Bidding adieu to office blues!

I am destiny’s child (or so I would like myself to believe) and impulse is my driving force. Calculated contemplation was never my strong point and thank god for that. Ideally I’d like to be the master of my own time, but in today’s age of plummeting economy and skyrocketing inflation, this seems like the most atrocious wish of a severely pampered child.

Hence, after some deliberation, I’ve developed a convenient middle path for myself. I keep taking a break from economic enterprise (woe falleth on the Economists of the world who consider housework as non-economic activity) once in a while to indulge myself in the freewheeling state of being footloose and fancyfree.

Keeping this tradition alive I’ve decided to call it a day in Bangalore. I know doing so at this point in life is committing professional hara-kiri. But then, I was never given to seeing my life as a balance sheet (cynics can term it as being impractical).

Right now I am quite excited to go back and slip into the new role of a dutiful housewife, cooking lau chingri and kochchu shaak with gusto. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to doing things that I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Who knows, given my predilection for throwing up surprises, there’s a high chance of you seeing me somewhere that you’d never ever expected to! Keep guessing ;) …

(PS. Tonight it’s wine and cheese and everyone’s invited. :) )

Lit-beat's latest pin-up boy

For those of us, who follow the works of Indian writers writing in English, this year has been phenomenally providential. There have been three major releases so far Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri, The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie and the recent Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. Each writer is a literary heavyweight in her own right but none has received so much media attention as Amitav Ghosh.

Gone are the days when Amitav Ghosh used to be published by the venerable Ravi Dayal. Most of his books then used to be released quietly, without much ado, at the most allowed an academic response in one of the few serious newspapers (as the content would hardly arrest the attention of non-serious readers of fiction).

Not so any more. With a well-known publisher talking over the literary rights, Amitav Ghosh has now been ordained with the mantle of Indian fiction’s most printable face. Since the past few weeks so much of print and air-space have been accorded to Sea of Poppies that people who follow Ghosh’s literary trail quite closely know all that’s there to know about the book and can hold forth in a party conversation without even turning a single leaf.

This leads me to wonder, how beneficial media excess is after all, if it leads us away from the real thing. All said and done, the writer needs to reach out to his readers through his works. Media can facilitate that process to a certain extent but should restrain itself from going into an overkill. Honestly speaking, I do not want to read any more interviews of Amitav, nor do I want to read any dust-jacket-based hastily-cobbled-up review of the book. Simply put, I want the BOOK now to talk to me. Others please step aside, will they?

It's Osian Cinefan Film Fest once again!

After the verbal diarrhoea that assailed me in May, June was spent in relative calm, mostly trying to rid myself of all unwanted emotional baggage accumulated over the past few months, an emotional summer-cleaning if you please.

With July the sporadic showers are back again and so are summer treats like mangoes and jamuns. It’s also that time of the year when Delhi experiences an eleven-day film extravaganza in the form of Osian Cinefan Film Festival.This year the festival is from 10 - 20 July. For those who need some cuing-in, Osian Cinefan is a film festival dedicated to Arab and Asian cinema. Started by Aruna Vasudevan and her movie-loving friends, nine years ago, the film festival is now supported by Osian, the auction-house owned by Nevile Tulli.

Osian Film Fest for me in a single snapshot means sauntering through glittering venues richly decorated with cine artefacts, grabbing an almost-stale patty/sandwich while rushing from one Sirifort auditorium to another, shedding copious amount of tears in a dark auditorium, marvelling at the young directors and their repertoire, secretly wishing to be part of a film production, catching a Makhmalbaf flick in between edit meets and proof reading (thank God office was just a walk away!), and desperately trying to find an auto after a late-night screening and walking back 5 km at 1 am through Delhi’s deserted streets.

As I write this I fight back the intense urge to rush and book a ticket to Delhi (S is to be blamed for steering me clear of it.) Helplessly I click through this year’s schedule and try and live those days, clinging to memories’ unfaltering support. Wish me luck!

Chocolate gateaux, Truffaut and the first May showers

Fast facts first.

