French connection.

The teachers who lead us through the first stumbling steps of francais were alternately howlarious or pitiable- unintentionally of course.Specimen A,fondly known as Kow, was a cure for insomnia. No matter how many Red Bulls you might drink before class- within five seconds of Kow's big toe touching the classrom threshold your eyelids will succumb to gravity. During the long ago days when the author believed in the possibilities of education, the zealous author would actually sit in the first row hoping the fear factor would help against the Great Sleepiness.The experiment was a resounding failure. Undeterred, the author got reinforcements- her buddies: one on either side to poke her awake. She was reduced to poking them awake whenever she was awake. Pretty soon we just gave up. We'd sit in the front row and play hangman or X&0 or soemthing keep us from falling flat on the desk because the others had smartly usurped the last row. Picture this- the Author and Co. playing papergames wide open at the first row. Logically, we're caught. But real life is rarely logical. Kow lows her way to the last row where two unsuspecting souls had been catching up with their 40 winks! C'est la vie.

Specimen B, respectfully known as Mademoiselle, was from france. She managed to teach us something- a great achievement.Her english was... not good...but she plodded through the harsh consonants and confusing vowels of l'anglais. Well, once it so happened that she had the ladt hour with us. A bad fate for any teacher. A worse one if you've already had a bad day. She didn't have the courage or thenergy to tackle us, she gave us a free hour. Very bad idea. For the uninitiated, our class makes the parliament in uproar seem like a Church service. Five minutes into the class and the scene unfolds...

Mademoiselle(decibel level, normal) : Plizz kip qui-ett I 'ave a 'ead ache.

[Half a second of silence and the buzz restarts]

10 minutes.

Mademoiselle (decibel leve, slightly higher than normal): Clazz, I sed kip qui-ett!

[Quarter of a second of silence]

5 minutes.

Mademoiselle(decibel level, upper half of loud): Silence!

[1/8th of a second of silence]

A minute

Mademoiselle(decibel level, high enough to blow a few eardrums):

BVJJDBFBJHAGBLGBKGHLJGMBGHNKGMNGGFOHLKGNJHNGIHGNBGBGHFGHBAGRFGBFHVLKFSB!!!!!!

[A full minute of silence]

Class: HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Mademoiselle(desperate whisper): Mon dieu!

Yes, we were rather evil. Mademoiselle survived with us for two years before she ran for her sanity. But i owe her for what little french i know. Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.

Happy New Year

Dear The World According To Me,

Congratulations! You have survived two whole years without too many months in hibernation.

You have been a constant reminder of the possibility of creativity and imagination even in individuals such as the author. You have endowed the author- a mortal being of miniscule stature- with the status of CREATOR. And for this you have the Creator's undying gratitude.
You have made the Creator scream with anguish when posts vanished into thin cyberspace. You have been a painful super-ego, constantly reminding the Creator of the Creator's laziness. Yet, you have made the Creator brim with pride.

Oh blog! You are the child of my fingers, the product of my ruminations. And may all those who see you find something in you that makes them feel better.

The World has been born again, carrying the trace memories of 365 days. So are you, oh worthy blog. Carry on the torch. Blot out the inadequacies. And live.

The Creator,
Atomic Gitten

Happy New Year to All!

You know you are old when

1.You go for co-ed culturals and all the sight-able guys are younger than you.

2.You listen to a speech and start snickering at double meaning quips and all the kids around you give puzzled looks.

3.You go back to school and more than five kids call you "Ma'am".

4.You wear a sari and people ask you for how many years you've been working.

5. When some young squirt asks you how things were "when you were young..."

6.You start saying "when I was young..."

Messy Tactics

Here are a few Hostel Mess tactics to make your Mess experince less messy.

Our hostel mess is a good one.Their sambar does not resemble a dirty swimming pool. The rice does not stink. And- wonder of wonders!- their non-veg fare, though limited, does not leave the eater with stomach cramps!

