I was going through a presentation on micro-economics and came across the following quote:

“You can’t always get what you want” – Mick Jagger.

Micro-economics and Mick Jagger didn’t quite fit in until I discovered that Mick holds an Economics degree from the London School of Economics.
And you thought he was just a good singer.

Not to forget, Mick Jagger wrote that beautiful song – Bitter Sweet Symphony, later performed by the Verve.

Demand supply anyone? Or is it just one straight story of rolling stones?

“True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it comes to see that in an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring”
-Martin Luther King Jr.

Saw the above quote in a friend’s application form and fell in love with it. I think its a beautiful articulation of what should ideally be done as a manifestation of compassion.

Also, Akash of Dream School Foundation has a very good blog entry with many photographs of the kids on Republic Day.

Good stuff happening all around. Life is rocking.

A couple of days ago my ex-employer was here to give a pre-placement talk. The presentation, according to me ofcourse, was good and brought back fond memories of my tenure there.

I have seen a few presentations till date and this was one of those which didn’t throw management jargon. Typical of my organization to be the way it is. Content spoken, no frills, no 5Cs, no 4Ps, no 7Ss and definitely no umpteen ABCs.
I felt the urge (which is continuing now) to join them back.
I probably might. And even if I do, I would want to get back to my technical work. Working with micro-processors and micro-controllers, designing memory managers, writing scheduling algorithms, interrupt handlers, stacks and all that stuff. That kinda thing does appeal a lot and gives a strange high. A high unparalleled inspite of wearing business suits and talking about delivering ‘value’ to businesses (yep, that does mean something, not quite sure what though).

I am afraid I am going the Chilli way Maybe a couple of months more here might make me change my mind. I might want to be on the periphery of all the action and take credit for it. Until then, I am going to be stuck in this memory lane of past work.
Life rocks.

“8:10:23″ said the digital clock hanging between two metal rods from the asbestos roof.
The two “:” and the last number continued to flash every second and seemed like it would be the last thing to stop on this planet.

Anil climbed down two stairs at a time, making it to the platform just in time for the 8:13 Churchgate fast. Borivali station at this time in the morning was a sea of people. A sea that converged towards the railway tracks when the train arrived. A sea that went into a low tide the moment a train departed. Colours blended within this sea. An individual, for a change, took solace in being a part of this sea. There was a strange sort of comfort in being a part of this fluid mass of aspirations and disappointments.

“8:12:55″ flashed the digital clock. The lady on the speaker system announced the arrival of the next train. He stood at the same spot. A spot he had marked out well in the past 2 years. Two steps to the left of the chai-shop at the back. That’s exactly where the entrance of the train would position itself. The train slowly made its grand metallic entry and the crowd bustled, many entered the train, many got out of the train. Within a few seconds, the train began to pull itself away from this crowd which seemed ready to cling-on to the train if given such a chance.

Anil boarded the train in the same fashion as every other day. A lunch box in one hand and the Marathi newspaper in the other. His cellphone in the right pocket and the wallet in the left. He always kept them that way since it was easier to verify periodically, just in case a pick-pocket decided to try him.

Going a few seconds back in time to the scene at the station just moments after the train’s arrival. Raju and Shankar were two kids living in the small kuccha houses along the railway lines. Raju was 14 and Shankar was 13. They both walked along the rail tracks every day to pick up plastic bags. The kids made fun of Raju since his surname was Gandhi.

“Full name”, they would ask.
“Raju Gandhi”, he would say and they would burst out laughing.
“Gandhi picking plastic bags! Who has heard of that?!”, they would scream and laugh.
That was a joke heard often along the railway tracks.
Raju too would join in the laughter, not quite aware of the significance of his surname in this country.

Today, the two boys stood between the last and the penultimate bogeys of the train. The metal rod connecting the two bogeys was in front of them.

“What are you doing?”, Shankar asked him.
“Tying this thread between the two bogeys”, Raju replied.
“Why?”
“Shut up”
“Tell me why.”

Raju quickly tied a small piece of thread from one end of the metal rod to the other. The string appeared to be connecting the two bogeys.

“Today evening, after picking up the bags, we shall wait for this train and check if the thread is still there”, Raju said.
This made Shankar very happy. Happy for a simple reason that he had something to look forward to in the evening.

