A Rumble in the Night

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It's official: henceforth, until further notice, we are terrified of the rain.

In the chilling hours of the chilly night, everyone huddled together to discuss how "Mobile and TV signals had vanished a few minutes before it happened and we knew something huge was coming," and "we felt the building shake," and "we thought it was an earthquake," and "the ground just quivered," and "I was jolted out of my sleep," and "is this the kind of horror people in Kashmir must have experienced in their recent flood and rains" and "it's been raining and raining for hours" and "the last time such a downpour occurred in Bangalore was about ten years ago" and so forth.

It is interesting (in a not-so-exciting way) how the rain has progressed from our list of "fun" things to "mildly irritating" to "annoying" until, all of a sudden last night, it jumped to the top of our list of terrors, leaving the usual nightmares lingering far below.

Bangalore is known for its civilised rains (though with uncivilised consequences) - the kind that knows how to behave. Rain a little, clog those drains, jam the traffic, unhinge a few trees and leave within thirty minutes. But those of us from Kerala, otherwise known as Rain's Own Country, know how unruly and childish some rains can be. We have seen them bad-tempered, we've seen them mischievous, we've seen them kind, we've seen them helpful, and we've seen them hideous. We've seen all kinds. They don't scare us, no sir. They make us miserable, but we know what they are.

And when Bangalore rains misbehave as if they are just back from a vacation in Kerala, we are confused and anxious and lost.

This happened at half past ten last night:

Of course, in the wisdom and brightness of the morning, it does not look like much, but in the magnified lens of the night, it took on unimaginably frightening hues. Especially because people were dragged out of bed by a loud rumble as the wall collapsed and a whrrrrrr of water cascading down to the basement. Soon there was a mad rush to drive all the cars up from the fast-filling parking lot and out to the higher street. The anxiety centred around speculations on what would happen if the water level kept rising. The uncharacteristic rain, with the continuous blast and roar of thunder and lightning, continued for four or five hours (Where did all that water come from??). The panic died around midnight.

Rain took on new shades of meaning last night.

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When is the Aam Aadmi Party?

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"We should go to the Aam Admi Party", said my son, a few days ago.

I was surprised. Did they show election news in Cartoon Network, or did the children discuss politics while playing football? I considered making a "good-parent" statement that I appreciated his views on politics. ("Wait a minute," I said to myself. "He is only eight years old.")

I then pondered over giving a lecture on different ideals and mottos and purposes and even venturing into each party's manifesto (I love the way he listens, wide-eyed), but thought it better to simply ask, "Where did you hear that from?"

It turns out that there was an auto rickshaw (with loudspeakers playing songs) that had been touring the neighbourhood a week ago, distributing AAP caps and asking the kids to make sure their vote went to the common man's party. Needless to say, the kids were impressed. If there is a common man's party, that's where they will go.

While we're on the topic, I'd like to suggest that political parties seriously consider recruiting these under-12 beings for their campaign. For one thing, they don't charge a paisa, as long as you give them a free cap or just allow them to hang around. For another, they will yell their throat out Inquilab Zindabad-ing for you. As in the case of everything that comes free, there is a downside to this too - in the middle of a burst of "AAP Zindabad", someone would insert a "Modiji" and the whole chant would swing to "Modiji zindabad" from which, recovery is tough. (Congress hasn't caught up in this part of the Little World yet.)

"The Aam Aadmi Party is the best," my son added. "When is it?"

That's when I realised that all the while, my little one had imagined AAP to be One Big Happy Party where the Common Men got together and shared free drinks and food, and chatted for a while, probably danced a bit too, and then went home.

And at that moment, I hated all political parties for misleading us all by calling themselves "Parties."

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"Good night, MH370"

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Unable to get over the 'unusual, informal' last words from the cockpit of the lost Malaysian airline, MH370: "All right, Goodnight".

Will we ever know what had happened?

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Of not wanting to remember

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It's 26/11 again.

