one last time...

How i wish to pack all things wonderful, in some fancy glitter paper, and take them where ever i go. They would surely last me many years.

B's vocabulary - which seems to be growing day by day, spending long hours chatting with M and friends, eating chaat with cousins; while it's pouring outside, squabbling with mother on petty issues, talking about anything with father, reading novels late into the night seated on my rocking chair.... I'm going to miss all this and much more.

I am mesmerized with The Secret Garden. It makes me want to go back to it again and again. The same with The Wind In The Willows. The latter is more adventurous in nature. But, both will put a soft smile on your face, many a time. I'm sure about this.

Another extract from The Secret Garden. One of my all-time favourites. Here we go;

'I shall stop being queer,' he said, 'if I go everyday to the garden. There is magic in there - good Magic, you know, Mary. I'm sure there is.'
'Even if it isn't real Magic,' Colin said, 'we can pretend it is. Something is there - something!'
'It's Magic,' said Mary, 'but not black. It's as white as snow.'
They always called it Magic, and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed - the wonderful months - the radiant months - the amazing ones. Oh! the things which happened in the garden! If you have never had a garden, you can never understand, and if you have a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show their buds, and the buds began to unfurl to show colour, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In it's happy days, flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scrapped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves and green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas.....

.......'Then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things out of nothing. One day things weren't there and another they were. I had never watched things before, and it made me feel very curious. Scientific people are always curious, and I am going to be a liitle scientific. I keep saying to myself: " What is it? What is it?" It's something. It can't be nothing! I don't know it's name, so I call it Magic. I have never seen the sun rise, but Mary and Dickon have, amd from what they tell me I am sure that is Magic, too. Something pushes it up and draws it. Sometimes since I've been in the garden I've looked up through the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breatyhe fast. Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us. In this garden - in all the places. The Magic in this garden has made me stand up and know I am going to live to be a man. I am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. I don't know how to do it, but I think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it perhaps it will come.

PS: This is to be my last article, till i-don't-know when. I will not be blogging henceforth. I'm shifting to Mysore for further studies. You can always mail me. I'll be very happy to hear from you.

I hope to come back soon(wishful thinking, i know), rejoin the blog-world, to visit your pages, and write on my own. Till then, all the best, with whatever you do!

Inshallah!

my room and space

My room is in a mess. It always is. Maybe i should use word 'super' here. At this point of time and space. It's very apt. The messiest place is obviously my desk.

I've always more than a dozen things(which are both required and not) on my desk. I've ten pens which do not work, or have no ink in them. Plenty of scrap, lying everywhere, which is of no use to me. A few plastic bags. B's art - i'm on a preserving spree, and she bent on a writing one. Bookmarks, books, cds', a whistle, my radio instrument, a watch(if not two), my scarf, a really good-looking key-bunch, a cap, three/four bags, my glasses, it's case, currency-right from loose change to crisp hundred rupee notes....

Mother complained a lot when i initiated on my recklessness. I whined in front of aunt. Aunt supported me, saying that it's my room now, and that mother should let me maintain my room my way(M and i shared the room, before it came into my possession). I beamed when she told me that. Perhaps, i've started loving her more, since then. And i don't forget to repeat those golden words, whenever mother speaks against my room.

My room is getting shabbier day by day. Minute by minute would be more convenient. Mother's keeping mum. She thinks that she can make me clean my room using a pretext.

I think i know my habits, better. Especially in this context. Aunt, you know, i like you a lot!

By the way, what's on your desk?

dusk by a lake

The evening was young. They entered the park. It had been a long time since she had visited it last. Somehow, she felt that she knew every curve like the back of her palm. Despite the factuality of it.

A soft breeze picked up. Enhancing the already beautiful weather. It was bright and sunny during the afternoon. And she was glad to stroll in the shade of a green canopy. Beams of sunrays touched the tarred roads here and there. Creating patches of irredescent glow. Dust motes danced around.

They headed towards the glass house. It looked new. New panes of crystal glass replaced the old ones. Hence, the latest shine and the aura. Wandering around it, she observed a few people. Some tourists, some known faces dotted the scene.

She longed to visit the lake. It had rained heavily and the lake ought to look lovely. Playing around with the green coloured mesh that bordered the lake, she noticed a few ducks.

