tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17353413309096019542024-03-14T08:28:35.637+05:30SpectrumReminiscence of lifePavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-25192312776556490042015-11-18T00:50:00.003+05:302015-11-18T00:50:59.747+05:30Journalism for journalism sake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Pavan Kumar
H<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not so long
ago, there were boundaries for opinion and counter opinion of both citizens and
editors, in the newspaper—the centre page. However, with the introduction of
power jacket and double jacket advertisements the centre page items started
slowly creeping on to the front page, which was dedicated exclusively for the
top news of the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Today, the
lead stories of most newspaper are not decided on the basis of the importance
but on the basis of political stand a newspaper has taken. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are
leftist ideology based newspaper, rightist views, centre of left and tabloid.
It’s unfortunate that there is hardly any newspaper, which is standing for
journalism for journalism sake. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Of late,
the word intolerance has been bombarded on us so many times that we are being
willingly or unwillingly forced to take sides. Can one ‘controversial’ man
divide India into two sides, his way or highway? I don’t think so. More than
his and his party men deeds, it is our biases that are making us take sides. We
are getting so used to option of filtering that we are refusing to hear, read
or even make an effort to understand the counter view point. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And with
pain I have to say that few of our seniors’ journalists across the media houses
are working so hard to make sure that the word #prestitutes stick on to our
profession. When an anchor of a famous TV channel says on her show that ‘I walk
with my balsas rolled up on the sleeves,’ what more can you expect out of such
biased journalists. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It is
unfortunate that most of the journalists have forgotten the Newton’s third law-
for every action there would be equal and opposite reaction. They are carrying on with their hidden agenda
to such an extent that they were forced to face the wrath of the readers, not
just in India but also outside the country when they go for coverage. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Media
houses are no longer the sources of information and least does one expect to
hear the biased opinion of the so called expert columnist. Sooner the
journalists learn this fact the better it is for them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Another
accusation that media houses are facing is their urgency to jump to the
conclusion. Before, a case unravels itself fully, the ‘news hungry’ anchors, as
they are being called now a days, are jumping to the conclusion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The best
example of this is the recent cases of Dadri lynching and killing of
‘researcher’ Prof M M Kalaburgi. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Its been
almost two months now since the two unfortunate incidents took place. The
investigating officials themselves don’t have full facts with them, yet some
section of media pronounced the judgment. Do these media houses have an answer
to the question of common man, as to how they came to this conclusion? Their
answer would be ‘sources cannot be revealed’. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What if the
‘sources’ led the media houses into a trap, as it was evident during the
Aarushi murder case. What will be the reaction of the media house if it turned
out to be totally opposite than what they had perceived? Will they have a face to show to the society?<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is
another issue that these journalists while giving talk to budding journalists
call, its ok to broadcast a news few minutes late, but the news has to be
accurate. But when in newsroom, their hypocrisy is thoroughly exposed when they
don’t even spare mothers, sisters and others while ‘demanding’ for news to be
broadcast first on their channel. Else, how can they publish their favorite tag
line: ‘ours was the first channel to break the news on India television.’ Most
of the time, they certainly have broken case, that too far from reality. <o:p></o:p></div>
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How many
times have we not heard an anchor shouting from top of his lungs that society
is killing the messenger and not the message. It’s unfortunate that there is no
punishment for the messenger who brings the wrong message!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-44427126651724249672013-05-24T23:52:00.003+05:302015-11-02T00:06:39.348+05:30Her name in silent whisper <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JpkeC6BgzBE/UaJX6GF9jkI/AAAAAAAAAFg/QWdxlCzbCYA/s1600/sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JpkeC6BgzBE/UaJX6GF9jkI/AAAAAAAAAFg/QWdxlCzbCYA/s320/sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"While I celebrate seven years of being rejected, she
might not even recall that on this very day, she mercilessly rejected a boy's
proposal and broke his heart," said a man standing next to me, in a shaky
voice, on the Mangalore beach. He was crying. Like a man does when all hopes
lead to dead-end. The cry in which there would be no tears, but trembling voice
embodying the emotions.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">His hands raised in despair, walking precariously on the
huge boulders that were thrown into the Arabian Sea in a symmetrical order at
the convening points of Thanirbahvi and Panamboor beaches. He called his own
name loud, "R****** what have you done to yourself" and almost in
secret whisper he called her name... and with the increasing decibel of sound,
he would say, "Why did you do this to me?" He said this for at least
ten times and all those times he made sure that, her name was censored.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I did not mind him much. Took my tripod and camera out and
tried to balance it on that uneven surface.
In few minutes, the tiny Sun would rest into the vast heart of the sea
and relax in the deep and darkest place of the sea until the next morning :) </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />In a trial and error method, I adjusted the aperture and
played with the ISO. After nearly eight clicks, I was satisfied with the
settings of my camera. 'Perfect’, I said to myself. The Mangalore beach and
setting sun have never disappointed me, when it comes to posing. Like a perfect
model, she would dress up with different shades of orange and red dresses. As
part of make-up, she would just puff some clouds on her cheeks and then the
high tides would cat-walk towards the sand to the tunes played by the smooth
breeze.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />Today, she was
completely in red. She was in middle of the clouds that was roughly shaped as
heart, yes the same shape that the lovers use to convey all meaningless things.
The red rays of sun were only emerging out from the top end where as the
pointed shape of the heart made by cloud was white over a light orange
background. The portion of sea in front of me had completely turned red, as if
she has slit some demon’s throat and his blood was floating on the water. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I first clicked just the Sun's picture and zoomed out just a
little to capture tiny bit of sea at its bottom. The 17-300 mm lens was further
zoomed out and keeping the dying sun in the left top third eye rule, I covered
the vast sea to show - with what majesty was the tiny Sun fighting vainly.
Sun’s death was inevitable! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />The Sun was left with final breaths; the upper most part of
Sun's circumference was at the sea-level and in my frame, it was just few
centimetres above the bottom left, the sun was not in total focus. It was
looking just like light spot without any shape. While majority of the frame had
covered Sea, the object that was actually in focus was the light house bidding
adieu to Sun by its light as if saying, 'not to worry friend, I am there for
you...'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />If not for the stupid
man who was so far, within two nanoseconds away from my frame, I would have
clicked the perfect picture. Click, goes my button, and with that, even the sun
into the water. Needless to say that I could not get what I wished for.
However, he got what he deserved, a mouthful from me. From Ba*****rd to Mo****
Fu****..., I was fuming, just like the Sun when he is right on our head. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />The man walked out of the frame and far from me even without
looking at me... with just his hand raised, as if meaning to say sorry. I was
still fuming and frustrated of losing such a good shot. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />Meanwhile, he settled down on the beach, staring at the sea
even in that darkness. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I packed in my tools into the bag, and shed my anger as
there was nothing I could do over the lost opportunity. I felt bad for scolding
that man... walking towards my car, I stopped at him and said sorry. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"I did not mean to say those words. It was just a spurt
of anger of losing....", and even without letting me complete my sentence
he said, "I can understand that I should not have come in the middle of
your frame." He sounded like a mature man with a level head on his
shoulders.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I shook his hand and introduced myself to him and he told me
his name. He was a journalist, working with one of the best newspapers in the
nation. Curiosity was bustling in me to know his love story and the reason
behind his cry and disappointment. "All fine with you mate? Hope your girl
is all right. Is she alive..." before I could ask him the last question he
spoke with urgency... "She is perfectly fine. She is happy and working
fine in a newspaper office."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Oh, she is also a journalist like you?" I asked him
astonished. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />For the first time in the entire evening, or the past two
hours that we met, he smiled. He was decently dressed. Average looking with
some five ft nine inches tall and slim built. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"But you were almost crying there”, I asked my next
question. He kept silent for a long time. I thought he was not interested in
telling me further. I walked few steps away from him, while he had tucked his
face deep into his palms. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"What will you do knowing my one sided love
story", a voice from that cupped palms came. I turned towards him and
said, "Nothing... it is just that I have never heard a journalist's love story.
I did not know that they have so much time for love too!" He laughed at my
ignorance and foolishness. His smile said something which could be equated to
‘are journalists not humans?’ </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I sat next to him, with eagerness to hear a journalist’s
love story. "Do not think of a happy ending of my story. It is a story of
a failure and a man rejected," he started. Without giving me a chance to
respond, he said again. "Had it been successful, instead of being on the
cradle of beach I would have been in her arms today..." And for the next
few seconds, he went into silence mode. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />His voice was charged up. He had some joy in narrating the
story there after. The smile did not leave him then. He was a charm to see then
on wards. "I was doing my bachelors and she was my classmate. We were in a
class of 53. There were only 8 boys and rest were girls and the college
demography was almost reverse of the Indian ratio of girls. For every one boy,
there were potential three girls to date. And I chose her, only her”. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"She was not the most beautiful girl this world has
ever seen, but she was pretty. She was intelligent, matured, level headed...,
and more over she was my kind of girl. That explains why I fell for her. In
other words, I did not have a choice of not falling for her. Even today there
are friends who say that she is arrogant, has attitude problem... but you see I
had this 'lovetaract' where my feelings had covered my eyes to see logic in
their words. And who the hell will think of logic and all when you see such
beauty. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I do not properly remember the day or situation when I first
saw her, for my love was not love at first sight. But I do remember the day I
fell in her love. It was 14 July 2006, Friday, morning 8:54 (six minutes before
the class started). The rainy season had just started in the coastal region.