• Francoise Truffaut, born in 1932 (6 February), was one of the leading French directors in a genre called new wave cinema.
• He started out as a film critic and later began making his own films.
• Convinced by the idea that a film is primarily an impression of a director’s style (auteur theory), Truffuat left a distinct mark in world cinema.
• Orson Welles inspired him to make his first film “The 400 Blows”, heavily borrowed on his own life experiences, that was released to much critical acclaim.
• Besides “The 400 Blows” some of his other films include “Jules and Jim”, “Shoot the Piano Player”, “Bed and Board”, “Two English Girls”, “Day for Night” (Best Foreign Film Oscar, 1973), and “Small Change” (Golden Globe nomination for Best Foreign Film).
• Truffaut died in 1984 (21 October).

My first tete-a-tete with Truffaut (alack, only through his films) happened as a happy coincidence. Those were the days when I used to be the master of my time. On such a hot May afternoon, while gallivanting Delhi’s streets, I found myself on a quiet tree-lined avenue, near India International Centre, looking askance at a sepia-tinted poster of a handsome man in a beret, posing in front of a camera.

But such was the arresting pose of the person that my oblique attention gave way to a deep probe. As it turned out, Alliance Francaise was screening a retrospective of this auteur and, like most Delhi events, entry was free. Now, the magic of the silver screen has never failed to seduce me. Hence, I happily made my way to the auditorium, and immediately got immersed in the son et lumiere of Traffaut’s cine world.

That May afternoon remains etched in my memory for a variety of reasons. Primarily because I discovered Truffaut’s cine magic and secondly because that evening I had a taste of my first chocolate gateaux, soaked in the annihilating lust of Mathilde’s relationship with Bernard (“Woman Next Door”). And as I was making my way out of Alliance, silently sending a prayer for an afternoon well spent, I was completely caught unawares by the first (read: sudden) showers of the season. Cinema, cakes and walking through laburnum-strewn streets on a rain-drenched evening … what more could I have asked for!

About time

There was once a little girl who placed her trust on this big bad world, unconditionally, without a trace of doubt. For, never in her wildest dreams did she foresee that one day she’d have to pay a price, a price so dear that she'd be left scarred for life.

Cut to a room full of men and women, twenty to sixty years of age. A workshop is in progress. Everyone is asked to recall an incident, a moment in their childhood when they felt physically violated. Nine out of ten people in a sample size of two-hundred report in the affirmative. And yes you’ve read it right, it can happen to males as well.

Paedophilia is no longer a kinky headline in a daily, happening in far flung places. It’s very much a part of our social reality. In fact it always has been, only that it was never reported. Reports say, most cases of paedophilia never go addressed primarily because they never make their way out of family closets. Because of this, what could have been a minor infection, possibly set right by a single dose of antibiotic, has now become a full-blown case of incurable gangrene, so much so that screen narratives (Mira Nair’s “Monsoon Wedding”, Madhur Bhandarkar’s “Page 3”) and print accounts (Pinky Virani’s “Bitter Chocolate”) now deem fit to address, albeit in small measures, this social scourge.

Very few countries have addressed the problem of paedophilia publicly. One country that has taken bold and positive steps about it is the tiny warn-torn Sri Lanka (yes incredible, isn’t it?). Its Family Welfare Department has been regularly issuing posters for parents, teachers and older children to make them aware of this malaise. Children are encouraged to talk about it, confide in their parents and teachers if they are abused. Adults are counselled on how to exactly deal with a child who’s been traumatized by any such incident. Taking the cue from its neighbour, the Indian government is slowly breaking free from its shell. The recent visuals/adverts on Doordarshan usher a welcome and much-awaited change.

It is something that has happened to me. It is something that has happened to a lot of people I know. Your child (God forbid) can be the next victim. Get vigilant. Act now!

No laughing matter this

Well it’s official now. Somewhere between driving ourselves to achieving that elusive bottomline and managing to stay just above the deluge that comes in the name of work, we have lost our sense of humour. But believe me we, as Indians, had loads of it! At least that’s what our folklore tells me.

But that was a long, long time ago. Long before the bane of globalization hadn't crept in and made competition a dirty word. Laughing at yourself and the world at large was not considered inappropriate (read: uncouth) then. As a matter of fact, court jesters were held responsible to keep the king’s head in place and inject good cheer and commonplace wisdom into the lives of people as well. Had it not been for court wits like Birbal and Gopal Bhand, Akbar and Raja Krishnachandra would have become grumpy old men, not kings of repute they are known to be now. Life is indeed not funny at the top, and court jesters knew that only too well.

