a rain check to see if everything was ready for the road. Bike, helmet, spectacles, IPod, camera, petrol, leather jacket, tool kit and biking gloves. Sachin loved that part of the journey as it made him feel like a cop in Technicolor films getting ready to shoot the bad guys. Most of all, Sachin cherished the scene in Top Gun where Tom Cruise angrily zooms away on his superbike, making Kelly McGillis, weak in her knees. She follows him in a fast car and they end up in a passionate kiss. He had made a mental note to not clock high speeds and rode towards the highway with Dylan’s music in his ears, love in his heart and his mother’s red scarf tied to the handle bar, fluttering in the wind.
He loved biking. And everything about it.
Outside the city, a cool moon of spring welcomed him under white, sailing clouds into the dark countryside. He felt a strangely vague, familiar strength of a biker overtaking him before he took a deep breath, revving up the accelerator, biking into the night, gunning its massive engine.
After a couple of breaks in roadside dhabas, Sachin entered the Godavari basin at around 5 o clock where he had to ride through the tiniest village he had ever seen. There were around twenty huts and houses lined up against each other, traditional patterns of brown and white, the first rays of the sun touching them. It was only after he passed through the village that he saw half a sun peering through the distant hills spraying the vast expanse of the Godavari River with a golden sheen. A lone fisherman rowed his boat in the river, under the pristine sun, humming his own tune to the birds setting out for hunt. He sat on one end of the boat and padded the wooden oar with lean, dark shoulders. The resplendent sight of a sunlit Godavari made Sachin stop his bike to click a few pictures.
At 7 AM, later in the dhaba however, exhausted after riding 530 kilometres, Sachin decided to call his fiancée. She was quite relieved to hear his voice. Sachin rubbed his eyes and ordered for another chai while his fiancée talked about her work and her plans to study further. She was quite a talker and a creative one too. He listened patiently and told her that she can study as much as she wanted to. He did not think that love was everything either. On a whim, he started dusting the motorcycle’s fuel tank and tried to rub stubborn spots of dust off the mudguard, listening to her talking about her plans to pursue a Creative Writing course in the Columbia University.
A little white puppy, out in the morning cold, staggered past him and stopped by Sachin and wagged its tail. A fly from a tray of unwashed cups near the water pump buzzed around the puppy’s dark nose and distracted it. The little dog sniffed softly and pawed around its nose making the fly buzz away to a steadier mount. It resumed looking at Sachin and wagged its tail. Bored by his impassive response, the puppy hobbled to the real wheel of the Enfield and started peeing on its wheel rim. Sachin noticed it from the corner of his eye and did not know what to do. He was bitten by a dog in his third grade and since then, had been terrified by them. He shooed it away slowly in the beginning, but having realized that the four-legged creature looked like going for a generous pour on the wheel, he raised his voice. The puppy stopped the flow suddenly and ran away towards the direction it came from, possibly searching for a steadier wheel.
Sachin, apparently unnerved, spoke into the phone telling her how the puppy had half-peed on his bike, when she started laughing. She had always loved dogs. She began to talk about how cute puppies were when he said that he was eager to meet her. Before disconnecting the call, Sachin asked if he could take her out for breakfast.
She agreed, smiling.
Riding on the white, painted lines, Sachin zigzagged between every couple. The sun had warmed him up and he was happy. He wondered why he rarely expressed his love to her. They had been dating since a year but there were very few occasions when he mentioned the magic words. Old coconut trees rose high above him, their trunks decorated by the corporation with a radium red to act as signals for drivers at night – the sole maps of truck drivers and a whole generation of taxi drivers and night riders. He shouted out ‘I love you’. The winds escorted him. Sachin left the bike’s handle and continued to swerve when he saw a lorry ahead slowing down to take a U-turn. He threw his hands onto the handle and swung the bike away from the lorry to the left, almost missing it. Immediately, he noticed a stationary Ambassador in front of him, parked in the middle of the road. He swung the handle to the left, pushing and pressing the brake levers as hard as he could. The back tire slid with a violent swivel but managed to ground it and came to a halt by the side of the road.
Sachin got off the bike, removed the helmet, and flicked his brow off a drop of sweat.
