A FUNNY THING THAT HAPPENED ON MY WAY TO ...

It was not at all funny when it was all actually happening.

I must confess I was adequately warned about it. Some people I know had, had their share of misadventures with it.  In fact, that is what  raised my curiosity. I had to experience it.  You live life only once and I certainly did not want to die ignorant.  

I looked up google maps,  made note of directions and walked a couple of miles into alleyways that must have carried years and years of  history and commerce with it.  It was all intriguing and fascinating. 

To the eyes the place felt like Bombay for its sheer energy and enterprise. 

To the body the place felt like Chennai  for its heat and humidity .

To the heart the place felt foreign at the same time it felt like home.

Rich, fertile, green mountains that nurtured thousands of species of animals and plants stood in stark contrast to the sprawling urban jungle, that stood tall and high in all that reclaimed land. It stretched not horizontally but vertically to dizzying heights that made you feel the awe for the sheer wonders of modern  man made creation.

It was relatively clean ( considering what you are used to if you have lived in Indian cities) and extremely safe even in the middle of the night ( although the over cautious traveller in me refuses to take chances)

It was extremely modern and commercialized. What with Louis vitton, Cartier, Dior, Chanel, Versace, Prada and Jimmy choo outlets it felt like Champ de elysees.  But as a stark contrast  it also exuded a quaint old world charm. The narrow alleyways with hawkers selling stuff at mind boggling and ridiculously low prices. ( After you have numbed your conscience and bargained your way through.).               

It felt very foreign in a sense since people on the streets hardly spoke or understood English.  But it felt very much like home since the street smart locals put their gadgets and their mastery over sign  language to good use and communicated to make up for the lack of mastery over that arguably universal language.

The people ... they were proud and yet they were humble.

Ah ... but I have digressed a lot.  

I walk through the narrow alleyways, take pictures and finally decide to take a shot at it.  

I try my hand at bargaining over the price.  But they see the tourist in me in the way I am cheekily taking photographs and refuse to budge on the price.   

They have probably made a killing since I agreed for a price just 20% lower than what they quoted. I just could not bargain any more since my impatient self  was raring to go and to take a shot at this piece  of experience for what felt like a reasonable cost.

But it had to wait.  People over there do not do this on the streets or anywhere in public.

They packed it well for me and I tucked it deep into my bag.    I headed back with the single minded determination of trying it out in privacy once I was safely in my hotel room. 

The MTR was crowded. It was peak hour evening traffic.  But I got a seat.
I clutched my bag close to my chest.  That is when it struck me.

The funny  thing that happened on my way to the hotel aboard the MTR in Hong Kong.

It was the Durian.
That exotic fruit cut and packed in polystyrene  container that was safely tucked inside my bag.  It started smelling. 

I braved up the smell and held it closer to myself in the hope that the other passengers around me do not smell it. I consoled myself saying they could suspect it in anyone’s bag .

 It is like farting in public or peeing in a pool. No one would get to know who did it, unless your face gives it away.

It did not take them much time to figure it out.  Faces turned towards me. The way I was clutching my bag, I think I gave it away.

To say it was embarrassing,  would be an understatement .  I look up and down the train trying to avoid other people’s gaze.  And this is what catches my attention.

Damn ... Will they dump me off the train? Will they imprison me?  Will they deport me from this country?
If it was a fine I would have gladly paid. Ok, may be I would grudgingly paid.  Why is there no fine for Durian?  Is it a bigger and more unpardonable crime than smoking, eating, drinking or carrying inflammable goods ? 

Oh no !!!  I should have been careful .  Me and my misadventures . It was’nt funny at all.

Thankfully my MTR station arrives and I quickly get off the train and make a quick exit off the station.

On the streets I take long strides and walk like I am chased by a spirit. In my mind I can almost imagine the cops chasing me from all sides.  I do not have the guts to look back and check. 

I make my way into the hotel entrance and into the elevator. The elevator door closes on me.

Honestly, I cannot fathom how I did not notice this signboard in all the previous instances days when I took the elevator.