As usual, a handful of people had gathered near the bridge. Dropping in clumps of puffed rice. Children screamed with joy, 'Look at the fishes, they are so many here.' Running along the length, spotting fishes wherever they could. The placid exterior was turbulent. Formed by the bobbing heads of the fishes as they moved up and down the surface.

After some time, she sat herself on a stone bench. It was still warm. The sun looked splendid on the horizon. Colours were strewn everywhere on the sky.

Darkness enveloped her surroundings. Birds were seen returning to their abodes. Calls were heard, the mynah, the squealing parakeets, one chasing the other. Two squirrels ran past her leg. They climbed the trunk of tree as she gazed at them. With their bushy tails following them. Another came by her leg, stared at her for too little a time, and leaped into the dense shrubbery.

Strange looking insects buzzed around. Creating a low, monotonous hum. A brief pause, and they started all over again. With renewed vigour. The pale-green expanse of the water-body took a grey tone. An inky-blue had begun it's spread.

It was time to go, she decided. Courting the bund, which laced the tank, she reached the main walk. One last meandering glance at the lake, and she ambled along.

comparing the two..

When we say comparison, we always use it with reference to two different enities. Comparison is important. It helps us differentiate and choose the best.

Upon contemplating, we prefer the better one, be it a watch, flowers, clothes, food....

At the same time, even the one which is rejected by us plays a major role. Without which, we couldn't have come to the conclusion that a particular one suits us more than the other. Thus, we can distinguish, the good from the bad, the healthy from the diseased....

When we try imagining only the nice things to surround us, it is unrealistic. I mean that, 'nice' cannot describe a thing. If we would have to term it nice, there should be something that is not nice. Something that is not fancied by us.

There has to be a superior and an inferior quality to anything. For us to decide, and obviously opt for that which suits us.

sleep for the tired soul

The bed looked inviting. It was time she decided. She closed her book, marking the page with the help of a bookmark. A few minutes later, she lay on her bed. Waiting for sleep to envelope her. With the white light switched off, she expected herself to close eyelids within no time.

Time went by her. But, sleep did not possess her. Her tired self wanted the calm soothing feel of a long-awaited slumber. Changing her position, she hoped that her mind would rest.

It was not to be so. Annoyed, she sat herself. Switching on the white light, she reached for her book. And opened to that page which she had last read.

Pages were turned. Until the hand and soul felt weary of the exercise. She turned in for the night, for the second time. Sleep did close in on her this time. Darkness surrounded her and her self.

saturdays...

During the final year of my UG course, i looked forward to saturdays. Though i don't exactly know the reason why. Perhaps, we had few classes that day, and no labs(final year students have labs everyday, if not two each day).

As usual, wake up at 5:45 in the morning, meditate for a short span of time, read something till 7:15, run into and out of the bathroom, present myself for breakfast at 7:45, eat a small amount or lick the plate clean(if i'm in the mood), and walk to the bus-stop near Banappa Park. Time flew.

At college, classes passed very quickly(either they were interesting or i slept through the entire period). And we were free by 11 or 12. We usually cancelled the last class.

Then, came the fun part.

Our lunch boxes would be polished clean(i mean really clean). Saturdays at home would mean uppittu for breakfast. That's when i started eating it, without a grimace. Anyways my friends were there to finish the food(with pickle of course).

After our ritual of lunching, we would sit in the classroom and yap. Records, assignments would be brought out, and spread on our desks. Untill we were shooed by the maids who wanted to lock those classrooms. We've had some rifts with them.

Gruumbling in audible tones, we would march to the erstwhile BBC(basketball court). Again the same git-mit. A group of three girls, two of whom are highly reputed for talking non-stop.

Those times were lovely. Maybe, it was required, the lazy demeanour, that we carried. We discussed about everything under the sun, right from petty cribble against lecturers, to the pleasures of motherhood. That's when we realised the essence and flavours of friendship. Suddenly, to be somebody's friend was nice.

At times, we would walk along this particular road that runs from my college. To drink fruit juice, eat chaat. We, then strolled towards the Jawaharlal Nehru Planetarium. Seminars were held once a week, for which we had enrolled ourselves.