There was cool breeze running while the rain drops were just sprinkling. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I was standing outside the class enjoying the weather along
with friends. When she came climbing down the steps, adjusting her untied
hairs. I did not see her as an angel walking down the aisle. She wasn't like
the first ray of light that busted out of cloudy sky, a night after heavy
rains. There was no aura around her. Neither did she shine like a drop of dew seen
early morning on those red roses nor did I feel her to be the crescent moon on
a star-less night. She looked just like any other girl. However, the only
difference was, she had the power to bewitch me for that moment and forever. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />Though she was under the blue umbrella, her white dress was
wet, just a little bit, enough to show how beautiful she was. How curvy and how
make-up free!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />A cool breeze swept
even at Panamboor beach. He rubbed his shoulder with palms. By now, his smile
had turned into happiness. He was almost reliving the events that happened some
eight-years-ago (almost a year before he proposed her.) "It may
rain," I said. His answer was simple "let it rain. I love coastal
rains..."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />He started again. "Then and there I was gone, sold old
and ruined forever. I wish that rain had never come; I wish I was inside the
classroom. I wish I never went to that college or best I never existed..."
Few more seconds of silence again.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"I was not myself thereafter. I was almost in her
control. It was just that she did not know that she had the control keys with
her, so much so, that in the middle of my second year of course, I went to the
head of the department of the subject which she had taken and asked him if I
could join that course leaving my favourite computer science subject. That was
the only class that separated us in the college. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"Things started turning bad on my side. I started becoming a
poet. Whatever I could not dare to speak to her, I started jotting them down on
a piece of paper. What started on piece of paper ended up in not just one but
two books, most of them in praise of her beauty. On her smile itself, I must
have written some 20 poems. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"It was evident that I was not concentrating on my
course subjects as much I was concentrating on her. While the English lecturers
were teaching romanticism and modern poems, I was busy, during the class hours,
writing my own verses on her beauty and hymns explaining my devotion to
her."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He turned towards me and said in a husky voice, "The
only important lesson I learnt from the poetry classes was that no great poet
had ever won a heart of the girl he liked. Be it Wordsworth, Shakespeare,
Yeats, the list is endless ... Most of my friends, even today tease me, 'you
turned out a great poet, thanks to that girl and not because of your
lines.' </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I smiled, he sniggered and started his narration. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"Like any other college love story, everyone else
noticed my feeling for her apart from the person concerned. You must have read
that SMS- 'If a boy likes a girl in college, apart from the girl everyone else
know about it and if a girl loves a boy in College, except the boy no one else
knows about it.' well something similar was my case”. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"Every time, I made some special appearance in the
class, cracked a joke, made fool of myself... while my friends’ vocal cords
remained silent, their eyes used to say only one thing 'we know why 'the f***'
you are doing this!' And she was like- nothing is happening around her. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />Bad was about to turn worse when one of my 'friendly enemy '
threatened to break this news to her. I feared and at the same time felt happy.
At least by this, someone would be conveying my feelings to her. Then, I
realised what would be the repercussions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />It was April 25, 2007, Wednesday afternoon 3:38. We had
finished our English exam on that day and had 10 days gap for the next exam. I
asked her for an appointment. And as assured, she came on time at the decided
place - Near the Journalism department HOD's chamber. To my 'bad luck', she was
wearing the same white dress and was looking stunning, making me nervous and
resulting in words stumbling in the mouth itself. I was almost stammering. I
don't know what exactly I said, but this is what I intended to say. And without
beating around the bush I said, "I have feelings for you. Maybe I know
your response, but it is just that I do not want a third person to tell you
this. That is why I am jumping the gun and telling you my feelings”.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />She laughed, for almost 45 long seconds, and then said, “I
knew this was the case, by your behaviour. But seriously, I don't have any such
feelings for you”. She just said what I already knew. She did not even take a
nanosecond time for the reply. It was as if pre-loaded.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />It started to drizzle in Panamboor. We did not move an inch
from our place. I just made sure that my camera was safe and turned towards
him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"I did not stop liking her. What I stopped was to make
it obvious to my friends. We were under the same roof, but not alone. We were
together for eight hours, but not with each other. We looked at each other, and
I feared that someone else would also be looking at us. We behaved as if we
were two strangers but friends because we were studying in the same class. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"For some reasons, even after rejection, I could not
accept what she had said. I knew her decision was final and I don't have even
an iota of chance of winning her love.
But something in my heart did not allow me to kill those feelings for
her. I did follow her, literally. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"Every evening after college hours, I had one major
work. I could skip breathing and afford not doing that work. She used to live
in a town near our college and used to catch a private bus to go home. My duty
was to escort her to the bus stop. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"While she walked on the footpath on the left side of
road, I was following her on the right side, some 100 feet behind. All I wanted
to see is her waving hands to her friends at the bus stand with a bright smile
on face. I always assumed that 'Tata' was for me. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"It was not easy being so. But I did not have a choice.
I was just trying to help myself to be happy. I seriously did not know what it
is called- the way I was feeling. I was told that love is when two hearts have
feelings for each other, but what do they call when only one person has love
filled in his heart and another person do not even have a heart- One side love?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I tried hard to stop liking her. I wanted to live my life
and not carry her in my heart. I tried to kill my inspiration. I stopped
writing poems. But nothing worked. The more I tried to put my pen down, more
beautiful did the line come up. I was stubborn, I did not write them. I just
hummed them and forgot them. And make myself a promise of not repeating such
mistake. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />I am such an unlucky lover. I was supposed to go to a nearby
town for withdrawal of money from the ATM in the same town she lived, the day I
proposed her. And the bus I was sitting had only one more seat left and that
was next to me. The bus did not move for the next 10 minutes. Frustrated, I got
into the bus and after two minutes, she came to the stop, climbed the bus and
sat in the small-sized seat where I was sitting. And the bus left the stop, the
very next second without giving me a chance to react. Thousands of such
incidents have happened. "I always console myself by saying that I missed
her by a whisker." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />He turned towards me and said, there are very few things I
fear and one thing I fear the least is being rejected. I did not drop my love
then; I am not dropping it now. I shall continue to love her... ever and
forever. But this time, I shall not propose her, nor do I expect her to come to
me. I do not want her anymore physically to like her. I know how to live and
love her without her being with me. Seven years has taught me that. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />"Tomorrow, if she comes to me with feelings for me, I
may just walk away from her without saying yes." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />We both were drenched completely, till our underwear. While
I was trembling to speak, his voice modulation was solid. The rain made it
difficult for me to notice whether he was crying or not. His voice did not give
any indication, but his taking away of eyes from me did arise doubt. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />He spoke again, "This is it, my love story- a story of
missed chance. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Another half an hour was spent in trying to get some more
not so important details. But he was adamant in not revealing the most
important information- her name. He would say the same answer for any number of
times I asked him to reveal her name. "One side lover does not have the
right and permission to reveal the girl's name. Just like you cannot reveal
your account’s password for security reasons and she is my password."</span></span></div>
<br /></div>
Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-68933278594377291882012-08-09T03:10:00.002+05:302012-08-09T03:10:55.942+05:30I you, and you I sun…<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When you sun, after seeing your</div>
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Beloved ‘sea’ for days, years and centuries</div>
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Can’t get satisfied and come again</div>
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To see them every morning. Then how</div>
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Can I; who see my girl for a minute or</div>
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A second or a glimpse can get satisfaction.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh almighty sun, is this fair that</div>
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One strong lover like you gets all the right</div>
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To see your queens for ever and I because of</div>
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My weakness’ doesn’t get that chance.</div>
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Oh lord sun can we do like this; shall we </div>
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Change our character.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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You see your love for a moment and </div>
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give me the chance to inhale ‘my love’ completely</div>
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in me for one whole day. Ok.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wait; will my thirst for her end in one day?</div>
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If not, don’t worry sun god we shall change</div>
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Our character every day till I get satisfaction.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And for your saying that “I have ‘five’ sweet hearts </div>