Anil held the railing in the train with one hand, while his other hand held the lunch box. Sandwiched between his arm and his body was the newspaper. He waited with a little impatience for the train to reach Andheri. Around 6 months ago, he had seen her board this train at the Andheri station. She had noticed him too, but never bothered to acknowledge his presence for over 2 weeks. For 2 weeks the two exchanged glances, and a little bit of tentativeness. Finally, he had made the effort to talk to her when she disembarked at Churchgate. That was 6 months ago. A week later, they had their first meeting near the nimbu-pani walla at Flora Fountain. A month later they were officially girlfriend-boyfriend, as the boys in Anil’s building termed such ‘affairs’.
But today was different. In fact the past one month had been different. She was always too busy to meet him. And whenever she did meet him, she always came along with a colleague.

“Busy cant meet 2day” was the standard SMS that flashed on his cellphone every day for the past week. Today she didn’t board the train at Andheri. He bent a little and looked through the sliding bars of the windows of the moving train. No sign. He dialled her number and rested his cellphone between his ear and shoulder. Busy tone. 5 minutes later, the same SMS.

“I don’t think it is going to work out Anil”, she had told him a few weeks ago
“But why?”, he had stammered and clenched his fist in frustration.
“I just don’t feel it. That’s why.”
“What do you mean you don’t feel it? What about all those walks? Remember our conversations every evening at Juhu? What was that? ”
Silence.
“What was that dammit. Why dammit. Why?”, Anil was a sensitive person.
“That is how it is Anil, and please stop screaming.”
“Screaming? That is a bother? Oh, sorry, I didn’t know that”
“Behave Anil. We are mature adults”.
“Oh, ofcourse we are. We are bloody adults. We do such things nonchalantly”
“I had never seen this side of you”
“What the…? I am at fault here? Wow, this is great. I am sorry for my flaws lady”

When he lost his anger, it was a little late. She had left in a huff.
After that day, it was the same SMS. Every day. No phone call, no conversations.

She was a nice girl. Conservative to the extent that conservatism was demanded by her family and society. Outgoing and the so-called modern girl. Hard-working and a typical Bombay girl. She knew how to get her way around in this city of mazes. She had risen the hard way to be an assistant sales girl at the fashion boutique in Churchgate. Anil was a nice guy. But not really the kind she wanted. She liked him initially, but he turned out to be a very soft-spoken, docile guy.
She had developed a liking towards him, but was never able to turn that liking into something as powerful as love. After debating a few days with her own self, she had finally broken the news to him.

“18:14:43″, the watch at Borivali continued to do its work. The train from Churchgate arrived. Raju and Shankar waited for the train. The bogeys aligned themselves perfectly so that the metal rod connecting the last two bogeys was exactly where the two boys were standing. The thread was intact. Both took pride in it. An unexplainable thrill overcame the two kids. Their creation had worked. A thread tied by them was actually still there even though the train was out the whole day. Incredible. A rationale mind or the mind of an adult would have been unable to comprehend this strange source of joy. But for the children, this was special. It was something they had let out in the bad world and it had returned un-harmed.

Anil was now frustrated. The whole trauma was taking its toll in his relations with his family and friends. For one last time, he messaged her if she would see her the next day.
She couldn’t convince herself completely that she didn’t really like him. She knew she did. She thought about it all day and finally messaged back – “Sorry for past behavior. Want to meet you. Miss you.”

He replied stoically, “When. Where.”
“Chrchgt stn 5 pm” came the reply.

Anil wore his special shirt. The one that he had got stitched last year just before his first job interview. The lunch box in one hand and the newspaper in the other, he waited at the Borivali station.

“Let me tie the thread today”, Shankar said.
Raju looked at him and stepped back. Shankar tied the thread, muttered a prayer for its safety and stepped back.
The train left the station in an eagerness that seemed to reflect Anil’s sentiments.
Andheri arrived. No sign. A frantic call from her – “Sorry sweetheart, got late. Will reach office late. See you in evening. 5, don’t forget”.
He accepted the apology. His heart settled down to beat at a normal rate.