The food is simple but good and shows some thought to nutrition, the addition of a fruit is evidence of this. However this fruit is a point of contention between the serving staff and the hostelites. Th fruit in question is a banana. Or something that looks very much like a banana- you can't really say, it's size and shape give rise to doubt. And Muthu anna's distribution runs along the motto of ascending squashiness. Give a squashed one and then,if some audacious soul requested; a squashier one.It's generally a squashy mess.Be sure to carry some tissue. And then there are the Appalam/Pappadam Treaties. In the goody starved world of the hostelite the crunch of a pappadam is like the music of the orbs. Acquisitions of these wondrous items are of utmost value:a pappadam in hand is worth a cup of curds in the bush. Of course the fact that these prized pappadams are more like handkerchiefs is irrelevant. They are pappadams. The non-pappadamers,who generally give their's away, are greatly valued at the table for this reason and must take precautions to not get mobbed. And it's not just pappadams that create a mad rush. Curds is next in the list. In the barter system ruling the Mess world the ownership of pickles or similar delicacies is excellent leverage. So bring on the vadumaanga.

An item that one must never miss in the mess is the Special Meals. These are occassions are momentous in the monotony of sambarsadam and poriyal. Watchout for the Sunday special chicken curry, and be sure to be around some pretty girl. Ah yes the Pretty Girl Tactic.It is always advisable to keep one or two of these specimens near you at the table. The wonderful thng about these species is that they generally get what they ask for. And the service staff, being men, are highly...susceptible. And being near the beauteous belles casts yourself in the glow of benevolence. Of course you must be fast and demand while the gla-effect is still in the system. Strike at the right moment and the number of extra ice-creams, bigger pieces of chicken and less squashy bananas coming your way will surprise to say the least. The author is an old hand at this.The Pretty Girl Tactic is applicable in any scenario.

A never-fail method for a better mess experience is to pattao the warden an mess in charge- this helps for easy acquisition of coupons, extra goodies etc. Always get the authorities in your pocket.

Please remember that Messes are messy businesses. It is necessary to exercise discretion.If the gourmet hostelite ever peeked into the Mess kitchen,it would be the end of her appetite for all time. Hence- never venture there. Why invite trauma? Just eat and don't ask questions. If you find a hair in the sambar- throw it out and continue shovelling it down. If the oil dripping off the evening "snack" has definite overtones of the fried onions that featured in yesterday's menu- keep munching. The best way to enjoy the creations of a hostel Mess is with blind faith. And plain blindness most of the time.

Always carry a ready strip of gelusil or the like. A stock of bread and jam is also advisable for the hard days.

These are some off-the-cuff tips for a happy Mess. The author hopes that it will serve the reader well in times of need. However,the author is not responsible for mishaps arising from following these guidelines. Happy hogging.

Parental Harrassment

Wordsworth said,'the child is the father of man'. Little did he know how prohetic he was.Child abuse is a terrible problem. But kids are not angelic cherubins either. In todays age of children's rights and "proper child rearing", poor parents have their lives wrung out by brats.

Take the case of Sad-Teacher(ST) and her daughter Evil-Incarnate(let's call her Evie, for short). We students used to wonder how ST could bear our class. But a short excursion with Evie in the same train cleared our doubts. The worst batch of 20yr olds are nothing next to one full-fledged 8yr old brat. We were all running away when we saw her coming. A similar incident during a flight will clear all doubts. A family of four were travelling in the aisle seat just before ours. This family comprised of two very interesting specimens of parent-abusers. Specimen A- let's call him Drone Boy- seemed less harmful in comparison to his younger brother,Terror. While the tired family of the author tried vainly to catch some precious sleep- Terror was happily slapping his absolutely spineless,useless pater who was cowering in fear and busy making vague threats to return the favor. If only he'd turned around and breathed a syllable to any one of us- we'd have gladly slapped the kid. Ten times. Each one of us. Between the sounds of the thwacking slaps and the gleeful laughter of Terror, any sleep was a dream. Thankfully, all that slapping was tiring and the terrible Terror fell into unwilling sleep. The entire aisle area breathed a sigh of relief and closed their red-rimmed, sleep-ridden eyes. NOT FOR LONG. That's when Drone Boy kicked in. Ever been bothered by a humming mosquito, just as you were falling asleep? Well... mutiply that feeling to 100 raised to infinite! Half an hour or more of listening to that dismal,toneless,aggravating drone made us realise that Terror and Drone were weapons of mass destruction in the making. One is physical torture and the other is mental. Either way you end up dead.And then,there are the supermarket brats. We are all familiar with this parent harrassing menace. The piercing orders on the lines of "MUMMY I WANT THAT,MUMMY!" or better still the simple ear-shattering screams that make by standers look accusingly at the blameless parent.