It seems like a date from the last century. A date from the pre-independence era. Something we had not witnessed, like pictures we see in an old magazine, of a burning palace, of a callous youngster in black, of a scattered and blood-stained railway station, of terrified, spell-bound citizens crowding the roads, of an entire world glued to the television.
Of names that popped up. The Taj. Girgaum Chowpatty. Chhatrapathi Shivaji Terminus. Leopold Cafe. Oberoi Trident. A little Jewish boy named Moshe wailing for his parents in the hands of his nanny.
The surge of hatred, towards the only one who survived. The hatred and pain that refused to fade even after his end. An end that was too merciful in the eyes of some.
Of calling up relatives to know if they are fine.
Of heroes. And heroism.

Of not wanting to remember.
The fear. The horror. The panic.
The quivering of the knees, the relentless pounding of the heart.
Of scars that remained.
Of hearing about the Indians and foreigners who were alive just moments before. Of wondering where their Gods were, at that moment.
Of the 26/11 that happens every day, everywhere, to every one of us.
Of never forgetting.

No, it was all real. It was not from the last century or before our time.
It was here. And it was now.
Today.

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An illusion of Absolute Power

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My son does something naughty, unforgivable by a Mother's standards. I yell at him, and raise my hand to strike. He cowers in fear. His eyes are wide, they plead, "Don't". For a fleeting fraction of a moment, when my eyes full of rage locks on his terrified ones, what passes through my mind is a wild pleasure. Someone is afraid of me! The Me that no one was ever afraid of. The Me who never could bully anyone and was forever bullied. The Me who was a weakling. And now here is this little being that is afraid of me. The fraction of a moment when I became the boss - the tiniest instant when I had the Power. Then the moment passes, and a flood of motherly regret and love washes away the illusion.

I look closely towards that smallest possible fraction of a second when I lost my head and imagined I had the Power. I zoom into it and magnify it into a window as large as Life. When I look in, I see myself in my second year at college, asking my juniors in the rudest possible manner, 'Where're you from?' (and more unfriendly questions) in the name of ragging. I see myself at the door of my classroom looking insolent while my classmates brought an embarrassed guy from first year and asked him to 'Salute Madam.' Yes, these slightest instances of Power over Weaklings did feel good. (These juniors later became friends, and we laughed together at these instances, but that is not relevant.)

The appearance of power is merely an illusion.
The boy who saluted me wasn't weak.
The girls who replied politely to my rude questions were not weak.
My son, who looks at me on the verge of tears, is not weak.

Everyone has a moment in their lives when they feel they have the Power over others. But there is a world of difference between having Power and using (abusing) it.

Where does this illusion of power come from?
Rage? Complexes? Money? Desire? Lust? Temptation? Availability (of a weakling right before one's eyes ready to be reduced to ashes)? Hatred? Revenge? Absence of Fear? An Urge to Destroy? An easy way to silence the overpowering Beast within? A cowardly instinct that refuses to suppress the urge to destroy? The momentary blindness that clouds all reason?
So many reasons to do wrong. And only one against - that you mustn't. That the only thing you are allowed to do to a person who appears weaker than you is help. Or walk away, before the Beast roars.

Despite a thousand admonitions from his mother to the contrary, a child throws stones at stray dogs. And when an explanation is demanded of him as to why he did that to an animal who did him no harm, he says, 'My friends challenged me to do it. If I don't, they will call me a coward.' The phase may pass but the temptation to fall for a dare (lest he be called a coward) remains. The "collective wisdom of the Gang".

We ask little boys who cry, "Why are you crying like a girl? Aren't you a man??" Of course, girls are weaklings who cry.


As a nation, we are lost. We do not know where to begin, what to do. What are the symptoms, the causes, the signs, the answers, the solutions? Who to blame?

Meanwhile...
Parents of little girls shudder, afraid of the kind of world they are bringing their daughters up to face.
Parents of little boys shudder, afraid of the kind of men their sons would grow up into, despite their best efforts.
As parents, we are confused. Are we teaching our children the right lessons?
What in the world are the right lessons?

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"Nude and Other Stories"

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Read the story about this book, here.