Fast forward to the twentieth century and the picture is far from being a happy one. Trust Bollywood to tickle your funny bone and all you get is ribald, slapdash humour in return. Look to your colleagues, with whom you spend most of your waking hours, for mirth and you draw a blank there as well.

Laughter is not a well-coordinated exercise every morning, it is much more than that. A spontaneous outburst of joie de vivre when the boardroom is heaving under a cloud of stress, a glint of naughtiness in the eyes, a penchant to laugh at oneself when everyone thinks you’ve done a great job are what we sorely miss in our dying-to-reach-nowhere society. At least I do!

What's cooking?

Like a true-blue Bangali, I salivate over the aromas that waft from the kitchen and can spend hours exchanging notes on anything from shukto to sushi. But unlike other members of the ilk, when it comes to brandishing my culinary skills willingly, I cut a sorry figure. Simply put, I am a reluctant cook of the very first order.

Which is not to say that I have faltered. I know there are mouths to be fed, parties to be returned…New-age psychotherapy even pitches cooking as an effective stress buster. But evidently, I’ve failed to see through it all.

Cooking for me is a cumbersome exercise. Period. And predictably so, since the whole rigmarole starts with the basic dilemma “what to cook”. On good days, when contents spill forth from the fridge and strike you with a brainwave, you hit the stew-pot instantly. But, after a hard day at office with hunger pangs gnawing at your guts, your “Aha” moment seems aeons away!

But then I am a Bong (oops bangali ;) ) and being a foodie is sort of mapped in my genes. I need my luchi fix almost every Sunday, a steaming hot Ilish machher jhol as rains lash the parched earth, notun gurer payesh when there’s nip in the air, not to mention other droolworthy delights. Hence, no matter how much I hum and haw, I still reach for the kitchen when I’m feeling down and pamper myself with a lip-smacking dish.

And, oh yes … did i mention ... there’s always enough for gatecrashers.

Up close and personal ... but how?

My PR mantra has always been short and sweet: Get up close and personal (all pun intended ;P). Any day, if permitted, I’d always go for a chat over chai than for an inane conversation on the messenger window. Hence, you can imagine my horror when I landed myself into a workplace that primarily uses the messenger window for all kinds of exchanges ;) …

That evening I went back from office and relayed this atrocious convention (still smarting with incredulity) to a friend … “It’s Bangalore my friend”, pat came his reply, “welcome to the IT city!” That is when the reality of it all struck me. Being in all kinds of organizations over the years, I was accustomed to the vagaries of human nature. But never could I anticipate that one day I'd come across such a scenario.

Packed like sardines, resembling a third-world sweatshop, where your co-worker was just an elbow away, this place expected you to communicate with her through a messenger window!!! Excuse me… I’d much rather walk up to her and explain myself … sil vous plait.

“Tut tut, my child”, the grand dame raised her brow in disapproval. “This is the kosher corridors of the IT world. That’s not how we do things here”. “Even if you think that an hour’s vigorous typing in your chat window fails to convey what a five-minute-call can, you still have to make it work. Rules are rules,” the grand dame ended in a huff.

One year down the line, I’m still sticking it out, trying to find a rhythm for my loud mouth into the rap-a-tap of the keyboard. But yes, at times I do miss the storm-over-teacup sessions and the bonhomie of a friendly banter. Maybe some other time?

Bonding over bondas

Those of you who are familiar with Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University, smugly called JNU, will know about the most hip and happening place of this intellectual arena. Ok here’s the clue: it’s the place you come across as soon as you let yourself in through the “hallowed portals”, it’s got a rustic look, doesn’t even remotely resemble the swanky classrooms and buzzes almost 24/7. If you are still trying to figure that out, let me cue you in: it’s the one and only Ganga Dhaba.

Though the word dhaba, in the conventional sense, brings with it images of highway bonhomie over a rustic meal, yet as you weave your way through the scores of babul trees dotting Ganga Dhaba you’d be least reminded about one. Open from morning till 2 in the night, this dhaba actually comes to life post 5 pm, once all the classes are done with and the burden of staid discourses safely deposited where they belong best.

If you happen to arrive a little late you’ll find the numerous cement blocks that serve as seats “taken”. In that case, ensconce yourself on the curb close by and soak in the “ambience”. But before that you need to answer your tummy call.