Now I cannot even plead ignorance.   I get into my room and  I am still holding my bag close to my chest.  It does not help much. By now there is no mistaking the smell of the  Durian.

Is it foul ? Is it sweet ?

I cannot come to a decision on that bit.

I guess ‘Smell’ like beauty lies in the noses of the beholder.
But this one I was not sure. Sweet or foul, it emanates a smell that cannot be controlled.  Soon the room smells of durian.  There are no windows that can be opened. 

The only place to bury the Durian was in my stomach.  I quickly pick a piece up. It looks like a piece  of chicken. The strict vegetarian in me revolts. But right now there is no other place for the two pieces of Durian to go but into my mouth and then into my belly. I close my eyes, roll up my nose and put one piece into my mouth.

It was an orgasmic moment.
What the nose smells the tongue does not.

The sweet, fleshy Durian pulp, almost melts into my mouth.
My taste buds ejaculate in sheer ecstasy.

I pick up another piece, notice to remove the seed and slowly and steadily let my taste buds linger on this experience for just a little while more before it melts into my mouth. Long after the after-taste has vanished from my tongue, the taste buds linger for more.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS SWEET  said Shakespeare .

Clearly that bloke had not been through the Durian experience in his lifetime.  

I cringe when I think of the dirty looks, the co-passengers gave me on the MTR and the imaginary cops who chased me on the streets.  For now I do not have the gumption to try out another misadventure.

But who knows ? It is certainly worth a try.  But that will have to wait.

No wonder the South east Asians call it the King of fruits.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Karuppu-than-enakku-pudhicha-coloru

Karuppu-than-enakku-pudhicha-colouru  ( Black is my favourite colour*)

It was never a woman thing. Atleast  in the time and place that she grew up.  

She never imagined she could do it.  Worst of all she never thought she would need to do it. 

It was a do or die situation.  She had lost her job.  Her job in the city which was well  connected  by public transport.  With the meltdown of the financial markets she knew the jobs in the city were hard to come by.  She applied to every job that came her way. She applied to everything far and near. It was when the interview calls came that she felt handicapped.

Handicapped,  by lack of her driving skills.  That is when she resolved to learn driving.  Driving lessons did not come cheap.  She scraped through her savings to pay for the driving lessons in the hope that she would land a job somewhere.  It was  not just about the desperation to get a job. 

In her sense of the world, learning to being able to drive signified independence, freedom and limitless opportunities. 

She struggled with her driving lessons. After her hourly driving lessons, she would sit by the river or go on long walks to watch the cars whizz past her on the motorway. She would dream of driving one of them.  She would dream of whizzing past the motorways  in great speed while her jet black hair would blow in the wind, while her heart would soar to great heights and experience the pinnacle of joy  and freedom  that driving would give her.

But for now she was content watching the cars drive past her.  

It was a dark cloudy afternoon . The clouds looming past were grey turning to darker shades of black.   She pulled over her black leather jacket  for  warmth and walked along the pedestrian. 

It was a dream she vowed to fulfil.

A drive,  a long drive all by herself at dizzying speed over the motor way in her car. It would be a  black Volkswagon polo.

Why Volkswagon ... why black ... ?

There are some questions for which there are really no answers.

*******************

She saw the disappointment in her mother-in-laws eyes.  Not just because it was a baby girl, because they were doomed since the baby was black. 

Dark skinned would have been a fair and politically correct word to describe the colour of the baby’s skin. But a society where fair and lovely sells like hot cakes and where fair skin comes at a premium, you are either white or black. There are no shades of brown .  

She resolved to raise her baby without ever having to feel ashamed about being dark skinned. 

She resolved to raise the apple of her eye feeling confident, beautiful and  proud to be black.

Thus saying she bestowed a round big and black ‘pottu’ to ward off the evil eye.   

Just  in case.

**************************************************************

It was not exactly love at first sight for her. They grew up in the same neighbourhood.  Their families knew each other. She had seen him as a boy , as a lanky teenager and as a young adult struggling to make a mark for himself.  As a young girl, she had many admirers and he was just one of them.  She never really thought much about him.