Looking back towards the car, he saw a middle aged man getting up on his feet shouting local abuse at the car driver. Two farmers cycling to their fields stopped by and helped the man lift his motorcycle, also trying to calm the car driver. It was a private taxi. Sachin noticed a trail of blood between the car and the bike. The white puppy lay on the road, shaking violently due to profuse bleeding. Sachin rushed towards the quarrelling men and showed them the puppy. They continued quarrelling. He waited there for a few passing seconds, not knowing what to do. He hated dogs but he couldn’t stand to see the small puppy shaking so violently. He went to one of the farmers, grabbed one of his arms, looked him in the eye and asked him, ‘What about this dog?’
The farmer explained to Sachin that it was a normal sight for them. He also informed Sachin that there was a veterinary hospital on the outskirts of Vizag and it was too far away.
‘Nobody is here to take injured dogs to hospitals. We have to work.’ the farmer said. He also dictated to the group of pissed off men that if anyone has to take the puppy to the hospital, it should be the taxi driver. Having heard this, the driver banged his car’s door shut, lunged at the farmer. The other men came in between and avoided the fight.
When the argument continued, Sachin ran his hands through his hair thinking of what to do. He was stranded. It would be too late for someone to come from Vizag. If someone had to do it, he had to. He ran shakily to his motorbike and nervously emptied the bag of its contents, a reader’s digest and a bottle of mineral water. He ran towards the arguing men, his bag in his hand and requested them to put the puppy in the bag. He couldn’t touch dogs. What if the puppy bit? Sachin took a deep breath.
He placed his fingers slowly under the puppy’s belly with bated breath and tried to lift it up at an awkward angle. The puppy groaned with pain letting out a frightful cry and Sachin loosened his grip. Nothing happened. The four men were arguing. He held the puppy as best as he could, lifted it up and placed it in his sling bag. He zipped the bag leaving enough space for air, lifted it up and carried it to his bike walking softly. He wanted to check if it was able to bear the pain of the jolts the Enfield was going to give. The puppy squealed with pain when the bag was lifted up, slipped to an optimal position and stayed silent. Sachin called her and told her about the incident and asked her to meet him in the veterinary hospital in sixty minutes. He carefully slung the bag to his shoulders. ‘Stay put, puppy’, he whispered before kicking the lever springing the machine to life. He rode.
He rode with the recklessness of a brash biker, like he used to. When he had to pass villages, he pressed the clutch and revved the engine up, making the monster motorcycle rumble with aggression, freaking people, mostly village folk out of the way. Every whine of the puppy, to him was a scar on his speeding skills, and a blow to his sensitive side.
He reached the hospital. One hour had elapsed with the puppy, blood stained on its belly and legs. Sachin walked into the veterinary hospital, the first time in his life and shouted at everyone he saw for instructions. A diligent-looking old veterinarian pacified him and took the puppy into the surgery room. A couple of female medical interns followed the doctor, their notes in tow, bewildered by Sachin’s weird arrival to the hospital with a bleeding dog in his bag. Sachin looked like he had been electrified. His wet T-shirt stuck to his body, his hair was wet. Sachin flung his dusted jacket on to a nearby chair. He rushed to a medicine counter and asked for a bottle of mineral water to quench his unbearable thirst. The lady inside the counter candidly replied that they stocked medicines only for animals.
A few minutes later, Sachin’s fiancée visited the hospital.
‘Where’s it Sachin? Are you okay?’ she asked him putting a slender arm on his tired shoulder.
Sachin looked at her with hope. ‘Yes. Just nervous.’ he answered. ‘It is in the next room. ‘Let’s wait here.’ He walked to the earthen pot in the corner opposite to the surgery room. He took a glass of water and offered it to her. She thanked him with a radiant smile that comforted him. Sachin fiddled with his hair.
‘You did a good thing by bringing the pup here. You are a good person. Do you know that?’ she said and Sachin felt slightly uncomfortable.
The doctor came out of the surgery room, Sachin rushed towards him. He was informed by the middle-aged doctor that no surgery was necessary. The puppy had a nasty gash, probably from a sharp corner of a bike. He told them that they could take the dog back and walked with a smile towards the earthen pot.
Sachin walked into the room with her, slowly aware that the dog was all right now and could do anything. He found the white puppy with a bandaged hind leg and belly. The pup was kept in a grilled enclosure a few feet high. He bent over the grill and looked at the puppy. His fiancée watched silently when Sachin took his time, and moved his hand forward. He put his index finger near the puppy’s nose, not afraid anymore. The puppy stared at him, stood up on its three stronger legs, and wagged its tail excitedly. It licked Sachin’s fingers when he took the puppy in his hands, lifted it up and patted its soft fur, hugging it. The puppy purred, licking Sachin’s face and he laughed with uncontrollable happiness.