Parents are a burdended race. (a) They have the kid/brat. (b) They are responsible for the child- Read: whatever the child does, it's the parents' fault. They are a maligned race and require representation. Someone has to speak up against the heartless attrocities committed against parents. Just because they bore doesn't mean they must bear. So the next time you see a brat abusing a poor defenceless parent, run to their rescue. After all it might be you tomorrow...

Softly fell the rain that day,
Like kitten's fur and satin.
It stroked and brushed but never touched.
It was there, but not really.

She loved the Rain,
She'd always loved him.
He was the one she connected with
The soul she saw hers in.

The Rain loved her too,
But his words were mere sounds to her.
The patter of raindrops the rumble of thunder-
A language she couldn't comprehend.

The creeper of life needs a solid post.
Fluid torrents flowed away.
She pined for the Rain,
But he couldn't be there.Not really.

Harsh as the crack of a whip
It rained that day.
Like stones and needles.
Piercing and hurting- tangible distress.

She stood on the edge and welcomed Him
And the Rain shot out a silver finger
And carried her away with him.

Flighty Fancy

Take my love, take my land
Take me where I can't stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me.

- Firefly, title track.

Birds are lucky creatures.
Sure they are pretty much at the bottom rungs of the food chain, they are attributed less sense than what would fit in a teaspoon,and if they're are not eaten they are generally shot at and stuffed for no logical reason. Often they are cursed and pelted with expletives just for relieving themselves when they feel like it. And in recent history, their personal air space has been invaded by huge silver machines or idiotic human beings with a death wish jumping off these same machines (ungainly graceless things)with balloons furling out of their back.

But still, Birds are lucky creatures.
They can fly.

They don't need stupid parachutes,they don't have sit in stuffy,smelly,claustrophobic air planes or hang on to gliders like that tortoise in that folk story.They can experience the extreme freedom of breaking FREE.

The wind whips through their plumage, they have power that is purely theirs- not obtained through any transaction of pieces of paper. Even the crow, the ever irritating marauder of the canteen, in flight, is an admirable sight. There is more grace and abandon in the flight of a crow than in the rumbling,mechanical take off of a man made contraption. Man's effort is admirable yes, but he as in no way conquered flight.Because Man isn't really flying.There is no freedom in man's mechanical fliers. It is all control.There is none of that burst of euphoria as in the cheerful dip and rise of the sparrow. None of the soaring power of the eagles baiting with the wind. To watch a bird take flight is t watch a being break into harmonious freedom. They deliberately and successfully break the petty earthly bonds of gravity and leave behind inconsequential humanity for higher things. For the wind coursing over their bodies, for the power of total freedom, for the untamed abandon of full flight- which no human can ever truly have.

Birds are lucky creatures.

The Vagabond's Song

You sit near the milestone that marks the bend.
Your sore feet cry for the journey's end.
You get a cup of coffee for the open road,
Relaxing your hold on the memories stored.

The past sticks on like chewing gum.
The more you struggle,the messier it becomes.
Better by far to let it hang on.
Some extra baggage, like the rose's thorn.