However, it all happened when he came home on a month long leave, he landed at the bus stop with his military green hold all luggage and his green commando uniform.

She did not recognize him .  But she fell in love.

Years later, when they were on their honeymoon she confessed that it was love at first sight .

She fell in love with the thick black moustache and the man that had landed with his luggage in military green uniform whom she had failed to recognize.     

It was love at first sight for him.

He adored her waist long thick black hair. He would secretly follow her on his bike everyday when she returned home from school.  Years later, when they were on their honeymoon he confessed that it was love at first sight.  Literally love at first sight, because he had not even looked at her face. It was her thick black waist long hair from the behind that he had fallen in love with.  

It was her crowning glory. Her identity. It defined her sense of feminity and pride in all those years that she was growing up.   Thick and black –  the long hair that fell down well below her waist. 

The hustle  and bustle of urban life, soaps, shampoos and conditioners, motherhood and sickness.  Her tresses withstood all the stresses and strains of life that would normally take a toll on other lesser mortals.

 That was until the Dreaded  ‘C’ took the toll on her. 

That day when she looked at the mirror after the chemotherapy sessions,  it sent shivers of chill down her spine. It shook her sense of self esteem, her identity, her feminity and killed her desire to live any further. 

He tried to console her, by trying to convince her that the opportunity to live was a bigger boon compared to what she had lost. But she was inconsolable.  She knew her soul had no more wish to live in that body.    

It was her last wish. She asked him to put a wig with waist long – jet black hair before she was put to rest.  She did not want to go to the grave looking pale and bald.  

It was the day on which she was dressed up to be the bride, to marry the man with the jet balck moustache that she loved.  

She said a silent prayer thanking that black skinned charmer, who was her favourite god.

It was the day she took delivery of that black volkswagon Polo and revved  the engine of her first car, just before her dream came true, 

she said a silent prayer thanking that black skinned charmer, who was her favourite god.

It was the day her contractions increased in frequency and she was being readied to get to the birthing suite.  She said a silent prayer to give her strength to that black skinned charmer , who was her favourite god.

It was the day after her chemotherapy session when she spent the night crying after looking at herself in the mirror.   

She prayed desperately to end it all soon enough to that black skinned charmer, who was her favourite god.

That black skinned charmer ,  Lord Krishna was her favourite god.

They were all black.

Five black things that she was proud of, cherished, loved,  desired, and prayed to.   

Her jet black thick long hair that fell down well below her waist, she was proud of.   

Her black Volkswagon polo that gave her, her  freedom and mobility , she cherished the most.  

Her dark skinned black princess, the apple of her eye, whom she loved the most. 

Her strength, her pillar, her lover and her soul mate  - the man with the black moustache for whom she had fallen head over heels in love with.

Her black skinned charmer – the lord Krishna to whom she prayed.

All that which made her happy, sad, doubtful , thankful, fearful and grateful.

It was all Black and indeed beautiful


*****************

P.S : * The title for this post has been inspired by the lyrics of the Tamil song 'Karuppu-than-enakku-pudicha-coloru' sung by Anuradha Sriram.

This post is a part of #WhatTheBlack activity at BlogAdda.com
Blog about 5 black things that you desire and why. Come on, let’s give it to Black!
This post is a part of <a href="http://whattheblack.blogadda.com" title="WhatTheBlack" target="_blank">#WhatTheBlack</a> activity at <a href="http://www.blogadda.com" title="BlogAdda.com" target="_blank">BlogAdda.com</a>

Everything must go

Everything must go

The music was loud. The party was in full swing.  He took a long drag on the Cuban cigar that was gifted to him. It was his farewell party . Everyone spoke very highly of him.  They fondly remembered the days when they had all  lived a dream, to be more precise his dream, believed in his vision and had rolled up their sleeves  to build it from the scratch.

It was all supposed to be very flattering. Their kind words, their praises and all the fun that they had all had together. But he was too stoned today to register anything that was happening around him.  One by one,  all his old colleagues , friends, aquaintances and business partners shook hands and left the party .  It was now his time to leave.  His time to move on. 