The doctor entered the room and said that he had to leave for his private clinic. He gave Sachin his card, shook his hand and said that the puppy was either lucky or strong. After he left the room, she asked Sachin if he was going to adopt the pup. Sachin nodded, still thinking, when she asked, ‘Shall we call him Strong?’
Sachin liked the name. The white pup was stronger than it was lucky. ‘She said ‘WE’’, he thought.
It was time to get back on the bike again. He still had to clock 12 kilometres to finish his journey. In 12 minutes, he thought and rode towards the beach city, the spring sun blessing him warm, his lady riding pillion along with a bandaged Strong, the red scarf fluttering in clear blissful breeze.
Bharat Chintapalli
10/03/09
On an impulse, the previous day, Sachin had decided to ride his Enfield from Hyderabad to Vizag to meet his fiancee. He had signed out of office early and was ready to hit the highway by 9 PM when he made a rain check to see if everything was ready for the road. Bike, helmet, spectacles, IPod, camera, petrol, leather jacket, tool kit and biking gloves. Sachin loved that part of the journey as it made him feel like a cop in Technicolor films getting ready to shoot the bad guys. Most of all, Sachin cherished the scene in Top Gun where Tom Cruise angrily zooms away on his superbike, making Kelly McGillis, weak in her knees. She follows him in a fast car and they end up in a passionate kiss. He had made a mental note to not clock high speeds and rode towards the highway with Dylan’s music in his ears, love in his heart and his mother’s red scarf tied to the handle bar, fluttering in the wind.
He loved biking. And everything about it.
Outside the city, a cool moon of spring welcomed him under white, sailing clouds into the dark countryside. He felt a strangely vague, familiar strength of a biker overtaking him before he took a deep breath, revving up the accelerator, biking into the night, gunning its massive engine.
After a couple of breaks in roadside dhabas, Sachin entered the Godavari basin at around 5 o clock where he had to ride through the tiniest village he had ever seen. There were around twenty huts and houses lined up against each other, traditional patterns of brown and white, the first rays of the sun touching them. It was only after he passed through the village that he saw half a sun peering through the distant hills spraying the vast expanse of the Godavari River with a golden sheen. A lone fisherman rowed his boat in the river, under the pristine sun, humming his own tune to the birds setting out for hunt. He sat on one end of the boat and padded the wooden oar with lean, dark shoulders. The resplendent sight of a sunlit Godavari made Sachin stop his bike to click a few pictures.
At 7 AM, later in the dhaba however, exhausted after riding 530 kilometres, Sachin decided to call his fiancée. She was quite relieved to hear his voice. Sachin rubbed his eyes and ordered for another chai while his fiancée talked about her work and her plans to study further. She was quite a talker and a creative one too. He listened patiently and told her that she can study as much as she wanted to. He did not think that love was everything either. On a whim, he started dusting the motorcycle’s fuel tank and tried to rub stubborn spots of dust off the mudguard, listening to her talking about her plans to pursue a Creative Writing course in the Columbia University.
A little white puppy, out in the morning cold, staggered past him and stopped by Sachin and wagged its tail. A fly from a tray of unwashed cups near the water pump buzzed around the puppy’s dark nose and distracted it. The little dog sniffed softly and pawed around its nose making the fly buzz away to a steadier mount. It resumed looking at Sachin and wagged its tail. Bored by his impassive response, the puppy hobbled to the real wheel of the Enfield and started peeing on its wheel rim. Sachin noticed it from the corner of his eye and did not know what to do. He was bitten by a dog in his third grade and since then, had been terrified by them. He shooed it away slowly in the beginning, but having realized that the four-legged creature looked like going for a generous pour on the wheel, he raised his voice. The puppy stopped the flow suddenly and ran away towards the direction it came from, possibly searching for a steadier wheel.
Sachin, apparently unnerved, spoke into the phone telling her how the puppy had half-peed on his bike, when she started laughing. She had always loved dogs. She began to talk about how cute puppies were when he said that he was eager to meet her. Before disconnecting the call, Sachin asked if he could take her out for breakfast.
She agreed, smiling.