You break and you form,like mercury drops.
Your feelings are only dispensable props
But all that's left when the play is cleared,
Are the discarded props- the feelings you feared.

Prayer consoles, but what is prayer?
Begging to something we don't know is there.
The litany drugs us into fevered sleep,
A dream of destiny in delirious deeps.

The core is suspended in eternal strife.
Existence or living on the edge of a knife?
Where do you go? Who waits for you there?
Is there a Destiny? Or just hot air?

The paper cup is tossed away,
You've drunk some life, and what's there to say.
The coffee was good the service was sad,
But altogether it wasn't so bad.

You stand near the milestone that marks the bend,
Your eyes seeking the journeys end.
But not just yet, there's more to go.
More bets to place, more oats to sow.

Invisible

I look down at my hands,
The are flesh and blood.
I look in the mirror,
Yes there is a reflection there.
I touch the wall-no I am not a ghost.

But something must be wrong..
Something unnatural with me.
How else can you not see
Even when I stand
Right in front of you?

Am I invisible?

The power of invisibility-
A good one I'd thought...
But now that I'm invisible
I don't know how I'll make you see.

Maybe I'm a leaf lost in the trees
But even when I fall into your hands
You don't see me.I'm tossed away crushed,
To float in the wind...

Am I a wraith? An empty space?
Dust blown away without a trace?
You see the wispy clouds, the lines in the sand
But you can't see me

The power of invisibility.
A good one I'd thought...
But now that I'm invisible,
I don't know how I can make you see....

An Apologie for Romance Novels

Universally declared "senseless" and grudgingly included in the literary family, the Romance Novel is a much maligned genre of popular fiction.Caught reading one is generally a signal for sheepish grins and a disposition to blush and denounce them with a hypocritical "it's only trash, just flipping through for a good laugh."

Though this reaction is not unwonted(there being a dizzying amount of drivel written in the name of Romance), it is ungenerous of the reading-writing community to simply write them off.Just because some... many romance novels are only a step away from pornography- lacking both a storyline and borderline sense, there are others that display admirable plot lines and quite commendable character weaving. Several Romance novels are criticized for their overly dramatic scenarios and contrived situations. But I ask you- ye sharp tongued critiques- what story doesn't use these same tools? more than anything else it is the dramatic content of the book-the sudden twists, the unexpected- that an average reader looks for in any work of fiction.I do acknowledge that these dramatic intrigues are often similar,leading to a 'read one, read them all' prejudice towards this genre. But then, the much admired murder mysteries are also culprit to the same fault. We know exactly what to expect- our interest lies in the unraveling.We are interested in finding out the whos and the hows. So also in the Romance novel.It is interesting to note how the author contrives to create scenarios,albeit often unintentionally comic, and how they various characters react to each other, and of course how they fall in love. And what can be a greater mystery than he workings of the human heart? Romance novels are further accused of being irrational. It is a truth universally acknowledged that human beings are the craziest creatures on the planet.And consider this- has anyone ever acted rationally when in love? My sources answer in negation. And besides, as Blaise Pascal rightly puts it, "The heart has reasons that reason knows nothing of."

And if all these arguments aren't enough to budge your prejudice, consider this-
The Feel Good Factor. No matter how terrible the situation, you can be assured f a happy ending. The ancient and the youthful are reminded that there are possibilities. Sure this may not happen to me, but it can to others- it DOES happen. And of course the perennial craving to be special to someone,the need to be needed- the very fact that these elements are tenets of the Romance novel speak in its favor.

In conclusion, I'd like to remind the discerning reader that the most important and immediate aim of literature is pleasure. And in one way or the other Romance novels do achieve that. Be it through the happy love stories or the (often ridiculous) plot lines, they are an enjoyable read. And writers of this genre are as good as any other.

Music and Lyrics.

Have you come across these songs which sound so amazing but have lyrics that don't make even a glimmer of sense?