They had packed up all his farewell gifts and had arranged for a chauffeur driven limousine to take him home.  It was meant to be a grand send off.  The chauffeur in a spotless white uniform and white gloves opened the door for him.  He got into the limousine. He was too stoned to register the posh upholstery, the smooth drive, the pleasant fragrance and the overall ambience that the drive was supposed to provide him.

He looked out of the window and asked the chauffeur to stop the car. He said he wanted to take a leak.   The driver obliged, parked and opened the door for him. He stumbled to pull out his wallet. He intended  to give the chauffeur  some money, instead he gave his wallet and his home keys and asked the chauffeur to take his gifts home.  He told the chauffeur he would get home by himself.    

He sensed that the chauffeur was hesitant and was worried about his safety.  He perked himself up, winked at him and told him he had to catch up with someone who was waiting in the park. He was safe and sound and would get back home soon, he assured the chauffeur.   

It was the biggest  public park in the city. It was the oldest public park in the country.  He knew the park like the back of his hand.  Afterall,  he lived round the corner ever since he had moved into the city. On days when he needed solitude, he would walk up the length of the park.

That wooden bench, under the old oak tree across the statue that stood at the far end of the speaker’s corner.  That wooden bench, knew his soul as intimately as a mother knew her child in the womb.  It was that bench that he would perch himself upon everytime his soul needed  to reflect or his mind needed to think through.

Like all those sturdy old trees that unfailingly bloomed and blossomed in the park, many thoughts, ideas, concepts  and patterns flowered and bloomed inside his head when he spent time in the park.

It was only natural that today the park beckoned him.  

 A ride back home on the luxury limousine  packed with all his farewell  gifts was the last thing on his mind.  The bench under the old tree in the park drew him to itself like a magnet to a piece of iron, everytime he needed it. 

 As he walked the length of the park, a group of people had gathered up around the speaker’s corner.  They were talking animatedly to each other and were very pleased to meet each other.

He peeked into the crowd to see what was going on.  This was a meeting of a group that had christened itself ‘H’- survivors.  They seemed too young to have been born before the time of the holocaust.  They were from all ethnic  backgrounds, the Asians, the blacks,, the browns and the whites. They were male and female. But mostly young, not very old.

He got a little curious and barged into a conversation between three people who had gathered for the meeting. It turned out that the three were meeting each other for the first time, although it seemed like they knew each other for years and had been through a lot of similar experiences.  Turned out that they  indeed knew each other for years and had been supporting each other through thick and thin. .  

H-survivors was a virtual group dedicated to H. Abbreviated to signify ’ He.. who must not be named’. H- interestingly turned out to be their common boss . Although all of them worked for different organizations, they had all at some point worked for this boss ‘H’ as in ‘He... who shall not be named’.

They joked about ‘H’ and his idiosyncracies, his tyranny, his bloated sense of ego, how he screwed up someone’s marriage, another one’s weekends and in general everybody’s self esteem. They shared a camaraderie that revolved  around one common thing.  The hatred for H. 
H -  who was either their current boss or  ex-boss.

It was a virtual group that had a sizeable following. About 99% of all H’s teams that H had worked with, all along his career were members of this online group. They were meeting today for the first time in flesh and blood after exchanging scraps and pokes over facebook and orkut.

Surprising they hardly poked each other when they met in flesh and blood.

He excused himself and walked on towards less noisier places in the park.  But he felt a sense of pride for the group that had just met at the speaker’s corner.  Apparently more were expected during the course of the evening for a get-together.    

The walk across the park rekindled his memories.

It rekindled the memories of the days when he was young and always broke.

It rekindled the memories of the days when he would come and sit dejected in the bench across under the old Oak tree facing  the statue  when venture capitalists and angel investors scoffed at his ideas and turned them down.

It rekindled the memories of  the days when his parents gave up on him and the belief that he would make it big in life.

It rekindled the memories of the day, she left him, because he was never there for her in body and spirit when she needed him the most. 