Like any other university canteen in the country, Ganga Dhaba dishes out the regular fare of samosa and chai but what sets it apart are the steaming aloo bondas, served with a dash of sauce on the side. A bite into this bread-and-potato wonder and you’ve already decided to come back for your second one!

When you’ve had your fill, you decide to get a bit more nosey and start chatting up with the boy behind the counter. Despite the rush, he is more than willing to talk about all that goes on in the dhaba, be it an innocuous evening discussion about a cricket match or the protest marches ending with fiery speeches, steaming chai and aloo bondas, at 2 in the morning. And as you watch him draining oil from the batch of fried bondas, you can’t help yourself from digging into another one of those fried goodies. Calorie watching can go to the winds for a day.

Look East and this is what you see!

Call it the stylized antics of a new-age Nero or the worst form of autocratic repression, the recent steps taken in the wake of Cyclone Nargis by the military junta (claiming to be an elected government) of Burma are nothing short of calculated genocide. As more and more news trickle out of the country, one is horrified to learn the extent to which a state machinery can go, to prove itself invincible (?).

First there was just Aung San Suu Kyi—the leader elected by the majority to govern the country and hence held under house arrest by the junta—to prove how repressive this regime can be. Then came the sudden (and massive) protests by monks and the ensuing bloodbath to muffle whatever voice of dissent was left. Finally, when all seemed quiet on the eastern front and dust was gradually beginning to settle down, cyclone Nargis struck the small nation in all its sound and fury.

Within days, as rotten bodies piled up and chances of an epidemic looming large grew, the military government once again proved that it is what exactly the world thinks it to be: a heartless system run by a bevy of barbaric men. The government left no stone unturned to prove itself worthy of the cause: aid workers were denied access, international aid was confiscated, cds were distributed instead of food and clothing, hordes of inmates in the country’s most-dreaded prison were secretly shot.

While all this mayhem was playing havoc in the lives of innocent people, the government came out in all its fanfare, announcing that it has conducted an “election” and has even succeeded in winning it. Such is the atrocity of the act that any comment in the face of it will only belittle the effort of nameless heroes, fighting a lost (?) battle for a decent life in this once-bejewelled land.

Oil democracy? Aha..

More and more Americans are taking the public transport system to work these days, says a New York Times report. This does not imply however, that Uncle Sam’s nieces and nephews have suddenly started to count their carbon footprints. It’s just that oil prices have skyrocketed to such an extent as to propel the dollar-rich Americans to walk (or ride, shall we say) the plebeian way.

Now isn’t this a classic example of chaos theory being played out in garish technicolour! The fluttering wings of a butterfly might not (or maybe yes, who knows) cause a typhoon in Brazil, but big daddy’s oil democracy is definitely backfiring at a time when any false move can be fatal. But as the biggies play out their own games in the circus called “world politics”, let’s try and feel the pulse of what the common man on the road … er tube is thinking about shifting gear.

Samuel Jones, a worker with a construction company, is one such person who has had to “downgrade” his commute from a smooth ride down the highway in his own car to a jostling-for-elbow-space travel in a Boston tube. His wife has recently bought a swanky new car but doesn’t have enough dough to pay for its gas on a daily basis. Samuel and his wife now feature in a growing breed of Americans who are feeling the pinch where it hurts the most because of a blinkered foreign policy and cut-throat capitalist ideology.

While this happens, thousands of miles away on the other side of the globe, a city witnesses sudden boom and a skewed growth. But when the euphoria dies down at this side will the denizens please spare a thought on the enormous cost such a political (read: economic) model entails?

How are you Bangalore?

All is not well with the world, definitely not with the denizens of India’s Silicon Valley. A recent report in Times of India (TOI) brings to the fore the shocking news that Bangalore has the second highest suicide rate in the country, after Chennai. On an average, seven people commit suicide every day in Bangalore.

Ironically, death is a great leveller. Or so it seems from the statistics recorded by TOI. It says that suicides are not restricted to any particular class or caste, but cuts across all social spheres. The same day witnessed a daily wage labourer as well as an IT geek ending their lives.

The report makes us sit up and think. How did things go so horribly wrong with this beautiful city? Why are people, riding high on dreams and wishing to see them come true, suddenly opting to head to a point of no return? TOI spoke with a few psychiatrists in the city and the obvious answer was that all this is stress-induced. Very well, now that we know the demon can we also scheme up ways of quelling it?