Well,I have.

Take good old RHCP. Their music is great, but more often than not their lyrics sound like random words strung together for the fun of it. And for Lit. student (meaning someone who can find meaning even in the meaningless)to say that shows how completely unintelligible it is. And I'm not the only one- my good friend Ms Pouter also feels the same and she is a respected editor and critic! But why talk about firangee music when our very own Indian music shows this sad lack of meaning. Perhaps a better word to use would be comprehensiveness.Imagine a love song which addresses the object of affection as "Rakshasi"?????You actually expect the girl to fall for you if you call her demoness? How dumb are you? And this from the same industry that created songs like "Neelaponnmaane" and "Akale". If you consider malayalam too far south let's go to the north. Tell me, where's the beauty in something like "You are my Soniya"? It's like a nursery rhyme for Godsakes! But then Hindi songs are easy to make. Add a couple of "deewanas" and "pyars" with a good dash of adjectives(not necessarily appropriate) and a few punjabi phrases for the fun of it and - TADA!- there's your popular Hindi song.

The trouble is we are just way to busy nowadays to actually listen. So it's naturally imperative for the pressurized music director to create the catchiest tunes and to hell with words and all that. Which is why ad jingles are so satisfying. But consider this, when time flies off and all that is left of us is a few words on a page in a history book- will they remember us as the age of Jingle music?....

Ah well, what does it matter. After all

...It's only words
And words are all I have
To take your heart away...

The Stories they tell...

Like every child, I too used to bother my parents for stories. Since my father was a rather inaccessible entity- him working in another country and all- my mother got the brunt of it. Through some kind of innate sadism I'd want a story exactly when she can't keep her eyes open. And thus we had interesting versions of Krishna pulling the uruli betwen the trees while Narasimha Rao and Nehru were cooking upmav.(yes, evidently my mothers half asleep stage made her imagination even more fertile)My brother and I used to watch out for these gems so we could tease her when she was fully conscious and among others who knew not of her subconscious yarns. (yes, we were evil children- it's a wonder why she didn't sell us to gypsies)

From those toddler stages we moved on to the age where we wanted stories of our parents' youth. Amma spun splendid epics of hordes of marauding cousins and hot food on rainy days, of huge dogs that turned into lambs at the sight of the children. Achan would talk about how his toys consisted of coconut leaves turned into carts, of having to share the single oversized bicycle with two older brothers, one very strict father and a little sister who always got her way, of jumping into the pond just about anytime he felt like it,of dipping into the great jar of honey whenever he passed by... And my heart would cry out for those simple joys lacking in the dreary desert sands of Kuwait. It was probably why my brother and I became close- I had no one else.

The years passed and the stories changed. Now it was stories of how if you didn't study you'd end up like so and so . And glowing stories of how someone else was doing so well and subtle hints which weren't so subtle. They weren't happy stories anymore. They were serious and grown up and didn't have the spring of the old stories. Those happy stories seemed to have been left behind sometime before your adolescence. Sadly, we grew up. I began to avoid the stories- they only created more confusions. The black white world was turned into a static gray. And again time skipped by swinging his scythe and humming a tune.

College happened, and there was a sudden shift in the equation. I was the one who told the stories while they listened.It was... different. I was in several ways an exhilarating feeling to have your parents listen to you as an equal. And naturally the feeling gets to your head. And much like most highs, it is followed by an deep bone piercing low. You are self reliant now. You do everything yourself,you don't need anyone, everybody(even you)believes that you don't need any help...

And when you go back to your sterile,empty hostel room and stare at the walls you realise how alone that makes you.

The phone rings. It's my mother.

"What happened mole? You don't sound happy."
"I'm fine amma, how are you?"
"Everything is alright over here. Achan and I were just talking about the time when you..."