It rekindled the memories of  the days when he believed and believed and believed that there indeed was light at the end of the tunnel.

It rekindled the memories of the days when he sold off his inheritance and invested the money to buy the Server and set it up in his garage.

It rekindled the memories of the days when he first leased an office space across the park at an upmarket business center to accommodate all people who could no more work  out of his garage, his living room and his backyard.  

It rekindled the memories of the day his company went public and was listed on the NYSE.

It rekindled the memories of the day he  became the Times person of the year.

It rekindled the memories of the day when he moved into the mansion from the studio apartment where he lived  just across the park.    

It rekindled the memories of the  day the big shark brought him over for a huge sum of money in exchange of equity and control over his baby.

The old Oak tree, the bench underneath the tree and the statue across the bench had seen it all and known it all.

 For him, life had come a full circle.
He sat on the bench and looked at the statue that had always stood there, come rain or shine, thunder or solitude, summer or winter. 

Strange, he thought to himself. He had never bothered to check whose statue it was, in all these years.  He leaned across the rose bushes that fenced the statue to look at the name of the person whose bust had been staring at him  all these years when he sat on the bench under the big Oak tree thinking up his ideas and putting together his business plans and elevator pitches.

The name under the bust of the statue  was faded. All he could decipher, was that this was a person who lived somewhere in the 1700’s or 1800’s. He gave up and came back to sit on the bench .

The statue stared at him.  It even blinked and then winked at him.  He could’nt believe what he was seeing. 

Naughty buggers, they must have rolled up something inside my  Cuban cigar, at the party he mumbled to himself.

The statue winked at him once again, bent down and now stepped down to move towards him.  The stout man with a stern look, that was the  statue, came and sat besides him on the bench.

Who are you ?  What is going on? ... He panicked and got up with a jolt. 

Calm down, my friend. You know me just as well as I know you. The statue replied.

I don’t know you. All I know is that you are the statue of some long dead man that I have never known.      

Long dead body, may be. But the soul is eternal , my friend . The statue said with a smirk on its face that assured that it had come alive.  

Ah .. the bloody stuff that they rolled into that Cuban cigar is playing the tricks in my mind, he mumbled to himself.

That is just the physical body playing tricks on you my friend, your soul is just as alive as it should be.

What do you know about my soul ? You old statue . 

I sold my soul for 1.67 billion dollars, partied all afternoon, got stoned on  a Cuban cigar and am sitting here cajoling myself to believe that my soul, my passion, my life’s most significant contribution that has shaped this world today are all no more mine and will cease to exist in the future .       

What would you know about  my soul ?

See those people poking each other , slapping each others backs and cracking jokes about their boss .. they were brought together virtually  by an idea that germinated in my head over here.  Right here, under your statue.   There were days when I sat under this tree looking at you with pangs of hunger rumbling in my belly while ideas, concepts and thoughts were brimming in my head .
Then there were days ...

I know it all young man . You do not have to tell me.  I know what happened, what is happening and what will happen.  
 It is called the cycle of life. 

A few cycles ago, my body too was sitting here over in this bench , under this  tree, while ideas and thoughts and strategy were brimming inside my head.  Those were the days when there were more trees in the park and no motor cars on the road.   

That was before my soul  left that body. But my ego slightly outlived that  body . For all the money that I had made and then bequeathed,  it made my benefactors and well-wishers  build my statue out here in the attempt to immortalize me.    

Ah ... I was indeed meaning to ask you . 

May I ask ... Who are you by the way ? What is your name?

What is in a name? My friend  the statue replied .

Well since you asked , let me tell you. I am anybody.  Any... Body

Call me Ozymandias, Tipu Sultan, Mohandas Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Alexander, Akbar,  Shakespeare, Shahjahan or Steve Jobs.

They are all statues in some park today somewhere in the world.

Listen ... my name is ...

I know you my friend. You are Büyükkökten

Orkut Büyükkökten

The world knows you for your creation – ORKUT.

The world will soon forget it all.
 That is the way of the universe, my friend.

Everything must go.  