Riding on the white, painted lines, Sachin zigzagged between every couple. The sun had warmed him up and he was happy. He wondered why he rarely expressed his love to her. They had been dating since a year but there were very few occasions when he mentioned the magic words. Old coconut trees rose high above him, their trunks decorated by the corporation with a radium red to act as signals for drivers at night – the sole maps of truck drivers and a whole generation of taxi drivers and night riders. He shouted out ‘I love you’. The winds escorted him. Sachin left the bike’s handle and continued to swerve when he saw a lorry ahead slowing down to take a U-turn. He threw his hands onto the handle and swung the bike away from the lorry to the left, almost missing it. Immediately, he noticed a stationary Ambassador in front of him, parked in the middle of the road. He swung the handle to the left, pushing and pressing the brake levers as hard as he could. The back tire slid with a violent swivel but managed to ground it and came to a halt by the side of the road.
Sachin got off the bike, removed the helmet, and flicked his brow off a drop of sweat.
Looking back towards the car, he saw a middle aged man getting up on his feet shouting local abuse at the car driver. Two farmers cycling to their fields stopped by and helped the man lift his motorcycle, also trying to calm the car driver. It was a private taxi. Sachin noticed a trail of blood between the car and the bike. The white puppy lay on the road, shaking violently due to profuse bleeding. Sachin rushed towards the quarrelling men and showed them the puppy. They continued quarrelling. He waited there for a few passing seconds, not knowing what to do. He hated dogs but he couldn’t stand to see the small puppy shaking so violently. He went to one of the farmers, grabbed one of his arms, looked him in the eye and asked him, ‘What about this dog?’
The farmer explained to Sachin that it was a normal sight for them. He also informed Sachin that there was a veterinary hospital on the outskirts of Vizag and it was too far away.
‘Nobody is here to take injured dogs to hospitals. We have to work.’ the farmer said. He also dictated to the group of pissed off men that if anyone has to take the puppy to the hospital, it should be the taxi driver. Having heard this, the driver banged his car’s door shut, lunged at the farmer. The other men came in between and avoided the fight.
When the argument continued, Sachin ran his hands through his hair thinking of what to do. He was stranded. It would be too late for someone to come from Vizag. If someone had to do it, he had to. He ran shakily to his motorbike and nervously emptied the bag of its contents, a reader’s digest and a bottle of mineral water. He ran towards the arguing men, his bag in his hand and requested them to put the puppy in the bag. He couldn’t touch dogs. What if the puppy bit? Sachin took a deep breath.
He placed his fingers slowly under the puppy’s belly with bated breath and tried to lift it up at an awkward angle. The puppy groaned with pain letting out a frightful cry and Sachin loosened his grip. Nothing happened. The four men were arguing. He held the puppy as best as he could, lifted it up and placed it in his sling bag. He zipped the bag leaving enough space for air, lifted it up and carried it to his bike walking softly. He wanted to check if it was able to bear the pain of the jolts the Enfield was going to give. The puppy squealed with pain when the bag was lifted up, slipped to an optimal position and stayed silent. Sachin called her and told her about the incident and asked her to meet him in the veterinary hospital in sixty minutes. He carefully slung the bag to his shoulders. ‘Stay put, puppy’, he whispered before kicking the lever springing the machine to life. He rode.
He rode with the recklessness of a brash biker, like he used to. When he had to pass villages, he pressed the clutch and revved the engine up, making the monster motorcycle rumble with aggression, freaking people, mostly village folk out of the way. Every whine of the puppy, to him was a scar on his speeding skills, and a blow to his sensitive side.
He reached the hospital. One hour had elapsed with the puppy, blood stained on its belly and legs. Sachin walked into the veterinary hospital, the first time in his life and shouted at everyone he saw for instructions. A diligent-looking old veterinarian pacified him and took the puppy into the surgery room. A couple of female medical interns followed the doctor, their notes in tow, bewildered by Sachin’s weird arrival to the hospital with a bleeding dog in his bag. Sachin looked like he had been electrified. His wet T-shirt stuck to his body, his hair was wet. Sachin flung his dusted jacket on to a nearby chair. He rushed to a medicine counter and asked for a bottle of mineral water to quench his unbearable thirst. The lady inside the counter candidly replied that they stocked medicines only for animals.
A few minutes later, Sachin’s fiancée visited the hospital.
‘Where’s it Sachin? Are you okay?’ she asked him putting a slender arm on his tired shoulder.