My one-year-old experience in the city says it’ll really need a thorough clean-up of the hard-drive (read: mindset). Several times, I’ve tried striking up a conversation with well-heeled professionals in the city. Honestly, I’ve never been able to proceed beyond two lines. Each time I begin with renewed enthusiasm I’m instantly snubbed by well-meaning (?) comments like, “So are you planning to change your job? You’ve already been sticking around for a year!!!” Before I can make out where exactly this query is taking me to, pat comes another question, “So when are you planning to buy a flat?”.

Colleagues at the office are no different. Each day I encounter smarties sporting latest brand labels with the panache of a ramp-walker, exchanging notes on when to bag the next buys! Hence, it’s needless to say that a society so lost in the whorls of consumerism will naturally bite the dust, when things do not fall in place.

It’s not that we are not aware of the clever tag line that says, “There are some things money can’t buy”. It’s just that all of us now need to tell ourselves that there are MOST things that money can’t buy. Let’s not try to gauge life based on the wallet size or asset value of a person.

Auto-suggestion is the need of the hour.

Swalpa adjust madi

If cities were allowed to have their own tag lines, Bangalore’s would definitely have been “swalpa adjust madi” that loosely translates as “please adjust”. Whether you are a traveller passing by or one who has lived in the city for a fair amount of time, you soon learn to come to terms with this bear-it-with-a-grin mantra. Right from politicians to your neighbourhood kirana shop owner, everyone throws this phrase at you, at the slightest pretext.

· No power for a whole day? It happens … swalpa adjust madi.

· Pot-holed roads giving you the ride of a life-time? Your auto driver grins sheepishly at you and mutters … swalpa adjust madi.

· Road choc-a-bloc with the worst possible traffic snarl in the history of any “civilized nation”, while you frantically try to inch your way through … A fellow passenger comes out with the prescient adage … swalpa adjust madi.

· The state has been with a see-saw government (at times none) for god knows how many years now … your obsequious neta will fashion out the most unctuous grin, kowtow, and sigh indulgently … swalpa adjust madi.

Bangalore—cocooned comfortably in its air-conditioned surreal world, negotiating with simulated identities—seems so blasé about this whole please-bear-with-us attitude that at times you really long for a proactive civil society in this so-called “civilized” city, that wears it “developed / hi-tech” image on its sleeve all the time.

Is anyone listening?

Raise your hands to UE

Reams of print have been dedicated to Jhumpa Lahiri’s new bestseller “Unaccustomed Earth” (UE). Readers who love to follow the trails of Jhumpa’s endearing characters by now must have devoured the book, cover to cover, the fine print as well.

I quite like Jhumpa’s writing, though her first book “Interpreter of Maladies”, didn’t seem all that exciting to me, barring a few stories. Jhumpa Lahiri’s, herself a second-generation Bengali settled in the US, observations take a very interesting turn when one compares it to those of Sunil Gangopadhyay, the well-known Bangla writer. While Jhumpa’s perceptions are guided by the ken of an insider who is aware of the skeletons in the closet, Sunil Gangopadhyay’s rose-tinged view misses (quite naturally) the moles and warts of a life in the land of dreams.

Now coming back to UE. I was glad to see how much Jhumpa has matured as a writer. I am notorious for leaving my books unfinished, but UE made me break that old habit quite unconsciously. Before I realized, I had already reached my point of no return … and was getting a withdrawal symptom too.

Though all is well, yet I have a nagging doubt creeping surreptitiously and threatening to engulf my senses if I do not let it out immediately! So here it is. I didn’t like the title of the book. Now c’mmon… what kind of a title is “Unaccustomed Earth” pray? Did Jhumpa run out of creative steam while fashioning a name for her book? Tell me that I’m wrong. Would love to believe that!

Salaam seventy mm

What does the term 70 mm conjure up for you? Popcorn-laced evenings, spent in the cool comfort of a movie theatre with the flick of your choice keeping you company? Well, to me it meant pretty much the same thing, until a few years back, until the multiplex mania hit mera Bharat mahan’s movie market, that is.

