Irregular ranting by an Irrelevant thinker

"I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me". - Anne Frank Just finished reading ' The Diary Of A Young Girl - Anne Frank' and my mind is at a loss of words. The picture on the front cover (ISBN 9788189998448) has taken over my senses with her shiny eyes and wide smile. However hard may I try, I can't manage to imagine this pretty girl emaciated, bald and dressed in rags, dying an ugly death in some rotting Concentration Camp of Bergen-Belsen. Its the smile that can never be wiped off that loving face. Ever since I read a chapter - 'quack, quack, chatterbox' in my English textbook in class 7th or 8th -- which was an adaptation from an early entry of this diary-- I've been mesmerised by this girl. I didn't know anything about Holocaust then, but yet, couldn't refrain from be...

I asked today A girl who aspires to clear the IAS exam, what time did the World War II happen. To which she replied : " I think sometime around 1980 " No, I don't wish to make fun of her. I don't even intend to prove that she was not upto the mark in her preparation. I just wish to ponder how much of history has our generation missed learning while cramming our way up to more 'creamy' careers like medicine or engineering ? Why didn't our schools focus more on teaching us the past of our mankind than giving us truckload of bull-shit on calculus and mandalian inheritance which take us nowhere beyond the theory? Why does the common youth cracking the JEE is ignorant of the difference between 'Vidhan-sabha' and 'Sansad' ? Everyone can relate to the fact that in most Indian schools they're giving more pressure on science and maths while sidelining other subjects like history, literature, or civics. I have seen, when a sch...

કલાસમાં નિતનવાં હથોડાં માર્યાં કરે છે- 'ટીપૂ' વગર કારણે અમને હેરાન કર્યાં કરે છે- 'ટીપૂ' મળે થોડી પણ જગ્યા તો આમતેમ ફર્યા કરે એ સરકારી ચૉકથી બસ બોર્ડ ચિતર્યા કરે છે- 'ટીપૂ' જે શબ્દો ને વ્યાખ્યાઓ ખુદનેય યાદ નથી તે 'કડકડાટ' ગોખવાનાં નુસખાં આપ્યાં કરે છે- 'ટીપૂ' ગૂંચવાઇ જે રહ્યાં પોતાનાં જ સવાલો માં ન જાણે કેમ અમને સમજાવ્યા કરે છે- 'ટીપૂ' કેવો એનો પ્રાસ છે ને કેવો આ ત્રાસ છે ઊંઘતા છોકરાંવને ભણાવ્યા કરે છે- 'ટીપૂ' *** થોડું        પિષ્ટપેષણ- આ કવિતા originally અમારાં ફાઇનલ યર માં એક સાચ્ચેજ કંટાળાજનક લૅક્ચર દરમિયાન અમે લખી હતી . ને આજે જ્યારે જરા ખાંખાખોળાં કરતાં એ નોટ મારા હાથમાં આવી ત્યારે મને થયું કે boredom ક્યારેક creative પણ બની શકે છે . એ ઑગસ્ટ નાં બફારા માં Over-crowded ક્લાસ રૂમ માં Post-prandial ઉંઘનાં બે-ત્રણ ઝોકાં (Micro-Naps -- you know ! ) લીધા બાદ ની freshness હશે કે એ સાહેબશ્રી નું શાનદાર વક્ત્રુત્વ જેણે આ માસ્ટરપીસ બનાવવાં માટે અમને પ્રેર્યાં એની ચર્યા અનુચિત છે. 'ટીપ...

SAFARNAAMA- THE NEET EXPERIENCE! तेरा यूँ abruptly  announce  हो जाना , question -pattern , paper-style  सब बदल जाना, नहीं भूलूंगा मैं, जब तक है जान  जब तक है जान ........... वो voucher  के लिए  धक्के खिलाना , website का पहेले ही दिन hang  हो जाना, याद रखूंगा मैं, जब तक है जान  जब तक है जान ........... तेरी बेरोक-टोक गुस्ताखियों को, तेरे जूठे कसमें -वादों को, मोटी -मोटी किताबों से, इस दिल  पे पड़े इन जख्मों को, नहीं भूलूंगा मैं, जब तक है जान  जब तक है जान जब तक है जान ....... The war has ended! the dragon has been slayed! finally, the burden on the hearts of us interns has been lifted, the NEET-PG has been finished. celebrate guys! Tap your feet to the   "Futterwacken"  dance, its  Frabjous Day  at last!  All the Interns and Post-interns who've taken this  National Eligibility cum Entrance Test -PG  are heaving a great sigh of relief as they c...

I will never be a brain surgeon, and Iwill never play the piano like Glenn Gould. But what keeps me up late at night, and constantly gives me reason to fret, is this: I don't know what I don't know. There are universes of things out there — ideas, philosophies, songs,subtleties, facts, emotions — that exist but of which I am totally and thoroughly unaware. This makes me very uncomfortable. I find that the only way to find out the fuller extent of what I don't know is for someone to tell me, teach me or show me, and then open my eyes to this bit of information, knowledge, or life experience that I, sadly, never before considered. Afterward, I find something odd happens. I find what I have just learned is suddenly everywhere: on billboards or in the newspaper or SMACK: Right in front of me, and I can't help but shake my head and speculate how and why I never saw or knew this particularthing before. And I begin to wonder if I could be any different, smarter,...