She had to cook for her younger brother today since her mother was visiting the temple.
“This delay had to happen today”, she muttered to herself. The train was missed and so she waited for the next one. During the day, there was unusually high traffic at the store. Many people shopping for the upcoming festive season. 4:30 and no sign of the end of the day.
5:00 and she was talking to a customer.

Evening came fast for Anil. He reached the station, glanced at his watch and at the big digital clocks all around. 5:00:01 flashed the clock, with the “:” blinking irritatingly with precise regularity. She wanted to call but couldn’t. Anil waited. He knew this was it. She didn’t want to meet.

Boarding the next train to Borivali, he shut off his cellphone in disgust. The train reached Borivali and the kids were there, right next to the tracks.

With smiles on their faces, the two boys ran towards the last two bogeys expectantly. The thread had snapped and was not to be seen. Shankar felt dejected. Raju was disappointed and swore to himself that he wouldn’t allow Shankar to tie it tomorrow.
The train left the station in a slow fashion.
Anil walked back trudgingly towards the overhead bridge.
Raju and Shankar loitered back across the tracks, kicking each others plastic bags in turns.
All three blended into the surroundings and it was difficult to distinctly identify anyone in this sea of people. A sea which gave that much needed solace.

I found this interesting – Very Short Stories (link sent in via e-mail from a batchmate)
The idea is to write a story in 6 words. Yes, you read that right – 6 words.

The above link lists some 6-word short stories.
My favourites are excerpted here:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
- Ernest Hemingway

I saw, darling, but do lie.
- Orson Scott Card

I am now on the hunt for a one-word story, if there is something like that.
Beyond that, I think silence will have to speak for itself.

As my stay here comes closer to an end, I look back at the months flown by. Keeping the emotional and personal thoughts aside, I view this place as an interesting case for a psychologist to study.

There are around 400 people from various backgrounds put together in one large area. A community that thrives on itself and practically evolves (upward or downward) together within this one year.

This entire scene reminds me of the setting in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. In that book, a group of school boys find themselves on an uninhabited island after an unfortunate plane crash. All kids survive and thus begins their journey into the social progression of the human pscyhe. Clashes occur, groups get formed, opinions get biased and so on. Essentially, the book portrays how human society is formed and how man subjects himself to all kinds of emotions primarily based on his interactions with other members of the society.

Back to the current scene. I remember when people first came in here, everyone was jubilant about having “made it” in life. Parties being thrown before joining, parties being thrown after joining. Everyone introducing themselves to everyone else. An awe struck troupe of ladies and gentlemen. Happiness.

Then the courses begin, few weeks into them and groups of ‘friends’ are formed. People from the same city initially clung on together. Then came the phase when people found people of similar interests/dislikes. A new found independence became a cause for jubilation for many. Some doubted their decision of coming here, some continued to think that the zenith had arrived.

Opinions started finding their own grooves. You had all sorts of groups characterised on all sorts of parameters. The entire bunch of people seemed coiffured and was one which bonded here, broke off there, spun off elsewhere. One could just view it as a beautiful paradigm of evolution of society.

Now, as we reach the proverbial last mile and arguably the most stressful phase, it will be interesting to observe how this group reacts and stirs under before gracefully breaking off.

Good times ahead. And oh, just some trivia for the sake of some trivia – William Golding won a Nobel in literature.

Latest Update: Ganguly does just what I was hoping for! 11 fours, 3 sixes and a score of 98!!
A couple of commentary lines from cricinfo:

26.6 Gayle to Ganguly, FOUR, Four runs!! Ganguly paddles sweeps a poor leg-side delivery for another boundary. Dada on fire

30.6 Bravo to Ganguly, SIX, Classic dada!! dances down the pitch and lofts gayle high,high, high over long on for a massive six,ball out of the ground

Since we weren’t getting that new sports channel here, I had to make-do with text commentary on cricinfo. Nevertheless, this is wonderful news!!

===============
The biggest comeback of recent times is this one – Ganguly opens tomorrow in the 1st ODI vs. West Indies.

Needless to say, but still will be said, I am happy.
The Prince shall walk into the Nagpur sun and hopefully cannon a few fours through the heavy offside cordon before starting the massacre of the spinners.
Ganguly’s short jog down the pitch with a graceful swerve of the bat to a leg-spinner is one of the beautiful images that this era’s sporting arena has provided us with.