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Of Norway and Gullibility

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With the new twist in the story, the Norway fiasco has taken a new turn and who knows how many more would come in (no one has heard the wife's side yet) before dust settles on the case.

It is our right to feel embarrassed about jumping to conclusions without considering all the facts or trying to understand the other side of the story, and we also owe an apology to Norway for calling them names.

However, the way I see it, the best thing about this case is that all the parties concerned - though their actions were grossly misunderstood by each other - acted on the best interests of the two young children. The methods were different and often at conflict with each other, but the goals were the same. The Child Welfare Services of Norway, the parents who wanted the children back, the Indian Government that intervened, the people and media of India who rallied behind the parents in huge numbers, everyone thought they were doing the best thing for the little ones.

Take a moment and consider the image.
In this dreary world where every piece of news that greets us in the morning, and throughout the day, depresses us and makes us lose faith in Life itself, this is the silver lining... That we are still ready to jump in and support others because we feel they are right, their struggles are genuine, there is something we can do to make things better for a total stranger. Even though we shout at an autowallah who cheats us of five rupees, or yell at our kids because they don't listen, or refuse food to a beggar, we still try to do our bit to make the world a better place. As long as so many people and groups and organisations can work for what they believe is right, there is still hope that all is not lost. If we cannot appreciate that, I don't know if there is anything left in this Universe to appreciate.

Tomorrow someone else may face a similar situation, and many of us would approach it cautiously because we were once fooled by a pair of Indian parents in Norway, but guess what? - a lot of us would still jump in and support them and hold candle light vigil or stage protest marches in their favour. Call it gullibility or foolishness if you will. The next time, who knows, maybe the State is wrong and the parents are right, and who will support them if a set of gullible people don't.

Where would we be if we lost all sensitivity and left our fellows to suffer, because it is not our problem.

While it's okay to be ashamed of making a mistake or falling for a lie, we should also be proud that we were ready to stand for the happiness of a couple of children and their parents.

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Kindled !

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They say there is a time and place for everything.
They also say some efforts will meet success only on the third attempt.

Nothing better explains why, in the winter of 2009 when one of my newfound twitter buddies suggested the merits of publishing my book on Kindle, I never cared to explore it. 'Kindle' was a new term and I was intimidated by it. 

A few months ago when another friend mailed me about it, I again did not venture into it.

Last week, when a third friend sent me a link through Facebook, and asked me to consider publishing on Amazon Kindle, I finally knew...

... it was time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, slow I may be, but I am getting there too, thanks to friends who nudge me when I seem to lose my way.

My Book, Tales from the Garden City, now has a Kindle edition.

This is the short announcement I wanted to make, and I request you all to get back to your work, ... right after going across to Amazon and making the purchase, maybe! You no longer have an excuse.

Like Tales from the Garden City on Facebook
More details about Tales from the Garden City

(Part-2 of the Navi Mumbai travelogue will be posted in a couple of days.)

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Wisdom of Our Mothers: Stories from India

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I suppose it is but natural that after months of waiting, dreaming and hoping, when it is time, I should sit here and struggle to find the right words. The disbelief makes me go take a peep at my Inbox every now and then, to make sure it wasn't a dream, that the mails really exist.

There was this announcement in The Hindu in October of last year: "Familia Books is buying stories from writers in India for an Indian edition of the anthology, Wisdom of Our Mothers."

I sent my entry, a story from real life, in November and began the long wait.

This week, my wait was rewarded: My story is one among the six that will be part of the "Stories from India" section of the anthology, "Wisdom of Our Mothers". What's more, it will also feature in another anthology comprised of stories from India.

For once, I am at a loss for words.

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Memories of a Train Journey

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It took me a while to blog about this news item, and not without reason.

Maybe because I am a woman, maybe for other reasons, I do not understand the height of desperation that would drive any man to such measures. Is the urge so violent that one would want to force himself on a woman, and try to break in without consent, even when the woman is senseless with blood oozing from her head? Is his hunger so terrible that a piece of bread, stale and tasteless, would satisfy him? Especially in this age, where consent is not too difficult to find? How callous can one be?