And time smiles at me. Stories change, people change, places change- but just as we think the milestones are zipping away too fast we look down and see we're traveling the same road, the people who started it with us are still with us. Nowadays, the stories we share are mixtures. Some of it is theirs and some of it is mine. We supply each others examples, add colour to each others tales. The plots are intricate and new characters keep coming in. The stories change, but never stop.

ARISE!!!

Oy!Wake up!!

That was to the blog.

Yes it has been awhile...but the sad lack of a comp and net connection demands that this sad lack of updates be overlooked.
This post talks about one of my favorite subjects- waking up.
I always feel it's a rather mean thing to put a being to bed when it doesn't want to[say, around 8pm( infernal I know)]-and just when it begins to fall asleep, wake it up with admonitions or the staccato rhythms of the detestable alarm clock. And all for what? A measly day in a class room where most of the lecturers simply encourage one to resume ones disturbed sleep.

A nocturnal animal, such as myself, gets the full brunt of such an evil system. I mean- we're supposed to work when we are most alert- not when our greatest inclination is to journey to la-la land. And just as we finally wake completely-alert and tingling with energy- the lights are turned off! The irony! My hostel employs a power saving system where the light in the rooms is cut at 10(which means 9 in most cases).Floundering in the dark, we night lovers are forced back into a stupor for lack of anything else to do- unless of course one braves the vampiring hordes of mosquitoes waiting in the tube light-lit corridors. And believe me- unless you are desperate or courting anemia, such a choice is BAD.

So you see- that's why we are so full of apathy. It's a conspiracy! The evil forces are plotting to keep us, the youth,shrouded in a dazed doze. We're just too sleepy to be bothered if the world is being destroyed by the higher-ups. Well, now that we have a excuse, let's go back to sleep?

Suicide

When purple clouds fill
The skies of life
And rainstorms flood
the ground with fear-
The thing we dread most
Has come to pass:
We are dead to those
We hold most dear.

The soul is gnawed off
The empty shell gapes.
Rotted boards fall off
Among ghostly shapes
A dark stillness haunts-
no heart strikes a beat-
The ashes of time
stick to our feet.

Wild cries turn us hoarse,
Bloody hands,broken doors..
Ripping skin,sinew, bone
Tearing at the human cores.

Silken tethers, burning brands
Curling talons, iron hands
Softly strangle flying hope
Twisting on a hanging rope.

.....

Permanance - A non-mushy love song.

POETS NOTE-It's been a long time since I wrote a non-prose post. And this is my first attempt at this kind.Please assist me in my unsteady fledgling steps.



Absence is Permanance:
For when you are away,
I am calm.
The moment you come back,
I am capsized!
Swerving like a mad pendulum,
To the rhythmless clicking
of that
which used to just pump blood.

I am afraid to move,
Lest this fragile thread
Holding me suspended
Snaps
Leaving me hurtling
Into a dark world...


Stay away from me!
My permanance is your absence
Leave me alone!
Why twist me like this?
Let me be
Let me return
To what I used to be.

Fashion Fracas

The neanderthals felt that animal-skin wraps were "Totally cool".The Cro-Magnon man was most happy in fur leggings. The homo-sapien, with a wide range of fabrics- natural and artificial- doesn't know what to wear.

Ironic? It doesn't cover the half of it.(much like todays fashions)

There are some who know every nuance of fashion in all its fickle glory. And there are others who can hardly make out the difference. I confess i belong to the latter category. If I were asked whether I prefer the A-line with a bolero jacket or the batiste with the bateau neckline- I would be found hiding in the cellar traumatised by the hurricane of fashion shrapnel!

Indeed, the greatest irony is fashion terminology. The logical use of this technical quagmire is probably to simplify ad classify the myriad forms of clothing. However it only serves to further confuse the already hopelessly floundering. Let's take the simple example of jeans. These highly utilitarian denim numbers were boons to the fashion-fumblers. And now even these have been turned against us!! Low waist, high waists, cut-offs,faded, non faded..this, that and the other! Similarly the question of brands. What does it matter if it is Versace or Vemicelli?! Flip over to Fashion T.V and we have Fall fashions and Spring collections etc..etc.. What is the real difference? All the clothes look similar draped on their similar rail thin human-hangers.

