Short Story: 'The Psychopath'

This is written as a guest post demanded requested by Nikita and you can find it here on her blog. After several threats gentle reminders from her, here is the result. A word about Nikita first. She is a great inspiration to all us ordinary bloggers who live in the hope of the day when we too can get others to write our posts for us. For this piece, she has given the first line as a prompt. The blame for the rest of it lies solely with me.

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As she fumbled with the keys, partly because the biting cold had numbed her hands and partly because of his piercing gaze, she could feel her mouth going dry. After several nervous seconds, she managed to insert and turn the ignition key, and the roar of the engine broke the heavy silence that had hung in the air. She flicked on the car lights and pulled out of the parking spot. As the headlights shone on him, he started moving to his right. To her horror, she realized that he had his own car parked nearby and had no intention of letting her get away. She had to get out of that deserted parking lot fast.

She recalled the newspaper headlines in the last few weeks that described the horrific murders of young women. There had been five of them in the last three months. All women like her, single and alone, found dead with evidence of brutal rape and torture. Strangely, the police couldn’t find any trace of DNA left behind on any of the victims. A serial killer was on the loose and the police were clueless as to his identity.

For the past week, every news channel had aired countless psychiatric experts describing the prototypical serial killer. A psychopath, they said, had neither conscience nor empathy, the very qualities that let humans live in social harmony. Without them, he becomes a predator, ice running through his veins, capable of acts of extreme violence, without as much as batting an eyelid.

This ordeal had begun over an hour ago. She had noticed him first in a clothing store where she was shopping. He didn't seem particularly interested in clothes. When she saw him again in the shoe store, she became suspicious. After she had caught him glancing towards her a few more times, she began to get worried. There was no mistaking his intentions. She had begun running towards the parking lot. It was a move she would regret.

As she sped towards the only exit from the parking lot, she realized she was trapped. He had already blocked off that exit with a car. There was only one thing she could do. She pressed hard on the gas and rammed into the stationary land rover. The screeching tyres and the crunching of metal were the last sounds she heard before passing out.

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She woke up with a splitting headache. The throbbing in her head was overpowering. She tried to move but couldn’t. She was tied up, to a steel chair, in a dark room, with a single overhead lamp. The light from it stung her eyes. Gradually, her entire body started registering pain. And with it, the memory of her predicament came flooding back. The man, the chase, the parking lot, the car crash.

She heard sounds outside. The door swung open and her captor walked in. He pulled up a steel chair, sat across her, and slid a bunch of photographs towards her. They were pictures of the mutilated remains of the five dead women. She took a long time to look at them. She would not be intimidated. She looked up at him, straight in the eye, no hint of fear in them, and spoke in an unwavering voice, "You will never be able to prove that I did this."

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A story, a poem & a missed opportunity

Here are my entries for a prestigious B-School competition. They served their purpose and got me to the next round and I eventually reached the finals. But an unavoidable clash of exam schedule and event dates forced me to skip the final round that is going on in IIM-C right now.

In this part of the contest, I had to pick two out of five pictures and write a short original piece of fiction based on it. Here are the pics and my write-ups.

Picture 1

The Story

It has been over a century since he had last killed someone. The memory of that day still made him shudder.
He had killed many times before, but he always chose his victims carefully so that he would not be haunted later by any stray pangs of remorse. He tailed his victims for months on end and only when he was convinced that their life of unrepentant crime and depraved debauchery had set them on the road to eternal damnation, only then did he move in to hasten their demise. But that night he had let impulse get the better of him. He picked her up on the street certain that this crack whore, had she been in her senses, would thank him for ending her miserable life.

It was only when he read in the papers the next day that a pregnant woman was found dead and bloodless did he realize that he had taken not one life, but two.

A century of grief filled remorse, starvation, isolation and repentance had shriveled him up to resemble a cold dead corpse. He would’ve suffered endlessly, the agony multiplied by the absence of the possibility of the sweet release of death.

Till one day he found a way. An old homeless drunk stumbled across him and fell dead in the dark alley. Before he knew it, he was kneeling down beside him and had sucked all his blood before the body could go cold.

And so he now waited by the bedside of the terminally ill, waiting for them to die.

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Picture 2

The Poem

The secret we share,
I can no longer hide,
It is not fair,
To everyone we’ve lied.

Come out with the truth,
It is the only path,
Fear not their fury,
Or an invisible God’s wrath.