Everyone has expressed a strong opinion (read, 'correct' opinion) regarding this incident, I am led to suspect that the ones who deplore it the most loudly are the ones who would do it, given a chance. There, that's an unkind statement, but one that could be true.



The incident brought two images to mind. The first was the unforgettable scene from Ghajini where Asin rescues a girl hiding in an empty compartment, an action that eventually leads to her death.

The second was a scene from my own life, on a hot, stuffy and unpleasant April day, when I was travelling from Trivandrum in Parasuram Express, better known those days as the Day Express. I thought the journey would never end. I only had a couple of books to keep me company. The train was packed till it reached Shoranur or maybe Kozhikode, in the late afternoon. After that the crowd began to thin. The compartment was more or less empty, with a few scattered passengers minding their own business.

The young men boarded at Kannur or maybe before that. They came and sat near me. I think there were three or four of them. I was pretending to read for want of something better to do, conscious that it was dark outside and I was very alone. They tried to open some conversation, which I resisted and discouraged with a stoic face. One of them asked me, "Where are you going?" I pointed forward (à la Clint Eastwood*). They assumed I meant Kasargode, the next major station. I had no intention of divulging that my destination was Mangalore, which would arrive only by 9PM.

As Kasargode Railway Station slid into view, they rose to alight, expecting me to do likewise. My nose deep inside my book, though I was not taking in a single word, I pretended not to have noticed anything. How can a woman travelling alone be so unconscious as to miss her station? The men were confused no doubt, and at the door, they stood looking at each other and me, and announcing aloud, "It is Kasargode Station." I raised my head, glanced outside through the window, looked at them and went back to my book.

It must have dawned on them then. They went their way. As the train left Kasargode, I closed my book whose pages I was turning for the past one hour without seeing a thing, let out a sigh of relief and settled down for the rest of the journey.



Nothing has changed after Soumya's death. We have moved on. The trains have moved on. The rallies and agitations have moved on.
Elsewhere, echoing the closing note of the article on NDTV, "...women still fend for themselves."

*The Clint Eastwood reference is from one of his famous Dollar Westerns, in which he rides into a town and a guy asks, "Where are you from?" Eastwood thrusts his thumb over his shoulder. "Where are you going?" Eastwood points forward. That's it. Not a single unnecessary word. I have gotten away with this technique many times in life.

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Echoes from Afar

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It was not in the pipeline. No, it was not a New Year resolution. It was not contemplated before it was launched. My short story blog came up almost on its own. I suspect that a certain Someone, for reasons I know nothing about, left clues for me to pick up or ignore. I chose to take them, and created a wordpress blog for my short stories that I meaningfully call Echoes from Afar. Within days it was made clear why the blog was essential before I stepped into the New Year.

I did have a short story blog in those times. It was not public. I dared not show it to anyone till the idea of getting the stories published crept in. Today, when I see fresh authors proudly display their work, I cannot help but be amazed. Looking back, I think I was right. Had I made them public, a lot many things would have been different today. That blog still exists, in the depths of blogspot, inviting a hit or two per year from people who stumble on it in their search for something else.

The stories I have posted at Echoes from Afar are newer in comparison, so I decided against refurbishing the old blog. Besides, there are ominous and far-reaching reasons behind the birth of the new blog. Anyway! The first four stories, Traffic, Smoked Out!, The Blink of an Eye and Belief had been published last year by the MAG. The two new stories are Coming of the Monsoons and Onions. There are a few more in varying levels of draft, and I intend to publish one or two a month without hindering my other regular writing work. Of course, there is no pressure, only a desire to write (and complete) as many as possible in this lifetime. I don't even know why that's important. Till I figure out its significance, I'll try to keep up with the speed of inspiration.

Some day, maybe, these stories will find their way to a book too...

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Good things take their own time coming

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The MAG has finally announced the results of the short story contest conducted early last year. All my entries have made it to the top twenty! We're told that these twenty stories will be published in paperback. Awaiting more news from the MAG.

What a start to the New Year!

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In the meantime...