The Bridge. I look at the vast body of water flowing beneath. Its a strange sight, looking at the Sabarmati river from the middle of one of its seven bridges. It makes me realise how small I am. And how easily I'll be long dead before anyone will notice my body floating lifelessly in its currents. I take the sheet of paper out of my breast pocket, read it again, in the scorching sunlight. 'Dearest Jigna, I know you've been hurt, and won't speak to me ever again, but when you read about my death in the paper, please know then that I loved you till the end of my life and I prayed for you with my last breath.' But hope is a weird thing. I pull out my cell, dial her number. And, with a prayer, I put it to my ears. Tring tring... Tring tring... Once... Twice... Thrice... 'The number you're dialing is not responding' I hang up. I put the phone on the letter on the bridge parapet, climb over, look at the sky and mutter: ...

I'm walking on the road, it's raining heavily, drops the size of grapes falling on my body, hitting me like bullets.  There is darkness everywhere, the only thing visible is the swinging beam of the Light-house in the distance Pointing to the sea. That's my destination, the Light-house.  I hurry through the rain, the metaled road slipping under my sneakers.  I'm not afraid, I'm definitely not afraid. Why  should I be? It was the best thing I could do, locking the room from outside while the others choked in the toxic gas. The beam completes a full circle and dazzles my eyes. The night turns  golden yellow. Almost  day-like . Suddenly there is a shrill cry,  piercing the stillness of the night. With that, strange noises start filling the air around me.  Thick, gurgling sounds, sticking to my  eardrums like hot molten wax.  I cover my head with the cape I'm  wearing, but the noises don't ...

आज हवा मेँ इतनी खूशबूएँ है क्योँ?  बिन बादल आज ये बारिशे है क्योँ?   सूना पडा था आज तक किसी कोने मेँ ये दिल,  इस दिलमे आज इतनी ख्वाहिशे है क्योँ?  रिहा हूँ यूँ तो परिँदो की तरह,  फिरभी इन निगाहों की बँदिशे है क्योँ?  कल तक था बेगुनाह ये बच्चे सा दिल,  आज ये मासूमसी साज़िशेँ है क्योँ?  आज हवामें इतनी खुशबूए है क्योँ?  कोई अनकही सी मनमें चाहते है क्योँ?  गम होता है मिलके जुदा होने मेँ हर बार,  इस गमको पाने में भी मिलती राहतेँ है क्योँ?  आदत नहीं थी अब तक जिन्हे इंतज़ार करने की,  आज इन कानों में पड़ती ये आहटेँ है क्योँ?  यूँ तो थमता नहीं वख्त किसी के कहनेपे,  फ़िर ये छोटी छोटी ईबादतेँ है क्योँ?  आज हवा मेँ इतनी खूशबूएँ है क्योँ?  बिन बादल आज ये बारिशे है क्योँ?

. .         "SPACE" "MOM, I'm grown up now, I need some space", I yelled angrily one day when I was 19. From that day she stopped asking where I went, whom I met, what I did. I blossomed in the new found freedom. I dated a guy,fell in love, got married and filed a divorce when I was 36. It was when I asked my daughter, now 18,  "who was that guy on the bike? She shouted, "PLEASE MOM, I need some space." . It hurt...

ख्वाबोँमें परछाइयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी ।  बेतुकी कहानियाँ इधर भी है उधर भी॥ बस फासलेँ है ये और कुछ नहीं । मख़मली तनहाइयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी॥ कौन कहता है, जल्दबाज़ी की हमने? सोच की गहराईयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी ॥ कुछ राज़ तो है जो कह नहीं सकते ।  कुछ बेताबीयाँ इधर भी हैं उधर भी ॥ ख्वाबोँमें परछाइयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी । चुपचाप किलकारीयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी । कैसे जान पाए क्या छूपा कमबख्त दिलमें? बातोँमेँ नरमाइयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी ।  खामोश मनमें बैठे बैठे कभी गूँजती शहनाईयाँ इधर भी है उधर भी ॥ .............................. ...

THE GERMAN GIRL Waiting for the bus at the City-Gold bus-stop, Ashram road, I saw this tall Fair Girl sitting on the bench. Her white skin and auburn hair suggested a Firang origin, but the Punjabi suit and bags of grocery in her hands suggested that probably she was just another beauty-saloon miracle. Foreigners are not a rare sight in Ahmedabad, and nor are the girls in Punjabi suits, or sarees. But the cloth-bags characteristic of middle aged native women for shopping was confusing me. 'OK, so let’s check out my suspicions systematically' I thought. A bus came from the right side, she got up in a hurry-but it was not destined to go where she wished to be, so she sat down again. A Rikshawallah approached, stopped in front of her (ignoring us not-so-fair-skinned : me, a middle aged lady and her daughter). She came forward and said: "Gandhi Ashram (in a weird accent with something like silent Dh) Yes ! She was Firang then for sure. The Rikshawallah replied w...