We have not chosen,
Our heart’s forbidden desires,
Why must we deny,
What our love requires?

You love me,
And I love you,
And while I profess,
You’re afraid to confess.

For it is love between us,
As commonplace as any other,
Yet the rarest thing there is,
Between one man and another.

When you can feel it in your soul,
Who can tell you it’s not true?
When it brings a smile, makes you whole,
Why wish that they approved?

Short Story: Far Away from Home

It had been a cold dark day, one of many in the recent past. I looked out of the window and watched the last remnants of daylight fade slowly away, dropping the already sub-zero temperature outside even lower. It has been over a week since I had last stepped out.

It didn't matter how many layers of clothing I wore, the cold outside still swept inside through the seams, bored through my skin and sucked out all the warmth from within. First the fingers go numb even through the thick insulative gloves, as the body tries frantically to keep the core body temperature up and gives up on the non-essential extremities. Then your toes feel as if they're in contact with ice and walking becomes harder and harder. Your breath vapors start condensing on your lenses and you try to wipe them clear with your frozen glove clad fingers. By now, you're aware of the audible chattering of your teeth as the insides of your mouth start becoming dry. You can feel your tongue grow cold and stiffen so that you only mumble when you try to speak. And finally, the shivering sets in. The cold has now completely penetrated through the layers of warm clothing and the muscle tissues begin to vibrate with increasing amplitude trying to generate heat by expending energy. If you don't find a warm shelter soon, your entire body will start aching. And even if you do enter a warm place, it'll take several minutes for the shivering to stop and the feeling to return in your limbs again as the body temperature rises slowly.

Which is why I haven't been out in over a week. Nothing much to see and do outside either. When I first arrived here not too long ago, everything was fantastic in its uniqueness. Every rock, every structure, every sight seemed ethereal. The other-worldly quality of this strange place seemed strange and wondrous. Now it just makes me homesick.

Home is far far away, worlds apart from this inhospitable place. It is a place with sunshine and laughter and cool breezes across open spaces. It's been a while since I've heard laughter.

Everyday for the past few weeks, I've stood right here pressed up against this window at right about this time looking out at the distant horizon. For as the sky slowly darkens, a thousand brilliant stars come into view and I almost feel how the planet beneath my feet glides through the dark immensity of space, silently and irresistibly in motion, going around the distant giant ball of exploding gas.

I watch familiar constellations come into view and finally, the moment I wait for, no, live for, everyday is here. Amongst the hundreds of twinkling stars in the distance, there rises from the horizon a steady light, brighter and truer than all the rest, with a faint blue tinge.

That is home, and I am the first man on Mars.

Postcards from Europe - 8: Ridiculous Sweden

I've come to the end of my almost four months in Sweden. But this post is not about reminiscing. It is about some of the very ridiculous (in the best possible sense) things about Sweden. Some of them are found elsewhere in Europe as well, but Swedes do like to take it a little further than most.

Once a month, when you're lazily sleeping in the afternoon coz it's too dark and cold to go anywhere outside, you'll be jolted by a really loud and irritating horn that goes on and off in the distance. As it doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon, and since muttering suitable expressions of extreme emotion aren't working, you turn to the source of infinite wisdom and search to find out what the hell could that sound be. As it turns out, it is the monthly testing of the air raid siren! Now the impending air raid is presumably by Russia, but the Russians just aren't obliging. It's been two centuries since the last Swedish-Russian battle, but the Swedes are still ready and waiting for them. Another use of the siren is to signal a nuclear disaster/attack (different signalling pattern from the air raid signal). You don't even have to ask if they've ever had one of those in their history.

You've been in Sweden long enough if whenever you enter a service center, it maybe a bank or a ticket counter or a currency exchange, you immediately look for the token machine. It doesn't matter if the center is empty and four counters are open. You still need a token to get to any of them. If it's very crowded, people will quickly form a queue to the token machine. Yes, you need to get in a queue to get a token number that puts you in queue.

Waiting at the bus stop wondering when your bus will arrive? Never gonna happen. Coz right beside every bus stop is an automated display board that shows you the exact time left for the next two buses to arrive for each bus route. Don't even ask if the buses always come exactly on time. Once on the bus, there's special seating reserved for elders. But that's not enough. There's also a reserved place to secure baby prams/wheelchairs. Also there are 'pets allowed' and 'no pets allowed' zones in the bus.