Sachin looked at her with hope. ‘Yes. Just nervous.’ he answered. ‘It is in the next room. ‘Let’s wait here.’ He walked to the earthen pot in the corner opposite to the surgery room. He took a glass of water and offered it to her. She thanked him with a radiant smile that comforted him. Sachin fiddled with his hair.
‘You did a good thing by bringing the pup here. You are a good person. Do you know that?’ she said and Sachin felt slightly uncomfortable.
The doctor came out of the surgery room, Sachin rushed towards him. He was informed by the middle-aged doctor that no surgery was necessary. The puppy had a nasty gash, probably from a sharp corner of a bike. He told them that they could take the dog back and walked with a smile towards the earthen pot.
Sachin walked into the room with her, slowly aware that the dog was all right now and could do anything. He found the white puppy with a bandaged hind leg and belly. The pup was kept in a grilled enclosure a few feet high. He bent over the grill and looked at the puppy. His fiancée watched silently when Sachin took his time, and moved his hand forward. He put his index finger near the puppy’s nose, not afraid anymore. The puppy stared at him, stood up on its three stronger legs, and wagged its tail excitedly. It licked Sachin’s fingers when he took the puppy in his hands, lifted it up and patted its soft fur, hugging it. The puppy purred, licking Sachin’s face and he laughed with uncontrollable happiness.
The doctor entered the room and said that he had to leave for his private clinic. He gave Sachin his card, shook his hand and said that the puppy was either lucky or strong. After he left the room, she asked Sachin if he was going to adopt the pup. Sachin nodded, still thinking, when she asked, ‘Shall we call him Strong?’
Sachin liked the name. The white pup was stronger than it was lucky. ‘She said ‘WE’’, he thought.
It was time to get back on the bike again. He still had to clock 12 kilometres to finish his journey. In 12 minutes, he thought and rode towards the beach city, the spring sun blessing him warm, his lady riding pillion along with a bandaged Strong, the red scarf fluttering in clear blissful breeze.
Bharat Chintapalli
10/03/09
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Lizard Kings and Ivory Carvers
‘No, not Thrash Metal now, you bastard, Put on some Floyd. Let’s get psychedelic man” said Vicky.
‘Which song? Mother?’ Shrek asked.
‘Umm... Coming back to life.’
The hostel room’s furniture was rickety. The old white bulb emitting grey light seemed to suck on the smoke. The cot they sat on creaked at the middle, unable to bear Rahul’s weight. Vicky sat beside Rahul at one end of the bed, and Shrek crouched on his pillow near his laptop, at the other end. Rahul nudged Vicky and told him to get the white cover inside his desk. Vicky put up his middle finger and Rahul’s blubbery left thigh moved and nudged Shrek. Shrek stood up mouthing expletives and got the cover.
‘What’s that? More grass?’ asked Vicky, the lean spectacled man who instead looked like a boy.
‘No. You guys haven’t tried this before. But it is awesome. I got stoned with an Iranian in Anjuna beach once. He had many skins with him’, replied Rahul.
Ambiguity brewed more questions.
‘Skins?’ asked Shrek. ‘What skins?’
‘Dead lizard skins.’
‘What? Are you saying that we...’ Shrek trailed off.
‘Yes. Come on. It is just dead skin. No flesh. I killed the lizard and dried it for 3 months. Believe me. It is hygienic.’ Shrek and Vicky raised eyebrows at this remark making Rahul modify what he had said.
‘All right, let me put it this way. It is not unhygienic.’
‘Show that to us’, said Vicky, looking straight into Rahul’s red shot eyes. Rahul spread the cover’s edges smoothly with his fingers and bobbed it up and down. The flesh on his arms bobbed with it too. Shrek thought it was rubber. Dried, brown skin fell on Times of India. It was shaped like a lizard. There was a news article about some bimbo on Page 3 who loved flaunting her pink dress at Someplace Else. The article had the lady’s name, her photograph in which she stood near the bar wearing her pink dress. Also listed were the various brands she wore. The brands were listen in an alphabetical order as if to say that the subject in the article was written keeping in mind the subjective sensibility and objective stand-point.
The skin fell on the lady in pink.
‘Move it Shrek, I want to trip on that woman.’ Vicky said.
‘She has a boyfriend dude’, said Rahul. He had answers to all the questions. His mental database was abundant with names, phone numbers, bio data of girls and relationships. The relationships seemed to be making sense in his brain when they were one-one. But the recent increase in the number of many-one relationships had skewed his neurons enough to make him smoke a couple of joints more a day.