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... I have been writing stories and talking about people, places and other thingies, generally playing with words and stepping back once in a while to admire the effect. As the Alter-Ego bloke warned me the other day, unless I announce from tree tops (roof tops?) that I pretend to know the art of holding a pen, no one will ever even think of the possibility.

My faithful readers, (Are you there? Hello? Anybody home?) please hop over to this link at the Mag, and do let me know what you think of the stuff I made up - Do they make any sense at all?! Don't forget to come back here and let me know your thoughts, because The Mag sometimes takes a while to approve comments, and unless they do, I don't get to read them.

Tell me, should I trash the rest of the unpublished stuff hogging my PC and my work table?

Ah... I see you leave one by one. I'll be right here when you're back.
Why don't you leave your sandals here, so you don't have to take them off at the door of The Mag.

Let me now wait for the brickbats...

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Published by the MAG!

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The MAG, A Magazine for all Generations, has been kind enough to publish a few of my writings, here. If you like what you read in my blog, please go over and let me know what you think.

You may also like to participate in the short story competition that the MAG is conducting.(Last date: 30 June, 2010)

You can follow The MAG on Twitter at @themagdotin.

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Terror and Punishment

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The verdict is out.
The man is guilty and he will be hanged.

The day the news broke out, a lot of relieved and smiling faces appeared on TV, claiming that Justice has won. That their efforts finally bore fruit. That the Nation is erupting in pride over the victory of Good over Evil. That the trial the World was keenly observing was finally at its culmination. That we have sent out a strong message that we will not tolerate terrorism on any account.

As if any sensible citizen of India would want to speak against the verdict.
As if the world - except Indians across it and a few media-watchers here and there - cared.
As if there was any doubt of this verdict being as it turned out to be: Was there ever any likelihood of the Court deciding to let Kasab go, despite his clear hand in the tragic events referred to as 26/11? If that happened, would the Judiciary of India survive the outcome?

There isn't much emotion left in us to get to our feet, applaud and say "Bravo!" Had this verdict come a month or two after 26/11, it would have been a different matter altogether.

Yet, the fact remains that we did the best we could under the circumstances. We caught the worm - for a worm he is, and nothing more, in the vast machinery of terrorism - and we protected it against the hungry birds we feared would snatch it, till it was time to squeeze it dead.

Perhaps never before has an entire nation, irrespective of the differences that divide its people or their political inclinations (that says a great deal), come together to praise the decision to end a man's life, without any pretensions of 'humanitarian' consideration. No one would take sides with vermin, anyway.

The message that we 'sent' to the outfits that nurtured him, returned undelivered. The trial happened behind their backs - because they had turned their backs on it. For them it was but a mug of salty water getting purged from the Ocean. There was sufficient - if not more - quantity left to carry the legacy forward. That one mug of water currently residing in the Indian jail was no extraordinary one. Indian Government need not have spent so much money on its protection. No one would have bothered to hijack a plane for its release back to the Ocean.

Kasab - and the rest of them - landed on our shores knowing that he'll be killed, probably in the most undesirable curcumstances. Yet they donned their best suits, trimmed their hair and bid their lives good-bye before taking up arms for the 'cause'. They must have been rigorously trained to overcome the fear of Death under even the most terrifying situations - to brave their hearts when all they wanted to do was to scamper away.

Not one of the ten terrorists of that fateful day were known to lose their nerve or heard to squeal at any time during the 60 hours of battle. What were they made of??

So, if one of them who had the misfortune to be caught alive comes to know that he will be hanged, do you think he is going to even wince? He probably is getting a better death than his comrades-in-arms: No one even knows their names, whereas 'Kasab' has become a household name, he might even find his way into history books (complete with the now-famous photograph). The nation can rejoice for all he cares.

No wonder the trial, the verdict, the execution, everything seemed like a farce, a drama that happened behind the curtains, which only the actors and their friends saw evolve, and an occasional sound escaped through the loudspeakers to reach the ears of the audience outside, who wasn't very interested anyway.

Guess what. The way I see it, when he is finally hanged to death, I suspect he is going to die like a hero.

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My Book goes places - Literally!