Read this article by Siddhartha Vaidyanathan at cricinfo.
Excerpts (emphasis mine):

Ganguly hasn’t played a one-day international for India since September 2005. Ironically – yes, that word again – he’s managed seven Tests in that period, ironical because Ganguly in one-dayers is colossal compared to Ganguly in Tests. Few have blended bravado and skill so deftly in the first 15 overs and almost nobody has trotted down the track to 150kph thunderbolts and slotted them over long-off.

His half-hour workout today, divided between the fast bowlers and the spinners, was the most exciting part of a rather mundane nets session. Apparently simulating the first 15 overs of an ODI, he swung his bat merrily. He spanked Zaheer Khan, who was the sharpest bowler on the day, RP Singh and Sreesanth – his short arm jab off RP Singh that soared into the stands was most eye-catching. The spinners were simply mangled. Harbhajan Singh was clattered for two huge sixes, Ramesh Powar received some back-foot peppering and the lesser known net bowlers didn’t stand a chance.

Too much hype? Maybe yes.
But fanatics like me have just one thing to say – God now returns to the offside and is going to stay there for quite a while.

Yesterday, a few of us volunteered for the stem cell registry drive initiated by www.matchpia.org.

Tim, the founder of matchpia has initiated this world-wide drive to collect marrow/stem cell samples of people across countries and create a database registry of it.

People suffering from leukemia require donors of matching stem-cell structures. To quote the website, “stem cell transplant is the replacement of diseased blood stem cells from a health donor infused into a patient’s vein just like a blood transfusion. Within four to six weeks the transplanted marrow / stem cells begin to produce normal blood cells in the patient.”

We managed to collect over 100 samples yesterday. Although I felt that this was a disappointing figure considering that we were at one of India’s largest software companies, one of the coordinators was very thrilled with this number.

Stem -cell sample collection is done by rubbing a sterile cotton swab against the inner parts of the donor’s mouth. Initially I did feel a bit reluctant to the idea, but then pretty soon got into the drive and probably collected over 30 samples.

Tim started matchpia when his daughter Pia was suffering from leukemia and found it difficult to obtain matching stem-cell donors. This world-wide initiative is needed because the probability of finding a match is extremely low. Hence the need for as large a sample space as possible.

As he stated to us yesterday, we were creating history here by starting the stem-cell registry for the Indian population. Each sample collected costs $500 to analyze and document and the first 10,000 samples are being sponsored by Dr. Nezih of HistoGenetics. It was interesting to talk to Dr. Nezih as he explained to us the concepts related to stem-cell research and leukemia.

I had a great time being a part of this and probably left a tiny imprint on the creation of a huge and life-saving registry.

Website: www.matchpia.org

“May I come in”, the 14-year old boy peered from behind the curtain and asked the man sitting inside.

The hut was an old one and light forced its way through the dark paper sheets pasted on the areas where windows were supposed to be. The result was an orangish hue that lit the small hut in certain areas and left darkness rule in other areas. Incense burning in a corner enhanced the divinity that the hue was trying to build.

Chacha was a 40 year old man. He had remained a 40 year old man for everyone in the slum for many years now. His familiar white vest and blue checkered dhoti fluttering in the mornings was a part of the slum’s landscape. No one knew his real name. Not even Uncle Anthony who had a star hanging outside his hut right in the middle of the slum, adjacent to the shanty Lakshmi temple. The temple was built next to Uncle Anthony’s home by the rioters, thinking that this would drive him away. No one dared to harm Uncle Anthony. He was the favourite of everybody and the eldest member of the slum. Miscreants had propped up a canvas using bamboo sticks and placed an old calendar carrying a picture of goddess Lakshmi. No one had the courage to remove this rickety new place of worship and thus the temple had come into existence. That was last year.

“Come in beta, you have come at the right time. Your mother was supposed to send you last evening but I had some other work. Your brothers rarely visit me these days. I hear they are making good money out there in the bad city world”, he coughed and spluttered.

“Yes Chacha, both of them are now earning Rs. 50 in a day! My mother is very happy. She even has money to buy bangles this Diwali”, he gleamed with a boyish happiness.