Though high-heeled movie buffs will snigger in scorn, yet to a person used to buying a “hall ticket” at a measly sum of seven rupees not so long ago, the multiplex glitter indeed comes with a price. A baby’s day out at a nearby multiplex now costs no less than three hundred rupees with movie, popcorn and the works.

Now I confess: I am one who needs my regular dose of framed masala. Either I scour for it in free screenings at film fests or I queue up at wallet-denting shows in the “mall”-igned venues. But then, life need not necessarily operate in extremes. Middle path was always the preferred way of the middle kingdom. So I too found my way out. Yes I’d buy a dvd player, is what I decided!

But then another irritant raised its ugly head. “Dvds also come with a price. Didn’t you know that?” winked this petulant upstart of a question and managed to leave a football-sized crater in my ego. I took the challenge like a true “knight” and googled vigorously for the next couple of minutes. My search results showed “seventy mm”.

For those who tuned in late, seventy mm is an online video rental service that has operations in Bangalore, Mumbai, Delhi, Chennai, Chandigarh and Hyderabad. It has a fairly good collection of Hollywood and regional movies and is in the process of building its “international” collection as well. Two kinds of memberships are available: limited (just 4 movies a month) and unlimited. Let me assure you, if you are one who needs a regular cine fix, seventy mm will seem godsent to you.

I was never a social person. Bangalore has made me an unsocial beyond redemption. Thanks to seventy mm, I am living my (dis)reputation to the hilt!

Talk sex … shall we?

This is 21st century India honey (as if you needed mine telling you that!!!). So what if India used to once be the land of K-sutra … we are now heavily draped in the most regressive form of Victorian morality. Sex has to be there but swaddled in idiotic and gross double-talk.

Take Bollywood movies, for instance. Can we have a “real” kiss for godsake? Not the “late outswinger” kind of body movement that comes by way of an apology for a kiss. Can the camera please freeze a plausible erotic act rather than doling out smudged screenshots of a simulated orgasm?

New-age India is all about going forward. Gen-next is asserting itself like never before. But try having an intellectual talk on erotica with the crowd that peppers its talk with loaned terms like “fuck you” and all you get is a response steeped in confusion and prejudice.

Enough of reaching for a release behind the curtain. It’s high time we all came clear.

Let’s talk sex … shall we?

At 15.30 pm this is how I feel

For those of us, who are used to scratching their heads in the name of work, nine hours spent cooped up in a 3’ by 2’ workhole can be an excruciating experience. Mornings are spent in relative calm, surfing and trying to get into the work mode. It’s the post-lunch session that seems to draw on, stretching relentlessly like the arid zones of Sahara.

Earlier office was fun. Work, or what seemed like work, waltzed its way between Orkut and G-talk. Then came the party pooper, in the name of “bandwith issues”. Result: all social networking sites, and a good part of me as well, became inaccessible for ever.

Now I’m not one of those born with a silver spoon who can boast of a spiffy new lappy with a fast-n’-furious connectivity at home. I rely on my dear masters to enable me while away my time gainfully …er creatively. Hence, though I am not particularly in hell when I am at work now, I’m definitely in high water, desperately trying to wade my way through another yawn-inducing day.

Wish me luck.

Joining the blog-wagon ... finally!

Having spent a considerable part of my life wielding the blue pencil, sifting through other people’s writings, there was one thing I had decided quite early on … I was never going to write myself. This decision was largely influenced by a comment I had heard about editors: “Editors are like eunuchs in a harem; they see it being done so many times, but can seldom do it themselves”. But little did I know then that someday I too would be swayed by charms of blogosphere, and make the heady move of jumping into the blog-wagon.

So here I am daring to bare, a la nishikutumbo style. Those of you who haven’t already had your fill of 30-somethings hyperventilating in Bridget Jonesian fashion are welcome to eavesdrop into these all-rant-and-no-substance posts. The blog purports to be nothing serious. It’s about quotidian realities, travails and tribulations, tears and laughter and everything in between, just a manner of making sense of life by someone who muddles most of the time and blots out reality once in a while.

While I key in these words I suddenly realize that the gen-next’s (still can’t get to think myself as that though) sounding board is merely a frosty electronic page rather than a warm flesh-and-blood human being. But behind this seeming silence also lies the possibility of reaching out to millions and touching them in some way or the other. I'd be blessed if I can manage to realise even a fraction of that possibility.