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To look after so I am given that much time”, I </div>
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Tell you look at my girls eyes with your mask of</div>
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Rainy season and tell whether or not there</div>
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Lies the passion, the feeling equal to </div>
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Twice the number of darlings you have.</div>
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Now tell me then how much time</div>
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I need to look at her.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Diagnose my queen carefully and </div>
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Tell whether your Indian, Atlantic,</div>
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Pacific, Artic and Antarctic </div>
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Are as beautiful as she is?</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now simply don’t argue. I know</div>
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That for every one their love is </div>
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Great and you can’t win over my love.</div>
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Just tell me whether or not you can help.</div>
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If can’t, then go… go and die there</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where you were born.</div>
</div>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-27265975846203577412012-08-09T03:10:00.001+05:302012-08-09T03:10:31.451+05:30Like Me…<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Like me </h1>
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The new moon pretended </div>
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To smile even after losing </div>
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Its better half.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Like me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Grape pretends to</div>
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Please others,</div>
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Even after fermenting itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like me</div>
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The tall ‘oak’ tree</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stood bold even after</div>
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Its beloved creeper died of age.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Like them, what else </div>
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Could I do, than to suffer and</div>
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Smile!</div>
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<br />I Muted my Heart,</div>
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Which shouted in deep agony.</div>
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Her reminiscence slaps</div>
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My thoughts, like the over-excited </div>
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Waves racing to the beach.</div>
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<br />And the scar carved by that diamond</div>
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Will remain forever on this</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stoned heart. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Pavan Kumar H.<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
05/01/2009</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-90193064939417662372012-08-07T13:56:00.000+05:302012-08-19T14:06:44.070+05:30My dreams, my enemy!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nlHv_Uttluc/UDClgml71OI/AAAAAAAAAEs/BoMRTUjYQaI/s1600/yathish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nlHv_Uttluc/UDClgml71OI/AAAAAAAAAEs/BoMRTUjYQaI/s400/yathish.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
The puffy bed, with rosy bedspread<br />
Has countless thorns.<br />
<br />
Night is what I hate. <br />
<br />
In Eastman colours, like a motion picture,<br />
One after another, a reel of unreal is projected, <br />
Generating turbulence in my Pacific mind.<br />
Not just exaggerations of my deepest desires are these <br />
Dreams, but cruel jokes upon me! <br />
“YOU are NOT what you WANT TO BE!” <br />
They say every night to me. <br />
<br />
I love this girl. <br />
With her I walk, sing, make love and cry…<br />
It is bliss being with her. <br />
Every time I go on single knee<br />
She smiles with a Yes. Every time<br />
I open my arms to propose, <br />
She tucks in me tight and smooch!<br />
<div>
Countless time have we been wedded! <br />
But I wake to reality: My facebook<br />
Relation status still shows SINGLE! <br />
<br />
I am hero, I am legend, I am this and I am that! <br />
I am an achiever at whose feet world root! <br />
There is hardly a thing I can’t achieve… <br />
Every-time I am buried in that grave bed.<br />
But, coming to reality – I realize<br />
I don’t even have the desert that ozymandias’s<br />
Truncated sculpture has. <br />
<br />
I hate night<br />
I curse the moon.<br />
Sun has no sympathy for me- They all just do their duty,<br />
No one caring for my feelings? <br />
<br />
DREAMS, come not me! <br />
You make me feel “the whole universe conspires against me! </div>
<div>
Even the simple things I really want to happen!”<br />
Fearing you DREAMS- countless nights<br />
Have I squatted in the corner of bed with tears rolling. <br />
<br />
Fearing You DREAMS- Left attempting <br />
Those achievable tasks. <br />
Wish to Sleep Like a brain dead, <br />
And wake up to the morning sun of hope. <br />
<br />
- Pavan Kumar H. <br />
18/july/2012</div>
</div>
Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-31892975181220475532012-02-18T18:08:00.003+05:302012-02-18T18:15:13.280+05:30Sins of desire<a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sHgrEg6RmaQ/Tz-cYXIfF8I/AAAAAAAAAEE/6TUV2AtW9Ec/s1600/Pavan_Kumar_Bellary.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 336px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sHgrEg6RmaQ/Tz-cYXIfF8I/AAAAAAAAAEE/6TUV2AtW9Ec/s400/Pavan_Kumar_Bellary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710454794869479362" border="0" /></a><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> 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name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--><span style="font-family: verdana;font-family:";" >It was a retired police constable, in a train journey, who had cornered me in a gruelling debate. He had utter disrespect for the Journalist clans. He accused me and the likes of me. Of being biased, of having hunger for only false and sensational news. He brought to debate life examples- how the highest selling newspaper covers story about a techy falling to death from her posh apartment while ‘deliberately’ neglecting a poor women crushed by truck… burnt by her husband or killed by her paramour. “You sell news only to elite. Do you really have social responsibility?”<br /><br /></span> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"">I very much knew about the “rotten tooth” he was talking about, yet could not agree with him- my professional affinity blocked my convictions and argued with him blindly.<br /><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"">“Kid I have seen many journalists in my life. They come to stations peck news that only sells and not those which are important,” he said. He was firing bullets and I was his ‘bull’s eye’<span style="background:yellow;mso-highlight:yellow"> </span></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“Ears of journalists would erect to full attention the moment we say that few bar girls were arrested in the city… and the same ears would turn dead when we say five gamblers were arrested. ‘Sex’- is that such a big factor in selling newspaper?” his questions were becoming more harsh and provoking.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />I could have ripped off his dignity, for I knew in and out of the police department. How it works, when it works and why it works! I could have put him to utter humiliation by showing him the Lokayuktha report on the number of police officials who were on the wrong side of their duty. Most of them accused of ‘CRIMES’ beyond acceptance.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I kept quiet, unaltered by his venomous words. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />Seeing me un-reactive for minutes, he handed me a four page photocopy of a suicide note and a FIR attached along with it. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />The summary of FIR: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Victim</i>, a widow, aged about 17 was found dead, with eighty per-cent deep burns, under mysterious circumstance. The prime facie evidence says that the victim set herself ablaze after soothing her four-month-old (female) infant to death. A case of unnatural death has been registered at the Earrabli taluk police station in Chitradurga. A suicide note was found in the house- alleging her brother-in-law and her in-laws as the reason for her death. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />I turned to the suicide note. Written in Kannada with lot of grammatical and spelling mistakes was powerful enough to quake my heart. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“The Almighty will not forgive me for what I have done to my baby and what I am going to do now. For only HE has every right to give and take life and not me, but leaving my child in this world and in the hands of those inhuman people mean my child would suffer,” was how the suicide note started. I saw the date on the FIR, it stated 1997 December. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />I looked at the police constable; his hands were trying to hide the tears from running down the cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Read the entire story. The villain is a Journalist,” he said. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I requested him to sit next to me as I found it difficult to understand her writing.<br /><br /><br />“What had I done to the almighty, for He made me so weak and submissive? From the day of my birth he has been testing me, hurting me and failing me in all my attempts,” the police man read to me from the note.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“Victim’s father abandoned mother and four of her sisters after her birth. And at age of three her mother died of illness. The eldest sister looked after her for 10 years and then she started to earn her bread by working as maid,” the police official gave me this additional information, which was not inscribed in the suicide note. <br style="mso-special-character:line-break"><br /><br style="mso-special-character:line-break"> </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"">Skipping the next three paragraphs, which the cop said was not that important, he started reading “I was not ready for marriage at the age of 15, but did I have a choice? NO. My wedding was just like a cattle trade, the groom whose demands were least got my hand. He was 13 years elder to me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“My husband was a gentleman. On our ‘first night’ he promised me that he would keep me happy till end. He did not even touch me on that night saying ‘you are not yet ready for this’. He kept his promise at-least for some days.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“His affection and love changed me, the pressure from in-laws made me to surrender physically to him … not once but many. Our first baby boy was born still/dead on the very same day of our first wedding anniversary. He stood by me, protested against his parents for putting unwanted pressure on me,” the cop continued reading the suicide note. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“But, as it has been all through my life, happiness did not stay with me for more than one and half years. Five days after I gave him the good news of conceiving again, his death news was brought to me. Some-one had killed him. His body was found on the railway track near city (Chitradurga).</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“My in-laws said the money lenders killed him as my husband could not repay them. While the police, who came to my doors twice, said he died in an accident. Truth never reached me.”<br /><br /><br />Looking into my eyes directly the police man said, “It was a murder.” He did not give any further description as who did it. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />He turned to the third page, “I knew what death is and how to live with-out loved ones. More than my life I was worrying about the gift he had left in my womb. ”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“My in-laws distanced themselves from me saying that it was my unborn child, which is responsible for my husband’s untimely death.”<br /><br /><br />“My husband’s last gift to me was a baby girl. Healthy and beautiful she was,” tears were uncontrollable in the cops eyes. Handing over the papers in walked away rubbing his cheeks.’’ </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“Fifteen days after my child’s birth the money lender along with three of his men came asking for repaying the money my husband had taken from them. Rupees Five lakh was what they demanded. I never knew what my husband had done with that money? Where is that now?”<br /><br /><br />“Like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Faristha</i>, sent by the Almighty himself, my brother-in-law came to my rescue. He had a verbal duel with the money lender. After 20 minutes of fight, with grudge in their heart and lips money lenders left us,” the next two lines of the note was distorted by drop of water, assuming it be tears, had spread the ink in original copy. The photocopy made it even hard to read.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><br />“From that day on wards, his (brother in-law) arrival to my house became regular. He said, he has filed a murder case against the money lender and will fight them tooth to tooth. ‘I have good contacts with the police and politicians, so sister-in-law don’t worry, victory would be ours’ was the words he always said to me.”<br /><br /><br />“He played with my child and gave me money for the daily and child’s need every time he came home.” </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“One night, he came to my house at around 10 in night and said ‘to fight the case I need some money’. He started searching my house, but did not get even a single paisa. His eyes had tears. A feel that if money is not arranged we would lose the case, was in him. Like a sister I went near him to console.”<br /><br /><br />“But what happened next, I can’t explain. Shame engulfs me.” </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“He did not come to my house for two days after the shameful night.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A man of money lender came to my house on the third morning and said that I need not pay anything to his boss and ordered me to take the case back.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“Neither did I know how to react to him nor the person to contact next. That evening brother –in -law came home with a box of sweets, flowers and fruits. He explained me how they are going to win the court case and our lawyer had forced the money lender to pay compensation to me.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“No matter how much I tried to distance myself from him, so much near did he come. While his right hand forced my mouth shut… his other hand undressed me. My own dress became a tool for him to mute my cry. The wounds carved by his nails and tooth were so deep that even weaning my child was next to impossible. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“My in-laws took no action against him, and instead blamed me of making false accusation on ‘God’ like man. ‘You have an illicit relationship with someone and putting that blame on our son’ was how they outcaste me.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“Even last night he came home… raped me… threatened to kill my daughter and put that blame on me if I made an issue. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />“Blood came in my nipples while weaning my child. That’s when I decided that living such a life is a sin and burning myself is the only way of washing away my sins,” was how she ended the note.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif""><br />I tried to avoid eye contacting with the police official; else he would notice the tears in my eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><br /><br /><br />“Apart from the FIR, no progress has been made. The case was shut saying it was suicide because of financial problem and she could not bear her husband’s death,” said the cop. Even the original copy of this suicide note is destroyed he added.<br /> <br /> ***<br /></span></p> <p style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="Verdana","sans-serif"">PS: 1.) The names of the characters have been intentionally hidden. We tend to read religion by the mere mention of name.<br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>2.) Brother- in- law was just a stringer with a Kannada newspaper. </span></p>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-43322525890281706882011-10-29T22:38:00.000+05:302011-10-29T22:39:54.291+05:30LOVE?<p>O<em> Thou, Lord of Lords- Cupid </em> </p> <p><em>Sing to me all the "Romantic" poems,</em></p> <p><i>Words describing- beauty, love and lust</i></p> <p><i>Teach me those specific words Adam uttered </i> </p> <p><i>While proposing Eve. Did he go on his Knee? </i> </p> <p><i>Make me listen to what Romeo and Juliet </i> </p> <p><i>Carelessly whispered into each-other </i> </p> <p><i>Walk me trough the tombs at Taj</i></p> <p><i>Narrate how Love do not die with death! </i> </p> <p><i>Salim- Anarkali... Laila- Majnu</i></p> <p><i>Dushantha- Sakunthala...Heer- Ranjha...</i></p> <p><i>Devdas</i></p> <p><i>Were not all of them 'injured' by your arrow? </i> </p> <p><i>Please... Please O lord</i></p> <p><i>Make sure that</i></p> <p><i>I DON'T DO THE SAME<br />BLOODY MISTAKE!!! Again. </i> </p> <p><br /><br /></p>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-8803169565852730732011-07-24T21:30:00.005+05:302011-07-24T21:51:31.775+05:30Far(more) deaths!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6UMaBHQvJec/TixEAZ9BbwI/AAAAAAAAAD8/O3kQdDnQ1c8/s1600/farmer.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6UMaBHQvJec/TixEAZ9BbwI/AAAAAAAAAD8/O3kQdDnQ1c8/s400/farmer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632952007691169538" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Slowly but silently hundreds of farmers are ending their lives in the State, yet government is in a denial mood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >According to information availed under the Rights to information act from the State Crime Records Bureau, a wing of central Home Ministry providing data to National Crime Record Bureau, 2585 farmers have committed suicide in 2010 alone where as the figures provided by the department of law and order (Home Minister) says that 126 farmers ended their life in that year.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >The state Law and Order department, in its reply to a RTI application said that 835 farmers have committed suicide from 2006 to 2010, where as the State crimes record bureau said 10,459 farmers killed themselves during the same period.<br /><br />State Agriculture minister, Umesh Katti seems to be unaware of the grim situation facing farmers as 408 farmers committed suicide in his own district in-charge - </span><span style="font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Belgaum</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" > in 2010.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" ></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Belgaum</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;">, which is known as the sugar bowl of Karnataka, ranked first with 408 farmers suicides, which is the worst in any district in Karnataka in the last decade, followed by Chitradurga (319) and Chikmagalur (261). This number is stunning as the district had not shown such a poor record in the previous years. The border dispute district had recorded 22 farmers’ suicide cases in 2009, 16 in 2008 and 17 deaths in 2007.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" > </span> </p><table class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse:collapse;border:none;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-yfti-tbllook:480;mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;mso-border-insideh: .5pt solid windowtext;mso-border-insidev:.5pt solid windowtext" border="1" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"> <tbody><tr style="mso-yfti-irow:0"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">Year</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left:none;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">State government’s record</p> <p class="MsoNormal">(Law and order- Home Minister )</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left:none;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">National/State Crime Record Bureau </p> </td> </tr> <tr style="mso-yfti-irow:1"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top:none;mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2006</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">53</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">1720</p> </td> </tr> <tr style="mso-yfti-irow:2"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top:none;mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2007</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">254</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2135</p> </td> </tr> <tr style="mso-yfti-irow:3"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top:none;mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2008</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">238</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">1737</p> </td> </tr> <tr style="mso-yfti-irow:4"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top:none;mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2009</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">164</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2282</p> </td> </tr> <tr style="mso-yfti-irow:5"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top:none;mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2010</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">126</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2585</p> </td> </tr> <tr style="mso-yfti-irow:6;mso-yfti-lastrow:yes"> <td style="width:2.05in;border:solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top:none;mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">2011</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">27 (Till March 31, 2011)</p> </td> <td style="width:2.05in;border-top:none;border-left: none;border-bottom:solid windowtext 1.0pt;border-right:solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-top-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;mso-border-left-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt;padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt" valign="top" width="197"> <p class="MsoNormal">Not available </p> </td> </tr> </tbody> </table> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Of-course the state government figures showed that only 9 farmers died in 2010.