Rahul ground the skin and it fell into the mashed grass as powdered flakes. It was traditionally rolled in a rizla by Rahul himself and the lighting honours were to be made by Vicky who hesitated. He asked Shrek to find the Pink Floyd folder and put that fucking song. Vicky put the joint in his mouth and Rahul lit it with a smile. Shrek smiled too and double clicked Coming back to life.
The odyssey had begun.
The joint flared initially but subdued to a gentle red ember in the dim light that was candidly switched off. It glowed now. There was no difference in the smell of the smoke whatsoever and Vicky pulled. He passed it on to Rahul with a gargantuan effort and became an elephant. He crouched on the bed four-legged and cocooned his face inside his torso. He became a foetus. And then he spread his arms and became a fairy.
David Gilmour sang...
Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else’s words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun
The three men sat in Shrek’s room and felt no earth. They spread the rug over themselves and felt smug.
‘How’s it dude?’ asked Rahul.
‘Awesome man.’ Said Shrek. ‘Who was that Iranian?’
The wind chimes shined with the light of Winamp. Rahul, Shrek and Vicky saw the sound of music, they heard each other’s eyes and smelt feelings. And then they felt elevated to a place that seemed like a perpetual zenith. A peak so profound in its essence that the laws of time malfunctioned.
‘Is it true that you die if you inject yourself with and empty injection?’ asked Vicky.
‘Yes dude.’ Said Rahul. ‘Air gets into your nerves and fucks you up. And then you die.’
‘Creepy man. I hate injections.’ Said Vicky.
‘Did you guys watch Motorcycle Diaries?’ asked Shrek thoughtfully.
Rahul and Vicky nodded their heads in approval.
Shrek continued. ‘Remember why they travel the continent? They were restless men with confusing dreams. They wanted to know the truth. Let us do a similar trip guys. From New Delhi to Uelen.’
‘Uelen?’ asked Rahul.
‘Uelen?’ Vicky chipped in.
‘It is the north eastern tip of Russia, the north eastern tip of our continent. It is a small village inhabited by 500 people according to 2002 census. The major occupation of the people is to carve walrus tusks. They are made up of ivory as well. Let us make that trip yaar. From Delhi to Uelen on two Royal Enfield motorcycles.’
‘You seem to have done your research.’ Said Rahul.
‘What do we have to pass through?’ asked Vicky.
‘The Himalayas for starters. Nepal, China, Mongolia and Russia. We would be crossing Siberia too. I always wanted to get stoned with a polar bear cub. On a glacier.’
Just then, there was a rasp knock on the door. Shrek murmured to himself and opened the door to see a fresher standing outside in formals.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ asked Shrek.
‘Sir, do you have LSD? I asked Dhruv Sir and he said that you have it.’
Rahul and Vicky looked at the junior and chuckled. He looked just like Vicky, just shorter. His hair was combed neatly and his spectacles gleaned green.
Shrek looked at Vicky and Rahul and sighed. ‘Saala pedlar banaadiya.’ He said.
The junior was invited in and was passed on the joint. He took a deep drag and his face lit up. He looked at Shrek and asked with expectant eyes.
‘Lizard King, Sir?’
And Gilmour sang...
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begin
And headed straight... into the shining sun
‘Which song? Mother?’ Shrek asked.
‘Umm... Coming back to life.’
The hostel room’s furniture was rickety. The old white bulb emitting grey light seemed to suck on the smoke. The cot they sat on creaked at the middle, unable to bear Rahul’s weight. Vicky sat beside Rahul at one end of the bed, and Shrek crouched on his pillow near his laptop, at the other end. Rahul nudged Vicky and told him to get the white cover inside his desk. Vicky put up his middle finger and Rahul’s blubbery left thigh moved and nudged Shrek. Shrek stood up mouthing expletives and got the cover.
‘What’s that? More grass?’ asked Vicky, the lean spectacled man who instead looked like a boy.
‘No. You guys haven’t tried this before. But it is awesome. I got stoned with an Iranian in Anjuna beach once. He had many skins with him’, replied Rahul.
Ambiguity brewed more questions.
‘Skins?’ asked Shrek. ‘What skins?’
‘Dead lizard skins.’
‘What? Are you saying that we...’ Shrek trailed off.
‘Yes. Come on. It is just dead skin. No flesh. I killed the lizard and dried it for 3 months. Believe me. It is hygienic.’ Shrek and Vicky raised eyebrows at this remark making Rahul modify what he had said.