If you're unfortunate enough to have lost your eyesight, you can still lead a pretty normal and independent life. There are what I call 'cane-tracks', engravings on the footpaths, bus stops and train platforms using which a blind person can make his way. It's on every single train platform I've been to.

There's a government stipend available to Swedish students. You have to be a student, a Swede and between 16 to 20 years of age. That's it. It's guaranteed. And it's enough to live a normal student life. And no, you don't have to pay it back. The government really does pay you to study. Is it enough to pay your tuition fees? Well, there is no tuition fee. Not even for higher education.

Here's to hoping that one day, sooner rather than later, I can say some of the same things about India.

At the altar of Culinary Delight

The past week has been momentous for me. I've discovered gifts I never knew I possessed, abilities that I thought were too far beyond me, accomplishing feats I never imagined I could. It has been a moment of self-discovery, of empowerment, of hope and inspiration, the start of a new era where anything is possible and nothing is out of reach. As I bask in the glory of the self-belief it has brought me, I feel I can do anything; I can sing like Presley and dance even better, act like Russell Crowe and look even better, dribble like Ronaldo and dive even better, win as much as Tiger and be more discreet, hit a forehand like Federer and cry even better, score more runs than Tendulkar and be a little less humble. I would go on but I don't want people to think I'm exaggerating.

So what prompted this bout of realistic assessment of my capabilities? It was the surreptitious and wholly earth-shatering discovery that I could COOK!!

Big deal I hear you say? Not for me! For me, cooking was this magical art of converting the inedible to the edible, of taking unknown quantities of secret ingredients and combining them in elaborately intricate procedures, say 3.3 teaspoons of X added to 5.7 pinches of Y heated for 13.3 minutes at 189 degrees, all the while chanting some indecipherable mantras, invoking the culinary Gods to bless your offering and turn it into a scrumptious savoury delight.

It was, I believed, a skill mastered over years of unflinching devotion and unwavering dedication. Many a chicken would have to be sacrificed at the altar of culinary delights to gain favour of the mighty gastronomical Gods. And once that favour was bestowed upon these select elite, they were to be revered, adored and preferably get married to, for with one sweep of their magic ladle they could conjure up exotic delicacies that not only filled an empty stomach, but also the hole in your soul that you never knew you had, satisfying cravings too deep to be revealed.

And now as I join this band of plumpy men and women, I look back at all those times I had takeaway, or got ready to eat ready-to-eat, on the days I survived on little more than a bag of salty chips and burnt ham-less-burgers, or hardened pizzas with baked-but-not-fried fries. Those memories remind me of how far I’ve come, and how sometimes necessity combined with a bit of desperation and luck can be the perfect recipe for a new beginning.

Here is proof for the skeptical, a Hyderabadi Chicken Dum Biryani designed to arouse equal parts of envy and hunger in the viewer.

P.S: For those keeping score, I'm off NaBloPoMo.

Postcards from Europe - 7: Go Husqvarna!

Many Swedes had recommended I go and watch an Ice Hockey game while I was in Sweden. The local Jonkoping team, called Husqvarna are pretty good and have won the Swedish league in 2008. So yesterday I and a friend went to catch a game at the local ice rink.

What was great to see was that the stadium was packed by about 8000 Swedes, by my rough estimate. Kids, men, women, the elderly and even several people with physical disability all turned out in full voice, heartily cheering and 'ooh-aahing' for their team.

It reminded me of the pathetic condition of sports in India, where apart from IPL, no domestic sport ever gets any spectators (except from some parts in the east where football has a fan following). In Sweden, as in every other country in the west, the sports infrastructure, the importance given to it in everyone's life is such a stark contrast to our ignored, neglected, poorly paid athletes who have to struggle against unhelpful bureaucracy and an indifferent public.

I didn't have much time to ponder as the scoring began right from the start. Husqvarna, the home team, and hence the one I was supporting raced to a 3-0 lead before the first period ended (3 periods in a game, which I found weird).

Things started heating up (only figuratively) in the second quarter. Now ice hockey is quite a physical game and body checking an opponent even when he is without the puck is quite acceptable. So is ramming someone into the boundary wall or hitting them with the hockey stick. So if you let loose a bunch of powerful competitive men in protective gear and hockey sticks then you are bound to witness a few scuffles. Fast paced and obviously intentional collisions were happening all over the place, with tempers flaring as the players were swept away with sporting passion A few punches were thrown and the referees had to come skating in to separate the players quite a few times.