   

 

*******************************

This post is dedicated to all creatures living and dead that have known the pain of having to let go after putting their heart and soul in the hope of contributing something significant ( in varying degrees) to make this universe a better place to live in.  

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

What if Orkut was a person and not a mere social networking site? What would he/she feel about the fact that he/she will cease to exist now. Orkut wants to talk to you, what will it talk?

P.S : Many of us received this email last week. This post is a fictitious account of Orkut Buyukkokten's laments on his baby being put down by September of 2014 

A Farewell to Orkut

After ten years of sparking conversations and forging connections, we have decided that it's time for us to start saying goodbye to Orkut. Over the past decade, YouTube, Blogger and Google+ have taken off, with communities springing up in every corner of the world. Because the growth of these communities has outpaced Orkut's growth, we've decided to focus our energy and resources on making these other social platforms as amazing as possible for everyone who uses them.
We will shut down Orkut on 30 September 2014. Until then, there will be no impact on you, so you may have time to manage the transition. You can export your profile data, community posts and photos usingGoogle Takeout (available until September 2016). We are preserving an archive of all public communities, which will be available online from 30 September 2014. If you don't want your posts or name to be included in the community archive, you can remove Orkut permanently from your Google account. Please visit ourHelp Centre for any further details.
It's been a great 10 years, and we apologise to those of you still actively using the service. We hope that you will find other online communities to spark more conversations and build even more connections for the next decade and beyond.

Summer of '04

It was all I had, all I’ve ever had, the only currency, the only proof that I was alive. Memory.— Abraham Verghese

There is no greater burden than carrying an untold story.
— Maya Angelou

***********************

Ah...  the Summer of 2004.
 It was a summer like no other.

Those were the best days of my life. 

( Sorry Bryan Adams – I had to borrow your words here, but they were mine too...  )

Ah...  the Summer of 2004.
 There was always a song on my lips. There were dreams for the future.

I saw rainbows in the sky. Literally  and otherwise.  

 I had arrived fresh off the boat (Actually Air- india boeing 720 ) in Guildford, England.

Guildford to me was breathtakingly beautiful .  I had never seen anything like that before.

No 2, Freshcliffe house west was a small converted studio apartment where I lived by myself  into what would have been a Victorian house with guest rooms, servant quarters and all about a 100 years ago. 

I had my pleasant culture shocks and I wrote about them religiously every week.

Now when  I read them  ... they feel so rustic.  

Embarassingly rustic, Nostalgically Naive and Simply Sweet.

During my days in Guildford, I would walk to work.  I did not know how to drive.

The walk to work was about 25 minutes from home. Oh what a walk it was.

A  walk across that quiet and beautiful  River Wey that would flow ceaselessly come summer or winter,  across the high street into the quiet backyards of other imposing Victorian structures whose interiors were converted either into student accommodation or modern office spaces.
 Before River Wey passed underneath the elevated Motorway, I would deviate and take the pedestrian along the motorway to the Tech park where I went to work.

It was while walking along the quiet and scenic River Wey in those Summer months of 2004, that I discovered the story teller in me.   My imagination would flow in the form of words in my mind. As soon as I would reach work, I would get them down on my laptop. ( Nothing much got accomplished in the mornings at work in those days... but there was no-one to sneak in. )

These were some of my writings from those days.

Ah ... the summer of 2004.
  

7:42 local

Meenakshi ammal the best seller

The black cat syndrome.

Forbidden Fruit

Observe, Imagine and write it as it unfolds in my mind. That was what I enjoyed the most. It was  therapeutic.  It brought on a completely different form of myself  that was  beyond me. 

If that is what they call divine energy, then that is what this was.

Like most good times, the summer of 2004 did not last long.  After that breathtakingly beautiful summer, came the winter.  

Dark, Depressing and most dreadfully Devastating.

I had never experienced both cold weather and cold vibes  like that before. It sent shivers of chill down my spine, my body but more importantly my soul.  

That, I was to realize later would only be the beginning. As years rolled by, the emotional scars that started from that winter of 2004 would not heal for many years to come.  That winter would last for many years to come.   