‘All right, let me put it this way. It is not unhygienic.’
‘Show that to us’, said Vicky, looking straight into Rahul’s red shot eyes. Rahul spread the cover’s edges smoothly with his fingers and bobbed it up and down. The flesh on his arms bobbed with it too. Shrek thought it was rubber. Dried, brown skin fell on Times of India. It was shaped like a lizard. There was a news article about some bimbo on Page 3 who loved flaunting her pink dress at Someplace Else. The article had the lady’s name, her photograph in which she stood near the bar wearing her pink dress. Also listed were the various brands she wore. The brands were listen in an alphabetical order as if to say that the subject in the article was written keeping in mind the subjective sensibility and objective stand-point.
The skin fell on the lady in pink.
‘Move it Shrek, I want to trip on that woman.’ Vicky said.
‘She has a boyfriend dude’, said Rahul. He had answers to all the questions. His mental database was abundant with names, phone numbers, bio data of girls and relationships. The relationships seemed to be making sense in his brain when they were one-one. But the recent increase in the number of many-one relationships had skewed his neurons enough to make him smoke a couple of joints more a day.
Rahul ground the skin and it fell into the mashed grass as powdered flakes. It was traditionally rolled in a rizla by Rahul himself and the lighting honours were to be made by Vicky who hesitated. He asked Shrek to find the Pink Floyd folder and put that fucking song. Vicky put the joint in his mouth and Rahul lit it with a smile. Shrek smiled too and double clicked Coming back to life.
The odyssey had begun.
The joint flared initially but subdued to a gentle red ember in the dim light that was candidly switched off. It glowed now. There was no difference in the smell of the smoke whatsoever and Vicky pulled. He passed it on to Rahul with a gargantuan effort and became an elephant. He crouched on the bed four-legged and cocooned his face inside his torso. He became a foetus. And then he spread his arms and became a fairy.
David Gilmour sang...
Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else’s words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun
The three men sat in Shrek’s room and felt no earth. They spread the rug over themselves and felt smug.
‘How’s it dude?’ asked Rahul.
‘Awesome man.’ Said Shrek. ‘Who was that Iranian?’
The wind chimes shined with the light of Winamp. Rahul, Shrek and Vicky saw the sound of music, they heard each other’s eyes and smelt feelings. And then they felt elevated to a place that seemed like a perpetual zenith. A peak so profound in its essence that the laws of time malfunctioned.
‘Is it true that you die if you inject yourself with and empty injection?’ asked Vicky.
‘Yes dude.’ Said Rahul. ‘Air gets into your nerves and fucks you up. And then you die.’
‘Creepy man. I hate injections.’ Said Vicky.
‘Did you guys watch Motorcycle Diaries?’ asked Shrek thoughtfully.
Rahul and Vicky nodded their heads in approval.
Shrek continued. ‘Remember why they travel the continent? They were restless men with confusing dreams. They wanted to know the truth. Let us do a similar trip guys. From New Delhi to Uelen.’
‘Uelen?’ asked Rahul.
‘Uelen?’ Vicky chipped in.
‘It is the north eastern tip of Russia, the north eastern tip of our continent. It is a small village inhabited by 500 people according to 2002 census. The major occupation of the people is to carve walrus tusks. They are made up of ivory as well. Let us make that trip yaar. From Delhi to Uelen on two Royal Enfield motorcycles.’
‘You seem to have done your research.’ Said Rahul.
‘What do we have to pass through?’ asked Vicky.
‘The Himalayas for starters. Nepal, China, Mongolia and Russia. We would be crossing Siberia too. I always wanted to get stoned with a polar bear cub. On a glacier.’
Just then, there was a rasp knock on the door. Shrek murmured to himself and opened the door to see a fresher standing outside in formals.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ asked Shrek.
‘Sir, do you have LSD? I asked Dhruv Sir and he said that you have it.’
Rahul and Vicky looked at the junior and chuckled. He looked just like Vicky, just shorter. His hair was combed neatly and his spectacles gleaned green.
Shrek looked at Vicky and Rahul and sighed. ‘Saala pedlar banaadiya.’ He said.
The junior was invited in and was passed on the joint. He took a deep drag and his face lit up. He looked at Shrek and asked with expectant eyes.
‘Lizard King, Sir?’
And Gilmour sang...
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begin
And headed straight... into the shining sun
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