Meanwhile the visting team, Södertälje (don't ask me how it's pronounced) scored a couple of goals. This was getting tight and all the more reason for tempers to start flying. You could see the effort and commitment from players of both teams and the crowd was cheering all the way. Deep in the final period, Södertälje scored again to level the scores. We were going into extra-time!

The extra-time in ice hockey follows the golden goal format, with the team scoring first winning the match. The atmosphere grew electric as the spectators watched with baited breath to see who would turn hero for the day by scoring the winning goal. Husqvarna had plenty of possession and was trying to break down the tough defence. As a last-ditch effort to win, they substituted their goalie for an outfield player and went for an all-or-nothing attack! Any mistake now would give Södertälje a chance to shoot at an open goal and end the game. But their gamble paid off and Husqvarna scored the winning goal and the audience erupted in applause! Husqvarna 4, Södertälje 3!

As I headed back after a thoroughly enjoyable couple of hours at the game you could see the grin of victory on everyone's faces and I couldn't help but wonder again why we don't have such a sporting culture back in India.

Postcards from Europe - 6: Awesome Stockholm

Spent a great 24 hours in Stockholm. Here's a photo-essay:

Stockholm is by far the largest city in Sweden with it's 2 million inhabitants making up an astounding 22% of this sparsely populated country.

First up was the brightly lit shopping district by night and with the festive season soon to arrive, most decorations revolved around the Christmas theme. Believe it or not, the pictures below were taken between 3 and 4 pm. Winter days are extremely short, with the sun only occasionally creeping up over the horizon. And even when it does, it hangs very low in the sky before it sinks back down again.


Woke up next morning to find a white layer of frost everywhere. Also, the sun was up and shining which is pretty rare these days, and though it was still cold, it was a good day for sightseeing.

Me and a frost covered field behind

Frost on a park bench

Stockholm is made up small islands interconnected by bridges. There are a lot of boats, ferries and the occasional ship parked along the waterway.

At this time of the year, there really isn't much of a 'day'. Sunlight lasts for barely 6 hours and you have sunrise and sunset and not much in between. It's like being suspended in a sunset, with the sun reluctant to wander far from the horizon.


Stockholm is a historic city, with the 'Old Town' at Gamla Stan having buildings, and this Church dating from the 13th century.

Sweden is a constitutional monarchy and the old Royal Palace now houses the office of the monarch. The royal residence is outside the city.

Royal Palace

Swedish Parliament

The Central Station at the right and the area around it that is abuzz with activity

Stockholm would be a wonderful place to live and if I ever get a chance, I would love to be back.

Pyaasa

You come to a foreign land and you begin searching for your own roots. Not that I had ever lost touch with them, but I do tend to look for and cling to anything that reminds me of my Indianness even more these days. I guess I'm a little homesick. But it's not just that. There's just so much great art in our history (lesser in the present) to admire. So here are some classic movies and inspiring songs that remind me of the many works of art back home.

One of my favorite Hindi films is the timeless Gurudutt masterpiece 'Pyaasa'. I haven't watched a lot of old hindi films but every time I watch this (and I've watched it several times) I wonder what happened to Indian cinema since then. Why did it all go to hell? The 1950s are considered the golden age of Indian cinema, when the newly independent Indian nation was discovering itself with masters like Satyajit Ray and Gurudutt achieving international critical acclaim. A far cry from the mindless populist drivel spewed by so regularly today by uncreative directors using incompetent actors.

Pyaasa is a tragic story about a heart-broken poet who struggles unsuccessfully to get his work published. Because he doesn't do anything 'useful', he is shunned by his brothers, his love and society in general. He does find an admirer, and love and finally popular acclaim, through a series of fortuitous events, but wonders whether it is all worth it.

The movie is not without flaws. Apart from the fact the technological deficiencies, like extremely low resolution black and white images, some abrupt editing and the likes, it also has some of the most horrendous acting possible. Many of the sideroles are populated by loud, obnoxious, overacting characters. But despite the flaws, the film has a deeper soul than most films; a pulsating throbbing nerve of raw emotion making it impossible not to reflect and ultimately love this movie.

Gurudutt is brilliant as the troubled heartbroken poet, always observing and reflecting on himself and his environment. You can't help but feel for his underdog character. Waheeda Rehman is excellent (and stunning) in her role.

But the highlight of the movie is definitely its songs. They add so much to the movie, nudging the story gently along, revealing the inner workings of the poet's troubled mind. Each song is a gem, though some are more precious than others. Do listen and of course, watch the movie!