After the seminar, we often visited Chalukya. We hung around the cash counter, till we found seats for ourselves. Masale dose, idli, vada, sambar, tea, were the usual stuff that we ordered for. It would be anywhere between 5 to 7 in the evening. We departed with loud shouts across the junction, with stares coming our way.

I would reach home with a full stomach. Sometimes, we decided against Chalukya, due to lack of energy or resources.

On reaching home, and when i flopped on my bed, requesting mother to make a dish in the process. Mother always said this, 'I thought you would have finished eating at Chalukya. Thus, i have not prepared anything for you.'

As and when i reached midweek, i wished for saturdays. For all the good times we had. I enjoyed those advices that we gave out to each other, the support that we gathered from the others. These memories will last me for a long time to come.

What fun!!

aborigines of the Andamans

I was introduced to the pitiable state of the tribes on the Andamans, quite some time ago. The same topic was dealt with at a seminar at the planetarium.

They are four/five known indigenous tribes in the Andamans. Said to be the first settlers in the Indian sub-continent, they associate us to our past. Scientists estimate that they've travelled from Africa fifty/sixty thousand years back.

The population of an important tribe(the great andamanese) is a mere twenty or so. There are high possibilities of them going extinct in a few years. A pity, really. A very crucial link is lost if this happens. It will be very tough to trace our lineage, or perhaps, even to foretell our lines of evolution.

This can be stopped. I last heard that the Indian Government are taking stringent steps in this regard(?). I hope that they survive. Into the future. A struggle, for our betterment.

Inshallah!

ps: I found this interesting - http://www2.survival-international.org/related_material.php?id=92

classy classics

At home, we have pocket books of these titles-The Count of Monte Cristo and Around the World in Eighty Days. For as long as i can remember. They had sketches of various scenes drawn from the storyline.

As we reached middle school, we had abridged versions of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Uncle Tom's Cabin, Wuthering Heights, Alice in Wonderland and The Jungle Book(?).

That was when i was actually introduced into the wonderful world of classics. I recall reading The Secret Garden, The Water Babies, the Wind In The Willows, Little Women, The Railway Children, the entire series on Oz, Heidi, What Katy Did, What Katy Did Next.....

Don't know why, but i suddenly stopped them. Perhaps, i was pulled into indian literature at that point of time. I checked these out in the last few years-The Mill on the Floss, The Invisible Man and Through The Looking Glass. A pittance, i know.

On visiting Landmark last week, i picked some old titles to add to my meagre collection. Despite the fact that i've read them previously. It, definately will be nice to flip those pages, on a lazy afternoon, when i know not what to do.

What interests me is the easy reading that goes in when one glances at a classic. Some of those words are hardly used in our everyday speech(*sigh*). The description of is very vivid, be it a flower... a child.... a manor... a horse-drawn carriage. At the end it leaves you a gay feeling.

An extract from The Secret Garden:

It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone could imagine. The high walls which shut it were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses, which were so thick thaqt they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown, and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rose-bushes if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. They were other trees in the garden, and one of the little things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. They were neither leaves or roses on them now, and Mary did not know whether they were dead and alive, but their thin grey or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over evreything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and, indeed, it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life.

ps: I discovered this amazing site; classic reader. It is free site which has a wide variety of titles and authors to choose from. For anybody who woudn't mind reading off a screen, it's simply fantastic.

appreciating emotions

Emotions come to us easily. They change too. Within minutes, or maybe seconds too. We portray them in a variety of ways. Depending on our hormones, our moods... At times, i'm happy, the next moment-saddened by a particular event. Or feeling bored because there's nothing to do. Or when i'm in no mood to do anything.

Why do we always tag the word with something sad? We don't use it when we are high on happiness(my opinion).

Being emotional often signifies a person who is weepy, somebody who sheds tears at the mention of a disturbing tale. This is quite incomplete. Nobody would like themselves to be called emotional, with respect to my above sentence.

All of us are emotional. There are no qualms attached to being called sentimental for that matter. I guess we should accept melancholy in the same manner by which we take in happiness. If a beaming face depicts joy(which is an emotion in itself), a grief-stricken look also showcases emotion. It's just that there is some difference in both of them.

Emotions\sentiments are necessary. It's an integral part of our being, our mind. Without which, we could have never loved our dear ones the way we do. We could have never shared our moments of bliss or that of gloom.