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Tales from the Garden City is in New Delhi today, to take part in the World Book Fair (Jan 30, 2010 - Feb 7, 2010) at Pragati Maidan.

Tales... can be found in the following places:

Mudranik Technologies Pvt Ltd / Pothi.com
Stand #S2/12, Hall 1-2
Pragati Maidan

CinnamonTeal Print & Publishing Service   
Stall #S1/3, Hall 7H
Pragati Maidan

Do drop in if you happen to be in New Delhi this week, and please spread the word...

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The ABCs of today's Education

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Read this blog post.

Read this news from today's TOI.

I rest my case.

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Kreative Blogger

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When we do something for ourselves, it matters not what others think. Nonetheless, when someone appreciates us, it feels great!

Fellow blogger and Twitter-buddy Brittany Landgrebe has honoured me with the Kreativ Blogger award... Thanks, Brittany!

Now, these are the rules for this award...

1. Copy and paste the picture above, onto your own blog.
2. Thank the person who gave you the award and post a link to their blog.
3. Write 7 things about yourself we do not know.
4. Choose 7 other bloggers to award.
5. Link to those 7 other bloggers.
6. Notify your 7 bloggers.


So far so good. Steps #1 and #2 are done.

Step #3 is the toughest. 7 things about myself that others do not know? Why is it that a list of my most negative traits come to mind first? No, no, it will certainly not do :)

Okay, after much thought and strikes-through, here are some.

1. I love old Hindi songs. Some of them reduce me to tears even today.

2. I try to be honest. But when faced between honesty and kindness, I have often chosen the latter.

3. I miss my parents. I wish I could spend more time with them than I now do.

4. I have let go of my pride and gone back to make peace with 2-3 friends with whom I had broken off on differences of opinion. I'm glad I did.

5. I am very lazy. My ideal day would be spent idling in bed with a collection of interesting books around me & soft music in the room. Unfortunately, daily life does not allow one such luxuries!

6. If there is anything that can pull me up from bed, it is Twitter. Twitter allures me in ways I never imagined possible.

7. I am a Leo. Unfortunately I have almost all bad qualities attributed to Leos, though I try to pretend otherwise. I try to make up for it by letting my brain rule over my heart (whenever possible!).


There! The next step seemed quite easy, except that there are so many bloggers I would like to award - and it was tough to select only 7.

1. Sheila at Sting In The Tail is an Australian writer, blogger and my Twitter buddy. I just love the way she writes - both serious and funny stuff. Often she strikes a chord that is so in parallel with many of my own thoughts.

2. Six Chix - thesixchix.com - The blog of six extremely talented cartoonists, who create the Six Chix cartoon strips, is one of my daily stops for cartoons, cartooning news, contests, beautiful photographs and so on. Go there to meet Margaret Shulock, Anne Gibbons, Isabella Bannerman, Stephanie Piro, Benita Epstein and Rina Piccolo.

3. Mike Peterson - His three blogs Nellie Blogs, The Weekly Story Book and Two Years Before the Mast are absolutely wonderful places to visit. He is a writer, a journalist and a huge comics fan (he introduced a lot of new comics to me!) - and I enjoy reading his experiences at Nellie Blogs.

4. Peg Cherre - Weaving a Gem of a Life - Peg writes mostly about weaving, healing gemstones and jewelry, but she also records interesting incidents from her life and surroundings that makes her blog a regular visit for me.

5. Ma Ananda Atmapreeta - Mountain - I began following her blog to know mostly about the Creative Writing Workshops she often conducts. However, I liked the way she wrote on a variety of topics and became a regular. She is the author of the book, A Grasshopper's Pilgrimage.

6. Gopinath Mavinkurve - Gopinath's ArTicKles - If you look at the URL to this blog closely, you would smile. He calls it whatnonsanz.blogspot.com. The smile would stay and sometimes break into a grin or laughter if you listen to all that he says. He is the author of the book, The ArTicKles Collection.

7. Sandra Bell-Lundy's blog at Between Friends is a favourite halt for many of my friends and me who have all been fans of Susan, Kim and Maeve for long. Go to her site to read about her cartoons (also visit the cartoon widget for the daily cartoons)!