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Experts and farmer leaders said that total dependency on sugarcane industry and failure of dry crops were the reasons for such a high rate of deaths in the region. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >“</span><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Belgaum</span><span style="font-family:Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" > farmers are totally dependent on the sugarcane factories, as they are the only major customers for them. With these factories neglecting or not paying the due amount in time; this has resulted in farmers taking the extreme step of ending their life,” said Kadidala Shamanna, a farmer leader.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Chitradurga is consistently maintaining its sad list record of farmer’s suicide. On an average Chitradurga has been losing 223 farmers per-year in the last decade, with highest being recorded in 2010 (319) and lowest 124 in 2001. The district does not have proper irrigation facility and has been facing severe drought for many years.<br /><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><br />Except for Kolar and the newly formed Chickaballapur district, which recorded zero farmers’ suicide case since 2007, other districts have been seeing an increase in the farmer’s untimely deaths. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" ><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">2010 not the worst</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >Around 2,224 farmers have committed suicide in Karnataka every year in the last decade. Year 2003 saw the worst figure; as many as 2678 farmers ended their lives, while the year 2000 saw 2630 farmer suicide cases. 2006 saw the least number of farmers (1720) committing suicide.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" > </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >CM’s unfulfilled oath </span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" ></span></b><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" >B S Yeddyurappa’s who took charge as the Chief Minster with an oath in the name of farmers, has left the agriculture community high and dry. The Chief Minister, who is also the finance minister of the state, has promised many sops to the farming community has failed to arrest the deaths in his own constituency- Shimoga, as it has been recording more than 150 farmers suicide cases since 2008 (the year he took charge as Chief Minister). Last year Shimoga, which ranks fifth in the number farmers deaths, reported 175 cases.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" ><br />Experts have rubbished the claim of government doing a lot for the farmers. They termed the three per-cent loan to farmers as an eye wash. “We don’t want loan wavier. All we want is scientific rates for our produce. We are ready to pay interest at industrial rates if scientific rates are given,” said Secretory General of Karnataka Rajya Raithasanga and Hasiru Sena, H S Basawarajappa. “The government policies, both state and centre, are crooked and consumer oriented. More than farmers’ governments are interested in investors. ‘’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" > “There are various reasons for the death of farmers in Karnataka, fertile land acquisition for the industrialization, drought or floods, failure of crops due to various reasons and the burden of loans from Banks and private money lenders all force the farmer to take the extreme step,” said H S Basawarajappa.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;" > The response from the state government acknowledged all the above<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>reasons as existent.</span><br /></p>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-36213196581864467492011-04-27T00:09:00.002+05:302011-04-27T00:11:23.428+05:30We are with you Anna?I first saw him at the Freedom Park, Bangalore. It was the day one of Anna Hazare’ fast unto death’ at Jantar Mantar in Delhi to press for his demand for <span> </span>passing of <span> </span>the Lokpal bill by Parliament.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"> He was a typical college student, may be he was studying for his bachelors degree, a fiery youngster with ambition in his eyes and a desire in his heart to do something for the country. <span> </span><br /><br />In a loud voice, he, along with his friends, was shouting slogans in support of<span> </span>Anna’s anti- corruption movement —Anna tum aage bado hum tumare sath hai… (Anna we are with you in this fight).The customized T-shit with words ‘corruption is the cancer of society’ added more meaning to his revolt. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">On day two and three the boy came back again to the freedom park that had by now transformed into a hub for the supporters of Anna’s movement. People from all over Bangalore were pouring in and atmosphere was charged.<br /><br />This time he and his friends were filled with more enthusiasm than on first day.<br /><br />They were proudly adorning white T-shirts which had imprints ‘I am Anna’ with a caricature of the ‘second Gandhi’ on the back. They sat with the group and raised the slogans against the corrupt politicians. He had bunked his classes for the cause. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the fourth day of the protest, in a hurry to take part in the movement, the boy along with his two friends rode on a single Honda Activa and that too without a helmet on. And as expected of the Bangalore traffic police, they where stopped by the cops and asked to pay fine. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Triple riding and riding without helmet is a punishable offence in our state and our hero was guilty of both. But what transpired next was both shocking and disappointing for instead of paying a fine for his mistake, he paid Rs 50 bribe to the cop after a long… long bargain.<br /><br />By evening the news had spread that Anna won the battle and was to break his fast the next day. <span> </span>The three inspired youngsters dutifully turned up for celebrations at the Park. Next day when sweets were distributed to all, our young crusader swallowed them and raised his voice to say “Anna tum aage bado hum tumare sath hai…”</p>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-12176959528235282692011-02-05T21:44:00.003+05:302011-02-05T21:48:24.555+05:30The story of a mortal ‘GOD’<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/TU14QKpAvMI/AAAAAAAAADw/emkuJAamsn8/s1600/donate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 380px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/TU14QKpAvMI/AAAAAAAAADw/emkuJAamsn8/s400/donate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570240533256780994" border="0" /></a><br />I am still thinking for a better headline for the story published last week in my Newspaper. ‘Born human, died as divine’ was an ‘ok’ kind of headline, but it did not completely satisfy me. I wanted something better… something that could explain the story completely. The story deserved a better headline.<br /><br />It all started when I met this man called Suresh, a teacher at the Government School for specially-abled children at Banashankari, Bangalore. I was there to cover Chief Minister Inaugurating a cultural event. It was raining heavily and needless to say that the CM gave a slip to the event and I had ‘nothing’ to write!<br /><br />Standing in the corridor I was watching the dying rain. The school front yard had almost one feet high water. The Sun was struggling to make his way out of those Orange colored clouds- a small rainbow, not in seven colors, bowed towards earth.<br /><br />“I had inhaled the fragrance of soil during a rainy day earlier…. But never had I seen a rainbow like this,” said a man standing next to me. (To be frank that rainbow was not that great). Smile- was my expression to him. “Was rain always like this, sir?” was his next question to me.<br /><br />“I have seen more violent and heavy rains than this,” was my reply. “Which desert are you from?” was my question to him.<br /><br />The man with all his modesty replied, “I am a Bangalorean. Born and brought up here, sir.”<br />“Then how come you have not seen rain? “<br /><br />“I used to hear rain… only now can I see it. I was born blind… now I can see,” he replied.<br />I wanted to ask sorry. But it wasn’t my mistake that he was blind. So I did not ask.<br /><br />“Oh, so you were operated recently” I asked him. And he replied “Yes. God gave me both his eyes, sir.”<br /><br />I smiled at his answer.<br /><br />”A human turned into God in my life sir, he is more than God… God does blunder but that ‘Human God’ undid that blunder,” he went on explaining knowing that I was not hearing to his atheist talk. Finally he took his valet out and pressed a passport size photo to both his eyes term by term for 3 times. “Sir God. My God—Vinodh,” he exclaimed and showed me the photo.<br /><br />A youth in his mid twenties-- an innocent face, a visible scar above his right eye, a dark large mole on his nose, mustaches yet to be born. He looked like a recent college pass-out. “He donated all his organs sir,” He said profoundly.<br /><br />A kind of respect rose in me for Vinodh-- at such a young age he had the great thought of donating organs.<br /><br />I gave my visiting card to Suresh and took his number. “I wish to do a story on him later,” I told him.<br /><br />While explaining the story of Vinodh to our health reporter, she told me that- the person who is receiving the organs and the person who is donating the organs can not know each other unless and until money transaction has taken place. There is every chance of him (Suresh) purchasing the organs, she explained.<br /><br />She had a point- Zonal Coordination Committee of Karnataka for Transplantation (ZCCK) set up by the government to promote cadaver organ transplant, chief told me over the phone that the donor and receiver are not known to each other if it is transmitted legally via the organization. “Only the age and sex of the donor are revealed to receiver, nothing else.”<br /><br />Before he hung the phone he said- illegal organ transplantation is common in rural side. “For money those buggers do anything.” <br /><br />Anger sprout in me like a volcano against Suresh. I decided to make a story against him and also drag the doctor who did the operation. I wanted to prove that there are many cases of organ purchasing in the city by the rich, which is against the law.<br /><br />It was just 9 in the morning, never in my profession life had I woke-up at that ‘early hour’, but that day I was there at the Special school waiting for Suresh. He came along with four blind students- one held his hand and rest like in the train-game chained to the next, each had a white and red stick with a dark Karunanidhi specs on eyes.<br /><br />Namaste sir, he said very politely, but did not receive any response from me.<br />Unchained himself from the train he came near me. “How are you sir? So you have decided to do a story on my god? ”he asked.<br /><br />“Who was the doctor who operated you? How much money did you pay the doctor for that illegal operation?” were my angry questions to him.<br /><br />He was taken aback- stunned. Stood there like an unmoving object. “What are you talking? Sir, mind your words. Your words are hurting someone,” he said with an anger tone. A tone that I had never heard before. Not even by officials whom I have grilled or ‘interrogated’ while getting information.<br /><br />“Sir you are undermining a gentleman’s generosity,” he said with tears of anger flooding out. For few minutes both stood silent. I felt as if I jumped the gun.<br /><br />Explaining him the procedure of Organ donation I asked him, then how come you know the donor and even have his photo.<br /><br />Sir come let us go to his house, we shall talk to his parents; they will explain you the entire story.