THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

"In the depth of her heart, every girl conceals a story." --Anu.   I   knew Sameer from my high school days; Sameer the lover boy, Sameer the writer, Sameer the dream crush. He was there in everything superlative—campus fest, art fest, sports. He always   scored   the top marks in our class. I   loved   him. I would feel a movement down my underbelly whenever I met him and   talked   with him. I think I   had   a crush on him, like every other girl in our school. But he   was   different from what I thought other boys to be. He was very sensitive and emotional; I knew that more than any one else, because I   had   seen him sobbing behind the boys’ room several times, whenever Rakhi finds excuses not to talk to him.  Rakhi was the girl he   loved, the centre of jealousy for the whole school. One day I   saw   him weeping, behind the boys’ room. I could see him from the girl’s room on ...

Sam and Mithun had a dream. They wanted to showcase their land, its magic, its charismatic beauty and perturbing realities to the rest of the world. They wanted the world to visit their place. They wanted to be the people in the lime light, the crucial players of the game called tourism, to be tour guides. When you are creatively active, when the flow of the organic serums accountable for creativity runs smoothly, you deem of things that are unthinkable and often close to insanity. You realize it only when the serum gets blocked.   Resource acquisition: Sam had heard that term during one of the seminars conducted in his College on tourism. The presenter was a Professor from the UK . ‘She looked gorgeous, man!’ Sam had commented the other day to Mithun, when they met on the only drive-in beach in the whole of India , Muzhappilangad, their place, their dream destination; the place that was going to be their lucky charm. ‘But what is this so-called Resource Acquisition?’—Mithun h...

The Days that are No More-2 His contract with the Research Institute would end after two months. That was one of his primary concerns. He would be jobless. “What did you say? Your husband works in America as a company secretary? That is GREAT. I was looking for a copywriter’s job. I know I am asking for a favour. But…can you enquire your husband about posts of a copy writer in his company? You know what a copy writer is, right? Someone, who creates magic out of words,” he was jabbering with one of his students. He was their Lecturer in Chemistry. She came to meet him at the interval between two class hours. He felt special about himself, as anyone would in that situation. But what made him ask that favour? That favour—the simple act of asking a favour from a student and that too from a student who was in need for his help, who made him feel proud of himself being a teacher—could doubtlessly harm his self respect, at least a bit. But the act was played, the gesture was made. “Why ...

I have been awarded with a Stylish Blogger award by Neeha , as I informed in the previous post. I once again thank Neeha for considering me apt for this recognition. This is the first time I am receiving this award. There are certain guidelines and rules one should follow after receiving this award, as I learnt from her blog. Any way, I have broken one of them just now—the first rule. That is expressing gratitude and linking back to the person who gives you the award. I did it, too, not just once, but twice. The second rule is to share seven things about you. Well, it seems to be a difficult task for me. I am a failure to conceive myself as an intellectual entity. I sometimes stand inside the intellectual boundary but sometimes go outside it. It is difficult to talk about me. Whenever such situations arise, I have an idea. I urge others, people related to me, to talk about me. The intention is very simple. People around me will know me much better than I myself. But still, conside...

The Days that are No More--1 This is the story of a poet, who on a fine morning finds his muse eloped with a Misty Confusion. As a result he succumbs to an unimaginable stress and pressures himself to think the whole need to continue his life. It was a time when his country was ruled by the British, and it was his ‘duty’ every Sunday evening to meet the assemblage in the General’s office to appease the officers with the magic of his poetry. There was even a saying about him that without listening to his poetry, the whole of the army base would perish in the crudeness of the reality and it was his poems that kept them alive. In return the British had a pact with the poet. He was asked to attend the Sunday evening grand get-together with his poems and entertain the officers present; failing to achieve which he would lose his claim upon his own life. He was more afraid of a life that he would be living without his muse, which was a part of his soul, his only intention to prolo...