Whew. That took more time than I imagined!

Now for step#6. I am off to inform each of the above bloggers - meanwhile you enjoy reading the blogs I listed above!

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Memories of a Terror Attack

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I don't think the Mumbai Terror Attack of Nov 26, 2008, is something that anyone can easily forget - not only Mumbaikars or other Indians, but anyone who has remote connections to India. (Probably the whole world, but I do not know how keenly the World followed the 60-hour drama which claimed a lot of innocent and brave lives.)

Indian Media (with a touch of pride, I suspect) called it India's 9/11 ("Why does the US have all the fun?!") and petnamed it "26/11".

One TV channel carried discussions titled "Enough is Enough", debating on whether Enough is really Enough, or there is more to Enough to attain the Ultimate Enough.

There were candlelit crowds around Martyr's Monuments and War Memorials in Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore and elsewhere, grieving, burning posters of politicians who did not heed the Intelligence flimsies that had hinted at such an attack.

Heads rolled, Ministers were ousted, Resignations, Finger-pointing, Tough dialogue-deliveries and other melodrama were enacted. Everyone stirred and sat up with an excited pounding of the heart to hope (though History has shown repeatedly that in some cases, hope is a misplaced emotion) that a Change is coming. (The Change that did come, happened to land in the US.)

All that lasted for perhaps a month. Or two. People went back to their lives - except those who lost their dear ones, for whom the life that was ripped apart could never be stitched together again. If we start talking about them - the victims, the martyrs and their families - ten blogs won't be enough.

The Politicians went back to their seats with a sigh of relief: Whew. That was tough, but that is now behind us.

And the lone terrorist who was caught (on camera and) by the NSG? Oh, he is right now enjoying life in some obscure maximum-security prison, stuffing himself with biriyanis and sipping soft drinks, reading books, appearing once in a while to a remote Indian court, weeping and grinning in the public eye, making contradictory statements that the newspapers carry on Page-1, managing to make an absolute mockery of Indian Judicial System, telling himself that "this is the life, back in the village it was Hell", while folks around the world shake their heads in admiration at the justice even a terrorist gets in the Great Nation of India (he even has an Indian advocate to defend him!).

As always, six to eight months after 26/11, there was a dip in everyone's interests because nothing worth a paise was happening, Kasab's court jests retreated to inner pages and smaller columns, and there were other juicy scams, controversies, internal terrorism and gossip to worry about. All of a sudden, very close to the first anniversary, appears Mr.'Head'ley who apparently has a mixed-up Pak-American head on his shoulders, who had been agitating his friends to "retaliate against India" for God-knows-what. So the Press picks it up as well, as a First Anniversary tribute, and runs pages upon pages on him. Will this trail die out the way others did?

A lesson that the media was taught from the 26/11 episode was never to telecast live operations of the kind because the terrorists were getting a live feed of NSG's movements, whereas the NSG did not have any way of knowing their location. But whether the media learnt their lesson remains to be seen.

God save my Nation.

Post Script. One remembers the justice that Saddam Hussein got; and he was not even responsible for 9/11.

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The Week That Was - The Adventures of a Calendar

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Who would have thought that a Calendar, even an exceptional one as Margaret Shulock's, would be part of an adventure? The Adventurous Journey of a Calendar from Friendship, New York, to Bangalore. And the Part-2, the payment process, is yet to begin! Margaret tells me, I am the first person from India to purchase her calendar in the 15 years she has been creating it!

Hey, you folks don't know what you are missing! If you like the above pictures of Margaret's calendar and would like to get one, participate in her Caption contest, and the winner gets to choose between her calendar and her greeting cards. If you wish to purchase, do leave a comment here or at Margaret's blog.

In case you don't know, Margaret Shulock is one of the six very talented women who draw the Six Chix cartoon strips. Which appears only in one Mumbai-based newspaper in India (I forget which! Can anyone enlighten me?)

You can see the cartoon strips from the widget at the Six Chix site (on the right frame).

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