<br />It was a mansion; need less to say a corerpati lived there happily. With God’s grace we kept ourselves out of the sharp teeth of the two foreign bred dogs’, while we entered the house. The servant recognized Suresh and asked us to sit on the couches.<br /><br />A fat lady, dressed in a simple saree came to us, and asked, “Ha, Suresh beta how are you?”<br />For next two minutes it was: how do you do, what do you do and where do you do kind of questions between Suresh and that lady. Finally the time came and Suresh introduced me to the lady and said she is Vinodh’s mother. And he introduced me to her as a Journalist, writing an article on her son’s organ donation.<br /><br />Rap came her answer- why on my son beta. Do on the concept that he believed. “What was that?” I asked her.<br /><br />“To ask the receiver to donate his organs,” she replied<br /><br />My expression was—WHAT?<br /><br />“Yes, its simple- my son donated his four organs when he died, we went to the three receivers and asked them to donate their organs when they are gone. All of them agreed. As a next step we asked them to do the same thing as we did- go and talk to the receivers and ask them to donate. Like this we will have enough organs for the sufferers,” she said. “My son was inspired by his favorite actor Chiranjeevi’s movie- Stalin. ‘Chiru’ in that movie asks three people who he helped to help three more people and keep the chain of this help to continue. ” <br /><br />The concept struck me hard.<br /><br />Next I asked her, why her son wanted to donate his organs. She smiled and answered. “He loved his father very much. At no point of time he was ready to lose his father. My husband’s both kidneys had failed and he was surviving on dialysis. We tried hard to get a compatible kidney for him, but could not. Every time we went to the Doctor, he told us that if had we a suitable kidney we would have saved your father.”<br /><br />“With a disappointed heart he used to come home and cry. Three days before he died, he came to me and said, Ma when I die donate all the organs to needy and ask them to donate and let this cycle continue, then there will be no shortage of organs and people like my father may never die like this.” <br /><br />Were there tears in her eyes? Difficult to say as her voice was stable and the flow of her narration was un-stammered. It was only the edge of her saree that went to her eyes occasionally that made me feel that she was in pain.<br /><br />I did not want to ask her how her son died, but without that the story would be incomplete. “How did he die? I asked her with a soft voice.<br /><br />“We have a construction office. While he was at a construction site of a building he slipped and fell on the bricks from fourth floor, he was rushed to the hospital but the blood loss was too much and we could not save him. He was declared brain dead.” (A brain dead patient can donate most of his organs like - heart, kidneys, liver, pancreas, lungs and all tissues.)<br /><br />“Look at the irony of life; we saved his father but at the cost of Vinodh’s death!” then we decided that his LAST DESIRE should come true. We donated his eyes to Suresh, a teacher for specially able children and asked him to spread the message of benefits of organ donation. Similarly we have given his bone marrow to a woman, heart to an aged man. His corpse was given to RV Medical College for study purpose.<br /><br />Even today I feel that my son is still alive, with us in every step.<br /><br />She had no tears in her eyes now. Her voice was upbeat and proud… I, who was called materialistic hearted guy by friends’, had moist eyes.Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-23400926397783533682010-10-02T21:35:00.010+05:302010-10-12T23:07:00.679+05:30A night with a prostitute<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><span> Not even in my dreams had I imagined myself sitting next to a sex worker watching her adjust dress, smell her loud, cheap perfume and listen to a female tongue that spits countless filthy words in Kannada (translation of those words which, I doubt anyone has ever dared to do.)<br /><br />It was in the wee hours of a cool and rainy Saturday at Bangalore’s bus stand that a prostitute was just at one arm distance. <br /><br />The First bus to Mangalore from Bangalore was at 5 am. I was rather too early at the Kempe Gowda Bus Stand (2 am) on that Saturday- the 11 of September. The bus stand was unusually empty that day- being a start of a long weekend and Ganesha Charuthi that day, there were hardly 50 to 60 people. Most of them were fast asleep, even without the tension of bus leaving while they were in dream land.<br /><br />I made myself comfortable on one of the empty benches at the entrance of the Bus stand. The Hubli and Chitradurga bus conductors were shouting at the top of their voices, as if they were forcing even the no goers to board the bus. 7 buses left the station at a time making majestic even more deserted and resembling a haunted place.<br /><br />A voice called me from behind - “want pleasure”. A woman in her late 20’s and early 30’s dressed in all glittering clothes with heavy make-up stood there. She repeated- “what kind of pleasure you want- Indian, Foreign?” Cold tremors ran in my spine! Without giving a second look at her I ran away. I neglected her call- “child where are you running.” <br /><br />How dare she ask me! Do I look like a lecher to her, was the thoughts that ran in my mind. It took half-an-hour for me to come back to normal terms from that fear! (Why fear, I don’t know.) <br /><br />In the mean while, she got a ‘customer’.<br /><br />(Lets have a small break from the main story; as from my side there was nothing much happening and what was she doing - I cant write here!:) <br /><br />Small information for you: Every night, three autos wait behind the KSRTC buses that are parked at the entrance of the bus stand.These autos’ wait for special customers’. <br /><br />It is estimated that more than 50 sex workers are at the bus stand, most of whom work for the sake of food and life and others for the sake of loot and lavishing lifestyle. (Yes, there have been instances where ‘customers’ have been beaten up and are looted of their bounty! And the worst part of it is the police officials know about these incidents and as usual are doing noting. Tell me why would anyone put an axe to the extra income?) <br /><br />All the above information I came to know from Raju, an auto driver at the bus stand. (Raju is a man about whom one can write a 500 word story, but the problem is he don’t want “publicity”.)<br /><br />Let us come back to the main story. I was with Raju, who came back after dropping a passenger when she came back.<br /><br />Adjusting her distorted make-up she walked towards us. Pointing finger at me, she said to Raju “is this child your friend anna.” Raju smiled and said “yes”.<br /><br />Turning towards me he asked “Do you know Nalini (her real name)? Did you *****? ”<br /><br />She busted into laughter. “He ran away when I asked him,” she said and left us in search of a new customer. I could see a snigger on the face of Raju, but could not help much from ignoring him. After few minutes he said, “she is a nice girl… situation turned her that way.” I did not respond to him, as the anger of calling me a “child” still ran high.<br /><br />It was about 3 am when she came to Raju’s auto in which we were sitting. Raju and I were seated in the rear and she took the driver’s seat. I prepared myself to move but Raju held my hand asked to sit. “She won’t do anything to you… I am here.” Both of them had another round of laugh at that joke, which I really did not enjoy much!<br /><br />''How do you know this child, anna” Nalini asked Raju. He replayed- “Sir, is a journalist- working with Deccan Herald. You know Prajavani … ya the English version of that.” (In my mind I said- thank god my Editor is not here else he would have committed suicide had he heard this “English version of his brother newspaper”.)<br /><br />She had just one word answer- NO. “I know only police dairy, crime beat, Agni and Hai Bangalore. All of them have carried my photo on front page one or the other time,” she smiled, so did I.<br /><br />“So you are a Journalist, sir,” she asked with a changed tone. From Child I was a sir now! I nodded. Never before had I felt so proud of being a Journalist as I felt then. Not just her tone there after her behavior, her sitting poster all started to change. The ‘Dupatta’ which was high at the neck slid down covering a small mole, scars made by cigarette stubbing and a good part of her cleavages which were visible because of her deep neck chudi. (Adjusting it she said, that was to attract men. I don’t think I need them now.) Later she added that the scars that were visible near the neck and chest were caused by cigarettes’ (there were some 6-7 such marks which I could notice in that area.)<br /><br />There was a kind of uncomfortable silence for a while, before I broke it- “since when are you in this business?”<br /><br />“Bussiness…ha. I am selling my body for past 13 to 14 years…” she answered with a false smile on her face.<br /><br />“You call this business? We call it livelihood,” she stopped it there itself without explaining further. I felt ashamed of that wrong word- business (but, I did not know a better word). I asked sorry for that and she did not reply it with “its ok”, making me clear of what was in-store for the future discussion.<br /><br />“Sir tell me one thing, why is that: what we do in darkness is a crime where as those rich girls who do it on the screen (to light action camera) an entertainment? Whose skin have you seen more, people like me or Malaika, Bipasha or those white skinned heroines of Hollywood, who are so eager to shed their clothes as if they are carrying a heavy burden on them? Why is that there’s called as professionals and ours as business?<br /><br />My answer to that was a smile accepting defeat!<br /><br />“Most of us working here do not wish to take our cloths off, but if we don’t our family and our own stomach won’t be filled,” she put a period to that conversation. Her question in one or the other way were pinning at my being the educated and learned man --- “when you have so much of knowledge about life then why don’t you work hard in some place ? Why this filthy life?”<br /><br />“Who will give work to an illiterate, and the knowledge you are talking about is what I learnt from life not from books. A girl, aged 13, when asked to stand naked for Rs.200 by a hospital compounder has left with no future sir. Her life changes for ever after that,” she said. I think I saw a drop of tear in her eyes (though I am not sure as she had turned away from us.)<br /><br />“What, I said” the loudest sound I had made after meeting her. “Yes,” was the only thing she said.<br /><br />My journalist senses started striking at a higher speed (a child molestation case by a hospital staff was in-front of me. What more you want than this as a JOURNALIST???).<br /><br />“Sir, my mother was very ill; the government doctor in Karnool asked my mother to get admitted in Bangalore’s big hospital, so my mother and I came here. The money which we brought for treatment got over within two hours after landing here. The Doctor, at St. John’s hospital, after testing my mother gave her a prescription. The chemist said that the medicine cost Rs150, sir this was in 1993, and we did not have a single rupee in hand. Sitting in a corner I was crying of hunger and not able to arrange for medicine, when an old man-aged around 60-65 came to me asked what the problem was? I narrated him everything, he took me into his arms as if to console. He asked me to come along with him and he will arrange money for medicines. He took me to an isolated room.<br /><br />Sir he made a great deal – stand naked and I will give you Rs 300, twice what I actually needed then. Tears still rolled out from my eyes. Holding my hands tightly he shouted “make it fast else someone will come, then I will not give you money.” “Sir tell me what should I have done then,” she asked me. “Only two weeks back I had attained puberty.”