Somewhere in the winter of 2004 the storyteller in me got paralysed. 

The soul of that storyteller would take years to recover.

*******************

In June 2014, I Celebrated 10 years of blogging.

 Yes ... I was one of those early birds.

Somewhere in mid-2004, I took to blogging from office because there was not much work to do. 

Over the course of the last ten years, many things changed. My blogging Domain got taken over by blogspot which then got taken over by Google.  I am glad I preserved the date stamps on my old blog posts. Somewhere in 2012 I had to move them to my current google blogspot URL.   I am glad I did. Otherwise I would have lost them forever.

My blogging in 2004 started as a very personal affair. ( Click here for some of my old posts) 

It remains extremely personal even now, but in my own way, I think, I  have managed to mature as a blogger. To me the best of my blogs were published in the summer (the English August ) of 2004.

Visit my old blog post and read some of my short stories over here.

Matters of humility aside, I know I am no great a writer.  But there is a storyteller  in me waiting to tell.
Here is how I reflect upon my life. I have'nt written to publish a bestseller. I write for my sake. For the sake of nourishing the soul that exists within me.  Whether it needs a wider audience or not, time will decide as it all unfolds.  The best of my writing is yet to come. I know now that it is going to take a lot of effort, concentration and focus. The journey  is not going to be an easy one. 

In the summer of 2004, it just flowed naturally.  That came from nowhere.  Seamlessly and Joyfully.

I wish I can re-experience that soul filling joy yet again.   

 Here is a toast to myself for completing ten years of blogging.

   

**************************

Your life is going to be made into a novel! Write an introduction for this novel. How will you creatively reflect on your life spent?

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Reflections

It is in stillness that reflections are best experienced

The seeker within...

                           For the seeker who seeks the rays of light can reach amidst the deepest of chaos.

July Ultimate blog challenge would feature a picture captured by me during  a reflective moment in the daily grind of life.  

HORN OK PLEASE

Keeping your mobile phone on the camera mode can come in handy to capture some golden moments when struck in traffic especially behind Trucks.
Here are a couple of them.  

PLAESE SOUND HORN
             C                 U

If most truck drivers or those driving behind them especially in highways cannot write or read English, then why do all trucks in this country say  ?

PLEASE SOUND HORN
HORN OK PLEASE  etc etc etc in English.


  HORN OK PLEASE
If you thought this was something mandated by the RTO ( which is what I was under the impression) put those doubts to rest.

Apparently there is no official stipulation in Indian traffic regulations . No traffic rules in India mandate or suggest the use of such 'slogans' on a vehicle. Yet many vehicles are decorated with the phrase
HORN OK PLEASE .  Although there are many theories to the origin of this phrase, here is an interesting and may be the most plausible one.
In the early days, most of the Trucks in India were manufactured by the Tata Group. During these times Tata Oil Mills lts. co ( TOMCO) came up with a new brand of detergent called 'OK'. Marketing gimmicks by the TATA group led to them using their motor medium very effectively by painting "OK" along with its symbol the lotus flower.  Thus OK got sandwiched between  HORN & PLEASE

As time went by the OK sort of became a part of the initial paint itself by the lorry drivers and is still being used by people without knowing its glorious history .

Do Non - TATA trucks also carry HORN OK PLEASE ....
Point to watch out for !!!

If you are watchful about such things, then being stuck in traffic may not really be that frustrating.

Here is some such examples.

Amongst all the English transliterations of Hindi phrases this one tops the chart

BURE NAZAR WALETHERAMUKALA

Although its significance is lost when translated into English this is what it means .
The one with evil eyes - let your face be darkened.  :( ( Nope ... it is not that ... just lost  in translation)

And here comes the horniest of them all .

 For the benefit of all non-hindi speaking readers here is how this strictly translates.

When a heavily loaded truck suddenly brakes it may reverse a few meters due to the jerk. It is therefore important to keep a safe distance when driving behind a heavily loaded truck. This has been translated in Hindi for ease of explanation.  ;)