Chacha nodded his head in a smile and looked upward and murmured a thank you and a god-bless in one breath.

“Chacha, I have now started playing cricket with the school boys. They agreed to let me play after I smashed the ball into the walls of those apartments.”

“That is very good beta, but now its time you started earning more for the family and cut down on your games”.

The little boy nodded gravely and understood. He had to also share responsibilities with his other brothers. He was earning only Rs. 10 in a day. But games were fun. Pictures of him hitting the ball loftily into the mango tree conjured up in front of his eyes. He could smell the mangoes fallen down and saw them wispily appear amongst the dust that moved in a stream of light across the hut. Everytime Chacha spoke, the dust particles in the ray of light fluttered around angrily and settled down once he became quiet. It was clear that the dust didn’t like Chacha speaking.

“Have you played cricket Chacha?”, the boy asked and thought about Chacha holding the bat in a queer manner. The boy mischeviously smiled at himself at the funny image he made in his mind.

“Ofcourse, I was the one who taught every kid here how to play the game”, Chacha grunted and bellowed. The dust particles were clearly unhappy and took a lot of time to settle back into their mundane activity of going from one end of the light ray to the other.

“Will you teach me also Chacha? I can hit sixes but I get out very easily. Everyone laughs when I hit a six. Why do they do that Chacha?”

Chacha was busy opening his old cloth bag. It was, in its early days, a bag with blue and yellow stripes running horizontally across it. Now it just looked plain grey. Chacha removed a bottle of orange liquid and placed it on the mat. He then removed some tools and a few pieces of cloth.

The little boy still saw the image of fallen mangoes amidst the patterns made by the flowing dust particles. He wanted to reach out to those fallen mangoes, pick them up and smell them. They were his. He had hit the six, after all.

Chacha got up and brought a small flat piece of rock from the corner of the hut, below the old plastic table with three legs, and placed it at the centre of the mat. He sat down next to it.

“Chacha, have you ever eaten raw mangoes? My mother says adults don’t eat them. They are not good for the stomach. Is that true?”

Chacha continued working with his old tools. Occassionally, he looked at them with disgust and occassionally he looked heavenward for some sort of support.

“Beta, come here now. Its time”. Chacha made the boy sit on the mat and placed both his little tiny arms on the rock. With one swift swerve of the axe, the work was done.

Swabs of cloth and tincture were applied immediately and the boy continued crying. He cried for long, eventually ending up in an occassional shiver.

“You can now earn 50 rupees beta, just like your brothers. People will shower more sympathy on you. A little kid with no hands always earns a lot. Your mother will be very happy now. All her 3 sons earning so much”, Chacha smiled with satisfaction and praised the lord.

The little boy was happy to hear that. 50 rupees in a day. That was too good to be true. Although the tears covered his face, the happiness started making its presence felt.

He could never a hit six again though. The fallen mangoes lay still amidst the dust. He could no longer pick them up.
But adults don’t eat raw mangoes. Mother had said that. He didn’t need those mangoes anymore. He was an adult.
He smiled and hopped out of the hut.

A beautiful short story written by the famous Urdu writer Saadat Hasan Manto. The story, titled Toba Tek Singh, brings to the fore the underlying impact of the partition on the people of both India and Pakistan. I loved the metaphorical style of writing which made lunatics and asylum residents the main characters of the story.

Two or three years after Partition, the governments of Pakistan and India decided to exchange lunatics in the same way that they had exchanged civilian prisoners. In other words, Muslim lunatics in Indian madhouses would be sent to Pakistan, while Hindu and Sikh lunatics in Pakistani madhouses would be handed over to India.

One Sikh lunatic asked another Sikh: “Sardar ji, why are they sending us to India? We don’t even speak the language.”
“I understand the Indian language,” the other replied, smiling. “Indians are devilish people who strut around haughtily,” he added.

While bathing, a Muslim lunatic shouted “Long live Pakistan!” with such vigor that he slipped on the floor and knocked himself out.

The story talks about a Sikh lunatic called Bashan Singh who wants to know where his district, “Toba Tek Singh” is located now – whether in India or Pakistan. His quest for this answer ends in a touching manner.

Do read Toba Tek Singh, one of Manto’s brilliant short stories.