NaBloPoMo - December

This blog hasn't seen much action lately. I need to challenge myself. Though I've had plenty of free time in the recent past, and have a few half written posts pending, I haven't really written in a while.

So, I'm joining NaBloPoMo, which stands for National Blog Posting Month. You've to sign up on a site and try to post something everyday for a month. Sounds like a tough ask, and at many points of time I'm sure I'll have to lower the standards a bit and post something trivial. But that's the challenge, to be able to post enough readable quality stuff while sticking with the quantity.

Lots of stuff going to happen in December. It'll get all Christmasy here and hopefully snow a bit too. That should be a lot of fun. Unfortunately I won't be here for Christmas which would've been a fantastic experience. I think I'm gonna get a bit nostalgic as I leave Sweden. The European adventure has been tremendous and I'm sure I'm going to look back fondly at this phase of life forever. I am also looking forward to returning back though. I miss Indian food (not the mess food though), the weather (I want to be able to feel my fingers again when I step out) and of course, my friends.

First up this month is a trip to Stockholm. I leave in an hour. I've been there quite a few times before, but it was always in transit or for some other work. This time it's for sightseeing and from what little I have seen of Stockholm, it is fantastic. Lookout for the pics here.

We must not forget..

A year has passed since the terrible Mumbai terror attacks.

Has anything really changed?

Are we better equipped to prevent or at least minimize the damage some random inexplicable unjustifiable acts of violence cause to thousands of innocent lives?

Are our politicians firmer in their resolve to provide greater security to the common man and offer speedy rehabilitation to those affected?

Are our security forces better trained to deal with such attacks in the future?

Will our media show more restraint, sensitivity and plain common sense while covering such events?

Or has apathy and indifference, our two greatest weapons to combat the innumerable injustices that are perpetrated in our society on a daily basis, have become so powerful that we fail to even let the memory of the attacks affect us?

We asked the same questions after the July 2006 train bombings and we asked them again last year. Do we want to ask them again?

Resilience must never become indifference.

An Award!

Oops, I forgot! This was given to me by Shas here at 'Scribblings on the Wall' a while ago. She's a really humorous blogger with a mixture of disarmingly cute and reflective posts. Do check her out (in a nice way!) :P

I won't be passing this award on to others simply because there are too many great bloggers out there and I can't possible name them all.

Anyway, thanks Shas! :)

Doodles

I've always admired artists who can draw anything perfectly in the first attempt. I've never been really good at that.

I got the urge to pick up a marker and just sketch and I'm pleasantly surprised at how decently these have come out! Especially since you don't have a chance to erase or rework any line you've put down. Very cartoony, each took about 5 min and they're a lot of fun to do!

And I'm not endorsing KPMG and neither are they sponsoring me. I just happen to not have any A4 sheets. :(

This one's my favorite. I think a little watercolor would make it look pretty neat. Too bad I don't have any. Maybe I can do a series of such sketches on monuments in Europe. This one's Arc de Triomph in Paris, by the way.


Which one's your favorite?

Postcards from Europe 5: Europe in Pictures

You know how sometimes you want something so badly and for so long that you build it up so much in your head that when you actually get it, you are a trifle disappointed? You blame yourself for having imagined things to be so grand that they could not possibly exist. You think that though the reality is nice, it was even better in your mind.

Nothing like that happened on this trip!! :D

Here are my favorite pics from a long, exhausting but immensely enjoyable and memorable 10-day trip starting from Helsinki, then Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Salzburg and finally Interlaken in Switzerland.

Most of them are in B&W and I'm inspired by the quote:

“When you photograph people in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in B&W, you photograph their souls” ~Ted Grant.

I think the latter part of the quote is valid even when trying to capture the grandeur and magnificence of cities, buildings and monuments. Click on each to open the larger image. (If any of you know a better way to present pics on blogger, do let me know. I want the pop-up kinda slideshow that is on most professional sites these days)


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Helsinki: On the fortress island Soumenlinna off the coast of Helsinki. It was fall and while most of the trees had bright yellow leaves, these two had already shed theirs.

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Berlin: The German Parliament (Bundestag). Open for public even during parliamentary sessions, it is an example of transparent and accessible governance.



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Prague: One of the most beautiful cities I've been to. I didn't think it was possible, but it made me wonder if Paris was the most beautiful city in Europe. Prague certainly comes very close.