There couldn't have been an iota of satisfaction if it were so. Our world wouldn't have been exciting or enjoyable as we expect it to be.

Emotions requires some amount of appreciation in it's direction. It certainly does.

The sights... the sounds... the unheard voices... the bloodshed... the victory... the satisfaction... the smiles... the blessed feeling...

All we can do, perhaps, is empathize. Empathizing may seem pretty far-fetched. I don't how far we can really imagine as to what went in the minds of people who witnessed the fight for independance.

For some it hardly mattered. Bond-labourers attached to a particular landlord for generations wouldn't have literally cared for it. They still remain under a particular thakur. What would their thoughts be when somebody tells them that the country is free henceforth? Maybe they could not have celebrated the much-needed sense of belonging. There could have been no reason for them to.

What could connect us is, probably, literature. I think that reading something will touch me more than i seeing the same on television or even hearing it from others'..

Amongst the very few authors that i've read, i remember Gulzar's Ravi Paar vividly. It is partition time, this family is on their way from Pakistan to India. They cross the river Ravi in an overloaded boat. The lady has a small infant in her arms. Amidst the scuffling, the young one stops breathing. The boatmen find it hard to keep the drowning boat afloat. Noticing that the baby has stopped breathing, they assume it be dead.

In order to keep the boat steady, they drop the child into the swirling waters of the the Ravi. On it's way to death, the baby emits a howl. The parents freeze.

I'd been to school today. After four long years. As i parked my bike in the parking lot, i felt high levels of adrenaline. I've spent eleven long years in that school.

I walked towards the adminstrative block. I finished my work at the office, and pondered whether to visit my teachers.

I could feel a smile playing on my face, as i walked into the staff room. My teachers were sitting there. They beckoned me inside. There were quite a few of them. Thankfully they remembered me(how could they forget me?!). New faces dotted the scene. This particular teacher came in, and stood before me. I forget her name(thus Mrs. X). I could have asked the others'. But she didn't budge from the place, and i conveniently dropped the idea. The face looked familiar. I continued talking with my teachers. M was being enquired about. And i was doling out information.

Mrs. X said, 'Aren't you Mouna? I replied, 'Yes. I'm surprised that you remember me well.' 'Of course, how can i forget you?! You used to talk the most in class.' What else could i have given but a sheepish grin. The other teachers who were quiet till then, also supported Mrs. X.

Poor me!!

A few months ago, M, father, mother and i were discussing about this. M had seen water. Father and me had attended a screening of nayi neralu.

Water, is an original by Deepa Mehta, and the latter is an adaptation of one of S.L. Bhyrappa's works(1968). Both portray the life of widows. These practises are rare these days. But, a thoughtful insight into the old practises is showcased.

In both the movies, we have young widows, bound by traditions. The background differs, with water featuring the northern(the bengali way according to me). Nayi neralu is set in Shivamogga(set in the western ghats).

I'll be concentrating on water. I've read more of bengali literature than that of kannada(*sigh*), and thus i can say that i relate better to the former.

I'd read 'those days' by Sunil Gangopadhyay 7-8years ago. That was the time when i was pulled into Satyajit Ray, Subhadra Sengupta(her 'The mystery of the house of pigeons' is pretty good). I was impressed by Gangopadhyay.


'those days' is set in ninteenth century bengal. I think the story revolves around two families(?). If i remember correctly, a boy and a girl are close pals from childhood. As they grow up, they become detached. The boy focusses on the needs of his family . At the age of 11(?), the girl is married. She becomes widowed within a few years. And comes back to her mother's place. Where she is expected to follow the rites of a widow, which she does. Submittig herself to Lord Krisha.


As time passes by, she travels to Benares, as was the custom those days. She joins a place meant for widows. Living off the meagre earnings that she recieves by begging. As per the fate of all widows who visit Benares, she gets herself involved in prostitution. Her childhood friend sights her onthe banks of the Ganga, where she is bought by a rich landlord.


My mind was young when i read this.. I was quite disturbed with the turn of events. This was the way in which widows were treated. And worse, religious reasons were cited.


nayi neraLu is relatively new compared to those days.


Father and M were of the opinion that these strories are quite irrelevant in today's society. Thus, should not be concentrated at. I agree that there are quite a few changes in the way we lead a life. For the better, of course.