Ah but I suppose this sort of classification must exist.One might compare it to art, where there are so many different words for a technique or a type of paint, or a movement of the eyes or the rising of a note... Fashion too is an art- a much maligned one at that. We hypocritically disclaim it- we who have created cosmetics and plastic surgery. It is only fair I suppose that if we know what type of car or what kind of literature we prefer, that we also know what kind of fashion we like. Though it is rather difficult to keep track with what fashion we are wearing when it changes within the blink of an eye.

Why?

Why does it have to rain the one day you wear white?
Why does your handwriting seem the worst when you try to write neatly?
Why does your mind go blank only when you are expected to be smart and witty?
Why does it become third year just as we were getting used to college?
Why do your family leave just when you think you can never be happy without them?
Why is it so embarassing to cry?
Why can't I go home?
Why am I here?
Why do we do what we do?
Why is this important?
Why in hell am i writing this post????

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why?

Why does the rain make the entire world seem so clean?
Why does your mother save things you wrote in third standard?
Why does silence sometimes seem wittier than words?
Why does wisdom creep up on you before you realise it?
Why does your little brother think you are wonderful when you're obviously not?
Why does everything seem shiny when you see through tear drops?
Why does life always pick you up just after it's kicked you in the gut?
Why does family always love you even when you don't?
Why does an alien city accept you with no qualms?
Why does purpose find you when you don't look for it?
Why does a little word mend a heart?
Why do i send this into cyberspace?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

what's Happiness?

For me it's babies laughing...

Dancing in the rain...

Running at break neck speed in a flowery meadow...

Getting a group hug from your family, your friends..

What's happiness to you?

Dusty stories-3

AUTHORS NOTE:- THOSE WHO HAVE NO IDEA WHAT DUSTY STORIES-3 IS ABOUT ARE REQUESTED TO READ DUSTY STORIES 1 AND 2.

STATUTORY WARNING-LOOK IT UP WHILE YOU LOOK AT DUSTY STORIES 2.
_______________________________________________________

From Dust to Dust.

The end approaches.Soon The Four will bid adieu to Ambattur.

Shouldn't the quartet be delirious with joy?
Shouldn't they reel with delight at the thought of dust-less days?

Then why do they feel depressed at thought of leaving?

Ah the irony!

The last few days had been some of the best. Ames, Pyne and Bentley had their names in print and Agent Gunther had several diplomatic assignments in the Reporting Arena. The dust no longer stung as much. They had met absolutely fascinating people like The Disciple and Ten-o-clocker. Even pestilences like the Burper, the Potato-Man and Bulb-Eye had become bearable.They had unforgetable experiences like Bentley's massaging travails, Ames' dizzy spell(NOT FAINT), Pyne's hitherto unknown fans asking for doubtlessly good-looking Pyne's details to supply their smitten friends with. And how can the author forget the dear Mother Goose who showed Pyne,Bentley and Ames the wonders of anna Nagar like Oddessey, besides others.

And of course the buses.

These Terrors of the road have turned into familiars. Though bus routes are still a coiled mystery and small change is permanently elusive- the Four are no longer the novices that hung on for dear life on the bars of an MTC. They are veterans of the road wars- nearly killed, almost hauled out, stepped on, prodded, squashed...they have survived. And now they will be no more surfing, no more long discussions on love, art and the universe of Ambattur.Ah the loss of those days full camaraderie- cursing the heat with good humored vehemence,swearing sweetly at the sweat, laughing like loons at jokes nobody else would find even remotely funny- How will they live without it?

Yet the Four Interns lift up their chins. They will not bend in despondency. The Dusty stories may have ended, but their stories will go on. They turn their faces to the burning sun and look to the road ahead.

After all..

Tomorrow is another day.