The Old Town square, the heart of every European city. Prague has Staromestske Namesti, dating back to late 12th century, with a clock tower and a sculpture in the center and surrounded by old buildings of Gothic, Baroque and Romanesque styles.


Prague has the largest medieval castle in Europe. Within its grounds stands St. Vitus Cathedral, an astounding structure that unbelievably, took six centuries to construct!



Overlooking Prague from the castle.



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Vienna: The Viennese Palace, with its immense gardens, the Gloriette, a garden labrynth and even a zoo is beautiful.



Semmering: A scenic ski resort near Vienna.



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Salzburg: Mozart's birthplace, its a pictureque town set in the Austrian Alps. Featured in the movie 'Sound of Music', it has Europe's largest medieval fortress.







All images © Arslan Aziz

Hibiscus

Circumstances prevent me from giving her a real one. She probably won't realize that this is for her even if she saw this. I don't even know if she'll see this.

Details: Rapid sketch with a mechanical pencil, no eraser and using a reference sketch.

Postcards from Europe - 4: Munich, Paris & Madrid

At certain moments in life, you know you're living through a future memory. You know that decades hence, when you look back at your life, you'll remember the very moment you're living now. These moments can be sought and planned for, or may arrive completely unexpected. They maybe good or bad. My 10-day trip exploring Europe had several of such moments. Here's a small sample in chronological order:

The rides at Oktoberfest, Munich:

We were taken 55 meters up over Munich at night, and given a mighty twirl. I had never been more scared or had more fun in a ride ever.

Let's go a bit higher, and this time, let's just drop! Free fall from 66 meters folks. We were bounced about a bit like a yo-yo. The climb is scary cause it doesn't seem to end. The scariest part is when you're at the peak and waiting to drop. Quickly overtook the previous ride and became the most fun and scary ride I had ever been on.

A roller-coaster next. With five loops. I screamed the hardest in this one. The exhilarating speed and ferocious turns and the extremely tight loops made my neck hurt! And no prizes for guessing that this now stands as the most scary and fun ride I've ever been on!

The Louvre, Paris!

Is one of my most favorite places ever. I imagine I would be very happy living there. Of course I had heard a lot about it's large collection of paintings and sculptures (and not only due to 'The Da Vinci Code') but nothing could've prepared me for the actual experience.

I walked through halls and halls of mindbogglingly magnificent paintings, many the size of entire walls, in absolute awestruck amazement. I cannot count the number of paintings that caused me to stand there transfixed and mesmerized by the look on a character's face, the composition of the painting, the poignancy of the scene depicted, and the skill of the artist. If pictures can speak a thousand words, then Louvre is perhaps the biggest library in the world.

I can write all the superlatives I know and you still won't know how incredible the paintings actually are. So here's an example:

As with any work of art, knowing a bit about it increases your appreciation of it manifold. This particular painting is 'The Raft of Medusa' by Theodore Gericault, a French painter of the 19th century. It depicts the scene of survivors of an actual shipwreck. The first thing that strikes you is the incredible scale of the painting. The figures in the foreground are twice life size! Gericault locked himself up in his studio for days on end working on this painting in complete isolation. He even collected dead bodies from the morgue and studied how the dying and the dead look like. He took a year planning, researching and composing the painting and the actual painting took 8 months to finish. And all of it shows in the final work!

The rest of Paris also lives up to its name. It really is a beautiful city!


Arc de Triomph

A bridge on the River Sienne

Santiago Bernabeu, Madrid!

The home of Real Madrid. It was a joy walking around the stands, going through the trophy room, the dressing room, stand pitch-side and look around the stands and sit on the player's bench.



Before you get all jealous of me again, I will mention that not everything went right on the trip. In fact, for a few days everything that could go wrong did go wrong. The series of unfortunate events made India seem like a much safer place than Europe. They made the trip especially memorable, and definitely not in the way I would've liked. Still, you try to remember and cherish the good, and forget the bad.

Dream a dream

What is this life if you don't have a dream, a vision of yourself replayed in your mind over and over again, a possibility too grand to be revealed, too dear to be expressed? In that moment just before slumber slowly smokes out consciousness from your restless mind, what is it that you think of? What is it that brings a smile to your lips in the darkness, and a joy in your lonely heart?

Dreams may seem weak, fragile, transient. The realists deem them to be idle fantasies of foolishness. Little do they realize that the world they live in, the world they insist cannot be changed, the world they constantly try to adapt themselves to, is, and has always been, shaped by dreamers.