On the other hand, such novels remind us of the past that we lead. Right or wrong, these rituals were followed by us. I'd like to opine that despite the remoteness of the subject, it's required that we be reminded of such conventions. Perhaps, we can learn a thing or two from it. Broadening our views and thoughts in the process.

dreams

Restrictions, rules are not present in the vocabulary of a child. Especially when the kid is robust and energitic. It's better to yield to the demands(suitable ones that is) of the child and witness the joy portrayed on it's face.

Years go by. We begin to dream and wish for all the oh so! wonderful things that we fancy. Despite the factualities and the practicalities that bind that dream. We proceed on with the act of dreaming, building castles in the air. As adulthood dawns, we rubbish those ideas, putting them into oblivion. Or sometimes, on persuasion we do realise those dreams. Chances are there that we cannot make them come true. But, they were the nuances of a growing mind, which goes on. Boundaries are invisible.

How can a child be explained this?

I too had a dream of this sort. To read all the books in this world. When i reflect on this particular one, i term it naive. And the fact that it can never can be realised stares at me. I'm not disheartened in the least. It's a vast one, i agree. For i still read my favourite authors and their works. Some of which have seen more than twenty glances if not more. And we explore, don't we? Developing likes and dislikes in the process.

I'm fortunate that a part of my elaborate dream has and will be realised. For all the material i've read. For all the literature that is to come across my path.

words, sounds... et al

All of us have peculiar likes and dislikes. I guess that is the essence of individuality. I like some words and their pronunciation. I know, i've mentioned this before. What i really enjoy is the phonetics. Amazing!

My list:

ecstasy
wonderful
beautiful
euphoria
brouhaha
git-mit
opulence
mundane
caress
opulence
pleasant
mauve
turquiose
diffuse
splendor
encompass
magnificent
enigma
qualm
speculate
surreal
fragnance
glitter

What's on your list?

N had come down from the US last year. That particular day is so fresh in my mind. When i went to meet her. I had just finished my exams then, and zoomed to her house. That was the last day of her stay, and i wanted to meet her atleast, once.

After spending an hour or so chatting with her, i stood at the doorstep. As i was strapping on my floaters, N asked me this question, 'Mo, how many friends do you have?' 'About 3-4, why?' 'How many are really close to you?' 'Maybe, one or two...' was my answer. I felt the conversation to be strange. Why would N want to know about my group of friends?

A few days later. When talking to M, i was asked the same question. 'What's with those two? Both were asking the same question...' thought i.

Time passed, and i realised the weight that the question carried. Realisation hit me during the last semester in college. That was one of the best times that i've ever had till now. Hope good times are in the future too. Inshallah!

According to me, that one is blessed, who has friends. For a friends listens, cares, laughs when you laugh, and empathizes when you are sad. You un(/knowingly) shed your burdens on that person. And, i think this is true. The heart is indeed light, after one has shared her/his thoughts.

M has wonderful friends. Earlier, I used to envy her in this regard. I've grown up considering books to be my friends' forever. Little did i notice that a book shares it's views with me. At the same time, i needed somebody with whom i could be myself, to argue, to smile, to laugh.... When M got married, i was comforted with the fact that i could approach her friends anytime and everytime. I used to call, visit C, R whenever i felt bored. They made it a point to wish me before exams... enquired about the latest movies that i had seen...and the scores that i obtained in a particular test, my further studies... They still do.

One of my friends, A has left to another town to pursue further studies. We met once, before she left. Her mother requested us to contact her, whenever we remembered A. I shall speak to A's mother. The joy that lights up one her face when one of us talks to her will definately be memorable. My parents' face, and mine too, glows with the same happiness when C or R's mother phones us. I so want to. The content feeling is immeasurable.

I am lucky. I've got a bunch of friends, who are dear to me.

Happy friendship day!
Cheers!

the magic of Darjeeling

One of the best places that i've visited, is Darjeeling. We went there in 1998, during the winter. I was waiting eagerly to get started. Excitement ruled M and me.

We alighted at Siliguri, and caught a bus to Darjeeling. I guess, that was the first time when i liked to feel the cold wind kiss my cheeks. Everytime, i sense the chill breezes lapping my cheeks, i'm transported back to Darjeeling.