It was a dreamer who first thought of freedom, and it was a dreamer who thought of justice. A dreamer is to be thanked for fire, and for every single invention and discovery since.

Remember when you were a little kid and had a million wishes and thousands of grand ambitions? Nothing was too ridiculous, nothing was out of reach. So does growing up mean you have to cast them all aside? Settle for an ordinary job and lead an ordinary life?

They tell you you're doing great, that you're better off than most, that you've everything you need to be happy, that you should have no reason to complain. But why do you need to be convinced of these things? Why don't you feel it yourself? Why do you need to keep looking at your life the way they see it, count your blessings again and again and try to dispel that creeping unbidden sense of frustration?

It is because you desire to play it safe, to not make a fool of yourself, and to avoid defeat even if it means you'll never have a chance to win. Then one day you'll realize that it didn't matter if you won or lost, but that you were playing the game you loved.

So, dream a dream tonight and smile a secret smile. But more importantly, for all your future days, hold the dream in your mind, and hide the smile in your heart.

Postcards from Europe - 3: A Walk about Town

I went around the streets of Jonkoping with my camera, trying to capture the serene beauty of this town.

Here are a few:

It's always cloudy

European streets: Clean and Uncrowded

The Bridge across Lake Vattern

The University Library

A street by the University

University Buildings

Fountain in a park

University Gardens

Random grand building!

Music Theatre

Music Theatre

Across the Lake

European Streets

A Clock Tower

Beauty is everywhere here. You just need to open your eyes to find it. Everywhere you turn there is a picture waiting to be taken. I love this place!

Postcards from Europe - 2: First Day in Jönköping

So it’s been over a week in Jönköping (yawn-chopping) and I am starting to feel at home now. Let me start at the beginning though.

Friday, 28^th Aug,

0330 hrs

Our bus from Stockholm arrived at Jönköping at this unearthly hour. There were six of us, three from IIMK and three from IIMA. We had to wait till the accommodation office opened at 8:30 in the morning and we got the keys to our apartments. There was nothing we could do except wear our warmest jacket and lie on the benches under the open sky and wait for morning. Typically a scenario in which I would get philosophical, but I was just too cold and tired. Fortunately at 0530, the doors to the bus station opened and we trooped inside and tried to defrost our limbs. A few hours of sleeping on benches inside and being stared at by the locals, and it was time to go. We were quickly handed over our keys and even offered a ride to our apartment complex called Råslätt (ruse-lett).

My apartment complex in Råslätt

1200 hrs

First trip to the supermarket. We were told not to convert the prices in Swedish Kronor (pronounced as Crowne) into Rupees (1 Kronor = 7 Rs), but how could we not?

“Hey, look the half litre Pepsi is for 12 Kronors!”

The way to think of it is as if 1 Kronor = 1 Rs, and trying to forget the slight matter of the conversion factor. How else would you bring yourself to have the 60 Kronor sandwich or the 20 Kronor bus ticket? I’m getting there.

Evening

Met my flatmates. A Chinese doing his Bachelors and a Mexican doing his Masters in Economics. They showed me around the flat, the shelves in the kitchen I could use, generously offered me use of their utensils, how the laundry room in the basement works, and how I should clean and dry the kitchen and the bathroom after every use.

Disposing off trash looks like a ritual. You take your bag of trash downstairs to a little square hut with several holes on its sides, each hole for a different type of trash. So you open your bag and take out all the plastic and put in one hole, then move on and take out all the paper and put it in the second hole. You end up making a round trip of the hut and since others might also be making those revolutions, it all looks a bit funny.

2100 hrs

I’m feeling hungry, and the realization hits me that I will have to actually go in the kitchen and prepare something to eat and not wait for it to be served and do this for the next four months. Oh boy! :|

I chose noodles, since my other options were cornflakes and bread & cheese.

A typical meal

2330 hrs

Fall asleep, happy to be alive and in Sweden!

P.S: To be continued

Bloggerly Duties - 3: The ABC Tag

Last of the bloggerly duties. Once again by Nikita, this time the ABC tag.

A lot of evil exists in this world. It is upto you how you deal with it. Do you become bitter and angry when someone is cruel towards you? Do you take it out on others, justifying your own suffering as reason enough that they too must suffer?

I don't. So, I shall not tag anyone else. :P

So sit back, relax, and bear with me.