We stopped at a roadside dhaba for tea. H uncle had suggested us to try momos'. We did, and we felt in love with them. So much so that i ate them day after day, for a week. They are steamed rice dumplings, with vegetables(especially cabbage), stuffed inside. Shaped like onions, they are served with hot and sweet-sour chutneys.

The nights were cold. We threw quilts on ourselves and shivered under them untill the desired warmth spread over us. During the daytime, a light woollen pullover was sufficient. Darjeeling is a beautiful town. Unspoilt then, i hope the same holds true as i speak.

Tiger Hill is the place to be, to witness a pristine sunrise. Provided, a clear sky beckons you. We were anxious the previous night. Dark clouds loomed around. However, the green signal was given, after much speculation.

Having woken at 4:30, we left our guest house wrapped in warm clothes. Each one of us had three if not two windcheaters, cardigans... Even with caps pulled over our ears, our teeth chattered and our bones ached. We had hired jeeps which took us there. On the way we were stopped by a young lady who carried a flask of coffee. She climbed in. When we did reach our destination, we found many women selling coffee.

A splendid sunrise awaited us. Soft orange light to spread. The Kanchenjhunga, other seemingly nearby peaks were bathed in a surreal pink glow. Beautiful! Words simply cannot describe the beauty of the moment. While cameras clicked amidst us, asking us to stand here and there, we stared at the eastern sky. A telescope provided a better view. I remember we scrambled to use it.

On walking back to our jeep, the elders' decided to buy coffee from one of those many women who buzzed around the place. They drank the beverage with a grim look on their face. When questioned, they declared the coffee bad, that one cannot get south-indian coffee prepared in the south-indian fashion anywhere else!

On our way back from Tiger Hill, we stopped at Ghoom. Ghoom has a monastery, bang on the main road. The paintings on it depict the Buddha, in dominant reds and oranges.

Another spot that i remember is Rock Garden. It is quite far from the town. And the roads went up and down. The drivers' there are really careful. We drank Darjeeling tea there, and packed some to be taken home.

The native ladies were really pretty. With red lips adorning fair skin. Dressed in their traditional attire, we saw them work in tea gardens. They walked with ease, heavy loads et al. With nimble footsteps.

What made the stay awesome was the accommodating nature of our hostess. Mrs. Chetri provided us delicious, sumptous meals. We bombarded her living room with our shouts, squeals, fights, laughter... fighting for the remote control every now and then. Loud music could be heard on the last day. All were dancing. Pictures were captured to preserve those joyous moments. She must have sighed in relief when we bid good-bye.

I want to visit Darjeeling again. I know i will.

ps: tdna suggested that some photos would add charm to this post. Hence, the addition. One can find a lot more on Kalyan's photoblog on Darjeeling.

Pictures' courtsey: www.trekearth.com, www.travel-westbengal.com

being sidelined

The 'hot' english news channels are losing their charm day by day.

Yesterday was judgement day for Sanjay Dutt. We knew it, didn't we? We also assumed that he would be put into jail for some time.

It was ten in the morning and we saw the history of the Mumbai blasts, 93'. The same probably continued all the way upto say, two in the afternoon. If i am correct, the punishment was awarded then. And again, the same story ran uptill eleven in the night.

This was termed 'breaking news' for eight-nine whole hours. After the judgement was declared, all the bulletins showed Dutt's Munnabhai, a congressman for a father, the loss of about hundred crores at bollywood, the reactions of both hindi and kannada film artistes', critics'.....

We are entitled to something else, aren't we? Sometimes i feel that the local channels cover a broad range of topics. I saw some headlines on a kannada channel. Mr. Palagummi Sainath has won the Ramon Magsaysay award for his reportage on the poor, this year. I flipped various channels hoping that i could get more on this. Apparently not a single one showcased this headline.

Coming to the point, i know, Dutt is famous, especially having done the Munnabhai series(i believe a third is in the pipeline). And we are talking about a filmstar and some ghastly attacks on civilians. It does have substance, i agree. At the same time, other issues also require attention. Mr. Sainath wasn't talked about.

Thankfully the print media is not biased. Most of us wouldn't like to see the same broadcast over and over again. There are some changes to be made, definately. It is neccesary if one wants to claim 'We are the best'.