Here are the rules (d & e are being dropped):

a) Link the person who tagged you.

b) Post the rules on your blog.

c) Share the ABCs of you.

d) Tag 3 people at the end of your post by linking to them.

e) Let the 3 people know of the tag by leaving them comments.

f) Do not tag the original ‘tagger’.

So here goes!:

A – Available/Single? Are they the same thing? I've seen single but unavailable people as well as committed but available ones.

B – Best friend? Does it have to be one? I have several.

C – Cake or Pie? Do they even have pies in India?

D – Drink of choice? Appy Fizz

E – Essential item you use every day? The entire list? My laptop's the first thing I use, if you really want to know.

F – Favorite colour? Green

G – Gummy Bears Or Worms? Who would pick worms?

H – Hometown? Hyderabad

I – Indulgence? This blog

J – January or February? January, because it signifies a new beginning.

K – Kids & their names? Abhi rakha nahi

L – Life is incomplete without? Death

M – Marriage date? Is this tag meant for middle-aged family men/women with loads of kids?

N – Number of siblings? One

O – Oranges or Apples? Neither

P – Phobias/Fears? Drowning

Q – Quote for today? “The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.”

R – Reason to smile? Sweden

S – Season? Monsoon

T – Tag 3 People? Skip

U – Unknown fact about me? Should remain unknown

V – Vegetable you don't like? Turai

W – Worst habit? Laziness

X – X-rays you've had? Why would anyone want to know that?

Y – Your favorite food? Biryani

Z – Zodiac sign? I'm on the cusp of Gemini and Cancer, so Cancimini

There, I'm done. Footloose and tag-free!

Postcards from Europe - 1: Touchdown

The first of a series of posts on my trip to Europe.

The sunlight streams through the airplane’s window as I peer out at the landscape below. The wrinkled silver surface of the sea glimmers in the slating sun rays, with dark irregular islands protruding through the water. Small islands of different shapes, most seemingly virgin. We are approaching Stockholm, an archipelago of around 24,000 islands, most of which are too small for inhabitation. Think of the islands as bread crumbs that have broken off the surface and are floating away into the sea.

We are soon above the mainland and as I scan the Scandinavian landscape I am struck by how absolutely green it is. The terrain is covered with dense ‘Christmas’ trees for the most part, with cleared stretches of crops that are just a different shade of green. Soon I can see bright colored cottages, red or yellow or green, with large prominent windows. Remember the little houses we drew as kids? The ones with an angular roof and bright colors and disproportionately large windows, set on a lush green expanse? Apparently they do actually exist.

The hour-long bus ride from Arlanda airport to Stockholm city gave me my first glimpse of Swedish countryside, and then of a modern European city. It is like stepping onto a large elaborate movie set, with narrow cobbled streets, lined with elegantly designed buildings, a wide footpath having several bistros along the way. The orderly way people move around, crossing only at zebra crossings, cars stopping for pedestrians, cyclists sticking to tracks made exclusively for them all seem carefully choreographed. The sight of a fully suited elderly gentleman, the kind you would expect to step out of a Mercedes, wearing a helmet and riding a bicycle is interesting. On the highway, I see the occasional motorcyclist riding a racing bike as fast as the cars. One whizzes past me with the rider in a black helmet, black leather jacket, black leather trousers, and black boots. Her long flowing blonde hair completing the picture.

At the Stockholm bus & train station, a Swede asked me directions in Swedish. Halfway through his sentence he realized I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I wonder what tipped him off. My black hair, or brown skin, or black eyes? Color is something that I am constantly reminded of here. If I were to paint the Swedes, I would quickly run out of the color yellow. The golden yellow hair, the yellowish pink skin, and the (slightly freakish) green eyes make you see real-life Barbies and Kens everywhere.

The fact that all Swedes speak English is a major blessing. And that they have an easy to understand American accent is even better. They, however, struggle to understand English spoken with any other accent. I have come to the disturbing conclusion that to be understood, I must speak with an American accent, nasal twang and all. Trouble is I feel all fake and uncomfortable doing that.

A pleasantly disconcerting observation is the over-abundance of beauty in this place. On any street, in any cafetaria, in any class, I can’t help but wonder what sets apart fashion models from those that are walking past me. Is beauty really that abundant? Is it so common place? Or have my eyes not yet adjusted to the sight of Europeans with their fair skin and blue eyes that make them seem more beautiful to me than they will once the novelty wears off? Time will tell.

I'll talk about Jonkoping, the university, my accomodation, expenses and the rest in further posts.

Pics: Streets of Stockholm from my camera