<br /><br />He was about to leave when I called him back. “I did what he asked me to do- stood there without a single piece of cloth on me. Shame had engulfed me.<br /><br />“That budda’s meter was off,” she laughed. “He came to me touched my tiny cleavages, neck portion, waist, pressed hips and put finger in my groin .” I don’t know what pleasure he got (for me it was ticklish). He hugged me twice tried to take my boobs into his mouth, when he heard someone’s footsteps. He pulled five hundred rupee notes and placed it in my groin and ran away.<br /><br />“I told my mother that I stole that money from someone." Sir, robbery is better than selling body- this truth was taught to me by life. "My Mother slapped me, cried but knew that we had no other option. Doctor asked us to come after 6 weeks and said that if she takes medicines properly there was nothing to worry.<br /><br />“Sir, if life decides to take one in a direction, you can not do much. The money we had was enough for only one to go home. My mother was in deep sleep after taking medicine.<br /><br />I begged the conductor to take both of us and I will pay him once we reach home. He did not agree. Without shame I even asked him if he wish to see me naked and allow me to travel home.” The conductor placed a tight slap on my chin and threw me out of bus.<br /><br />The bus left. I was in this same bus stand crying, when Suresh, my agent or adopted elder brother took me to a slum.<br /><br />“I knew only one thing I needed money to go home and I knew how I can earn.” I went back to St. John’s hospital in search of that old man- I didn’t know his name or his post. I searched the entire hospital but could not find him.<br /><br />Suresh told me where to stand to get ‘customer’. “My first customer offered me Rs 250. I said yes as that was enough for me to go home.” He took me to a cheap hotel nearby railway station. Before he could say anything I stood in-front of him naked, thinking that he would just touch me everywhere, try to take my breast into his mouth, press my hip more times and leave me. But, there, he was not alone; along with him there were four more people. And this time they were not in a mood to touch me but to …. (words stopped in her mouth. And this time I could really make-out that she was crying, her voice was low, the dupatta went regularly to eyes to wipe out the tears.)<br /><br />Sir, like dogs they bite me everywhere, they rubbed me, one went inside me from the front while other from behind. My mouth was stuffed with two men’s genitals while the fifth guy was beating me every where he can lay his hand, making my white skin red.<br /><br />I was left behind in a bleeding and unconscious condition. Even without paying the promised Rs 250. Police was called by the hotel manager. They took me to government hospital. For four days I could not get up from bed. <br /><br />I was in the police list now. They had demanded Rs 5000 from Suresh for my release. After great deal of assurance from him and another elder man the police officials let me out (after pocketing Rs 3000) and even the hospital bill due was Rs 750. Sir, I had to pay all of that, and the most shocking news came after two weeks. I missed my first menstrual cycle.<br /><br />“There are so many girls here who have missed their first cycle.” “Sir, when your wife or sister become mother you and she would celebrate but when I became pregnant everyone around me cried. Suresh took me to a quack and removed it. Even I didn’t know whose child it was!”<br /><br />It was 3 AM when she started to travel back into her life and when she stopped at this point it was 4.10AM. My bus from Tirupathi came, Raju as usual informed the conductor to reserve a special seat (ya that’s for me).<br /><br />I kept my bag on the seat and came back to auto. She was still there. Eyes wet, face with a watermark after tears ran on that heavily powdered face. She looked at me and smiled, I returned the same.<br /><br />She was good looking. Fair skin, well maintained figure, boobs big enough to attract lechers like us and a smile that could have made any men fall prey for her beauty.<br /><br />“Because of me you might have lost earnings today,” I said. She replayed, “not a problem sir, I can earn that whenever I want, but I may not be able to share thing like this again and again.”<br /><br />Looking at her Tali, I asked her, you married? Your husband is ok with it? She said, “No I am not. This is for safety. When police raid, I can show them that it is couple and not business.” But it is of no use as most of the police officials who come for raid know me and a few of them have even slept with me in their police jeep, she giggles.<br /><br />She has visited quack six times to get aborted, and she desires to have a son and didn’t say the reasons as to why she is not having.<br /><br />I was curious to know how much she earned every month- she told me that she earn anywhere between 15,000 to 25,000 on regular seasons and the amount would cross 40,000 in the month of Ashada, when newly married couples maintain abstinence.<br /><br />After all deduction – that is mamul to police, her body guard and fancy cloths, makeup and medicine, every month she saves Rs 2000<br /><br />And how much she charges each men? – It depends on the number of people. For one it’s anywhere between Rs 300 to Rs 500. And more than one you multiply it with Rs 500. My childhood mistake has taught me a lesson sir, so to be on safer side I have gang of people who will follow me everywhere. Now I can satisfy 5 to 6 people easily, without being hospitalized, she laughs.<br /><br />Finally going into her world- the Kempe Gowda Bus stand, she said, for everyone its Rs 500, but for you tonight its free, “want pleasure” she laughed. This time too I ran, not fearing her but to catch bus.<br /><br />Sitting in the special seat I recalled, my IIJNM’s batch mate - Jothi Sharma’s documentary about child prostitutes in Bangalore (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5Ux8811tQ4">watch her documentary here</a>), where young girls were raped in men’s toilet, police station and every places possible and forced into the flesh trade. A girl was made to run naked in the whole city by a group of boys. </span></span><p style="text-align: left;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:130%;" ><span style=""></span></span></p>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com92tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-58709868128561168942010-06-01T20:59:00.004+05:302010-06-01T21:15:47.861+05:30If Men became women!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/TAUq-zgvx3I/AAAAAAAAADQ/kU_qx3P7ygk/s1600/jamba+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 372px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/TAUq-zgvx3I/AAAAAAAAADQ/kU_qx3P7ygk/s400/jamba+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477831780233889650" border="0" /></a><br />Imagine: A honeymoon room. Only a 12 volt CFL tube light is lit in a highly decorated lampshade. In a traditional ways the bed is decorated with the petals of roses and jasmines. To the right of the bed all the seasonal fruits are placed in a silver plate. A bunch of lighted Agarbathi’s are placed in a corner, the scent of which has already covered the entire room.<br /><br />The bride has already entered the room and is briskly walking up and down clutching her hands in anxiety! The door slowly opens, making that irritating but yet “romantic” sound. Groom decorated in all white with a glass of milk in hand and with kilos of shyness in eyes and lips is pushed into the room by the fellow men who accomplished him.<br /><br />The groom hesitates to walk towards the decorated cot. The Bride with all her pomp nears him. The man bends, touches her feet. Holding the shoulders of the man she straightens him. He takes his Tali that was hung on his broad chest and presses it against his eyes. The lady cups his cleanly shaven face into her palms and kisses. The lights go off and scene is cut!<br /><br />Scene next Hospital Nine months latter: The lady is on the delivery bed and her man is on the bed next to her. Four nurses are holding his legs and hand. He is having a sever labor pain!<br /><br />Now stop imagining and come to reality!<br /><br />The honeymoon setting was one of the scenes from the Telugu Movie “Jamba Lakidi Pamba”(1993). The theme of the film is as crazy as the title is. This out of the box film directed by E.V.V Satyanarayana has two thing to prove, 1. Why the nature has designed and set certain typical characters to men and women and the other most important point, the need for equality of men and women in the society.<br /><br />At no point of time in this 3 hour 12 mins movie you find any logic (who cares for logic when one cannot hold their stomach from bursting out of laugh. The movie is an out and out comedy) and yet the film enlightens us about one of the most important lessons of every day life- the suffering of women in the hands of their husband, son, in-laws and men in general.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/TAUq2KAjyhI/AAAAAAAAADI/DsWP_OqSIso/s1600/jamba+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/TAUq2KAjyhI/AAAAAAAAADI/DsWP_OqSIso/s400/jamba+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477831631654078994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The storyline</span><br /><br />Aamani, the heroin of the movie, hates the atrocity and suppression meant on the women by men. A “pink” paper flies from nowhere and crashes on the face of her every time she encounters a man committing a “crime on woman.” The pink page directs Aamani to a cave near Vishakapatanam, a port city in Andra Pradesh, where a sadhvi after years of meditation and experiment has invented a solution—Jamba Lakidi Pamba—that would change the rule of the nature. Men would act as women and vis-a- vis.<br /><br />The lead lady of the film mixes that Jamba Lakidi Pamba in the water tank and that causes all the changes.<br /><br />Men are “forced” into the kitchen. Women work in garages and field. If Men are interested in drawing rangoli in their house front yard, women are busy in gambling. All the typical things that men are associated with are done by women, like asking dowry, burning of ‘son-in-law’, Adam teasing, rape … so on so forth. And the most important of all is—during pregnancy—if a woman delivers a child the pain is borne by men!<br /><br />The film takes a great twist when the Hero (Naresh) and Heroin comes to know that the original solution was adulterated with another solution by the student of that Sadhvi, which meant that the affects of Jamba Lakidi Pamba stays only for one month.<br /><br />After the first month, the adults would become children and vis-a vis. This condition stays for 1 day. Next change is conversion of body organs- that is men will have all the secret organs of woman and woman will have mustache, for the next one hour. Within that period if the affected people are not given the anti Jamba lakidi Pamba : PambO lakidi JambO, All men would remain as woman forever and vis-à-vis. But this is a film and has to end in a happy note- The hero and heroin fights hard with the villains and correct the ‘mistake’ done by Jamba Lakidi Pamba. <br /><br />By now most of the feminists’, reading this article, would have desired that the effects of Jamba Lakidi pamba to be permanent on this world. Forgetting that “with every power gained people (Men or women) tend to misuse them rather than putting that to good use. The need of the hour is not interchange of the power but equilibrium of sexes.Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-2812452258066137812010-02-11T16:55:00.005+05:302010-02-11T16:59:30.825+05:30When I lost my mobile“In every adversary, a spectrum of human faces appears,” I had read this line somewhere (Not able to recall where), but yesterday I experienced it. <br />What I narrate below may seem like a stunt from a melodrama film, but every thing recorded is raw fact. <br /><br />On a hot afternoon of Feb 06- 2010, I was at the ‘Maruthi circle’ bus stop near Srinagar in Bangalore, waiting for the BMTC bus for Residency road to cover Governor’s inauguration event. I was questioning myself and trying to figure out what answers the governor would say so that I can counter argue him. (Only if I get a chance to talk to him!!!)<br /><br />The time in my mobile showed 2.45 pm and the program was at 4. I had enough time to reach St. Joseph College, which was the venue for the program. <br /> <br />After coming to Bangalore, I have this one good/bad habit of listen to the FM’s while traveling in the bus. On that day also, I plugged in my headphones in ear so loud that even a shout from the next person could not have got a response from me. <br />Around 3PM, a boy aged about 17 to 20, black like a burnt coal with yellowed tooth and stinking shirt, came to me. Without saying anything he dragged my headphone down. I was all shocked. I asked him what the matter was, but that fellow had no politeness to answer me. His lips started to fire those kannada words which I had never heard in my life. That abusive language, in which I am so poor, turned into punches within few seconds. <br /><br />He gave three punches on my nose region and abused me even more. Some how my mobile, which was screaming Hindi songs all the while came out of the jeans pocket. By the same time, another person joined the first man and started hitting me on the face- I was totally shocked to understand what was happening to me. I did not even make a hue or a cry. I stood there like a ‘punching bag’ and they where ‘practicing’ on me.<br /><br />I was determined not give my mobile at any cost. Though both of them were hitting me, I still hung to mobile. But my fight could not last long. From back, the third moron took a razor and stroked it on my back. The 7 CM long wound started to bleed and the mobile that I purchased with my first salary was in those thieves hand. <br /> <br />Even the shirt that I gifted my self with my first salary was torn and had 20 mm of my O(+) blood. With one stroke of a blade, I lost two things that I had purchased with my hard earnings. That shirt was really good! (Finally that was used to clean the coffee that I spilt at the police station. Rs. 800 shirt was used to clean coffee!!!)<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /><br />First face</span><br /><br />While all this drama was unraveling itself in broad day light amidst hundreds of people stagnant at the bus stop, no one came to help me in the ‘battle’. All were watching as if this was one scene just to be seen, not to act. <br /><br />Even I did a mistake- I did not shout or made an effort to get help by crying or fighting (I don’t wish you to have the same experience, but if you are in this situation please shout, that may bring some help.) <br /><br />The best answer I got after all that fight and injured back was from a goldsmith in-front of whose shop this incident happened. “We thought that they were your friend and you where having a small trifle.” I don’t know what answer to give him! Some one is hurting another person with a razor and u consider him to be that guy’s friend! (Let it be. I won’t blame him for that). <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Second face</span><br /><br />Blood was coming out as the flood gates of a river are opened in monsoon- unstoppable. Every one gathered there were busy in asking me what happened though every one of them had enjoyed the show.<br /><br />But there was one human amidst of those audience- Rajesh G., Agency manager, Bharti AXA life insurance Company Ltd. Whose first words to me was “cover the wound with cotton, its bleeding heavily.” Every one by then started to search for cotton. Rajesh offered me his car to drop me at the hospital. I apologise to him as his well maintained front seat had to bare my blood stains. <br /><br />In the hospital, I was told to get four stitches. Rajesh stood their and bought all the medicines that was needed at that time. He did not even collect money from me. I owe him a lot! <br /><br />And the most enjoyable part at the hospital was when the fourth stitch was stitched without administering local anesthesia. The pain!, better not to tell. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />At the police station</span><br /><br />After coming to Bangalore, it has been a common thing for me to visit a police station for various reasons (and not a single time I was wrong). First thing the police constable R Raju asked me was, Do you have a love affair, or any fight with any one?<br /><br />I felt as if I was in a better situation when I was with the thieves than now. My no answers convinced him that I was a innocent common man without any kind of “lafda”. <br />Next SI Shekar of Hanumanth Nagar police station who came to interrogate me. His questions were good- “Did you write anything against anybody that has caused for an attack?. After joining DH, I have written only two articles. Both against the Ministry of Fisheries, but I don’t think Anand Asnotkar has so much time to bother about those two articles and send men for me! <br /><br />Every thing with the police was “settled”. All their questions were answered.<br /><br />By 4 pm one of those bastards had started using my cell. Thanks for this advance technology that my cell has- ‘mobile tracker’ that I could find with whom my cell was. His number is 9900566665. <br /><br />Let us wait and see, how many days the police need to trace out a mobile with all the required info with them, and the pressure that a Journalist mobile is at LARGE!!!Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-42903990278347546582009-11-10T19:14:00.001+05:302009-11-10T19:30:39.330+05:30<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/Svlv4YpBWBI/AAAAAAAAAC0/388hkKdXACk/s1600-h/pavan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/Svlv4YpBWBI/AAAAAAAAAC0/388hkKdXACk/s400/pavan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402472242485483538" /></a>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-19864840369684149562009-09-27T17:58:00.000+05:302009-09-27T18:00:07.074+05:30The New MetroThe trumpeter in his full voice <br />Demanding for a change.<br />“This city should grow-up.”<br />According to the sources <br />No more my city is a city now<br />It is a metro!<br /><br />Sleek women- dressed half<br />Walk to flash lights<br />“Bring them on front page,” cries <br />The editor. “They sell you the<br />Main paper,” he adds. <br />On the same day a women is raped<br />Another lady was awarded the best...<br />“Crush them in central pages,” he said. <br />But off course those women were dressed full<br />And were not so ugly! There is no space for<br />The ragged sari village girl. Where would he<br />Sell her picture. <br /><br />It is just a column, for the philosophy<br />And one whole supplement for sex in<br />The city!<br /><br />Bapu Gandhi had said<br />Make my countries village into<br />Delhi. But in our ‘times’ we brought<br />Bombay’s fashion week to<br />Village’s galli.<br />No matter you have good food or<br />Not, they advertise brands to wear. <br />Leave out Cities now<br />They want Towns to be “New York,<br />Singapore and Tokyo!” <br />And the core of a village <br />Playground of toxic industry.<br /><br />Art is now only for Artist’s sake!<br />Our state’s greatest singer is not a<br />Legend, but a drug addict <br />Is a GOD of Music! “No one know about<br />The nightingale fisher woman;<br />Go and ask pub goers,<br />He knows the ‘black boy’ who<br />Turned white!”<br /><br />Supplement after supplements were<br />Dedicated on his name and her ash<br />Was silently thrown into<br />Three rivers. (Except her death<br />Report nothing was Observed.)<br /><br />There was breaking news <br />Last Friday. One of the lead lady<br />Broke her leg and was on stretcher.<br />“Such a pity thing for her. But still<br />She came to a party. How committed she is,”<br />Said a page three reporter.<br />The political reporter who had less<br />Voice murmured, “Isn’t the same case<br />With our country- handicapped <br />By every part.” <br /><br />My city is not yet matured.<br />It is still in adolescent age.<br />It is still learning to change its own<br />Diapers!<br />Before it becomes Metro<br />It has to learn how<br />To live with brothers’<br />And know that blood out of any<br />Wound would pain and take time to<br />Heal.<br />It has to know How to behave<br />With guests.<br />What to hear and what not.<br />And above all not to complain<br />About the changes. <br /><br />Pavan Kumar H. <br />24-09-‘09Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-88481223036368772682009-08-17T14:10:00.002+05:302010-02-27T00:39:42.664+05:30My passionHistory is proof that<br />No dam had ever held the<br />Advent of river. <br />Flood is my desire!<br />Hold hand, cut my fingers<br />But you can not stop me <br />From doing what I wish.<br />I am born just to win and <br />Have understood this after loosing. <br /><br />The molten desire is so lava<br />That it will find a way out. <br />How the hell will you stop?<br /><br />From Clouds to the making of Ice<br />Was my patience… now I don’t let <br />The Vapor to reach clouds. Frustration<br />And suffocation has become order of the <br />Day for me. <br /><br />I ask you<br />Who are you to decide for me? <br />What I have to be and<br />What I need to do?<br /><br />I wish to fight! With the weapon<br />Mightier than Sword<br />So don’t handcuff me.<br />Once, give a chance to be ‘ME’<br />And see, what colors of glories I<br />Stamp. I know life is not a game;<br />To have a substitute—I wish to be a<br />Legend and I have to turn every page by myself.<br /><br />Pavan Kumar H.<br />17-08-09Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-78978391456660732832009-05-29T13:45:00.000+05:302009-05-29T13:51:59.045+05:30Dream about First Salary (*Conditions Apply)What not I wish to do with my first salary! But the world is not for sale; else I would have purchased it. I know, I cannot, but there are something’s that ‘My salary can buy’ and for everything else, my dad has given me his ATM card. <br /><br />Serious things apart, let me come to the most funniest part. My first salary is, Indian Rupee 12,500 and after all the deduction I get Rs. 11,590 in hand. (Quite a lot!) <br /><br />Staying in Bangalore is cheap provided you are ready to stay on railway platform, bus stand and footpath. If you are not ready for that, then nearly half of your salary will drown in paying house rent. I stay as paying guest in BTM layout, which is considered to be the Heaven for PG’s. I don’t the reason, but I know that there are many PG’s in this area and especially (You guessed it right) --working women’s.<br /><br />Food is another thing that sucks. You don’t get a healthy food most of time and who needs that when unhygienic are so tasty to eat. Removing all those expenditures I thought of saving at-least Rs. 2000 per month. (Time will tell how much I will borrow from my father!)<br /><br />This being my first salary I thought of doing something ‘BIG’. With the pay-slip in hand, I wished to run to my place, and place that at my parents feet, thought of taking blessings! Dropped that idea, saying its old fashion. Next in thought was to present them costly dresses, I know it does not work well (as it would be one among the hundreds that my father has presented to us). I want to do something special… a memorable one!<br /><br />Fifteen days have passed in thinking what to be done with my first salary? But could not come up with anything! Can you please help me in deciding? What to be done with my first salary? What did you do with your First salary? <br /><br />*please note: Before finalizing something, think about my salary too; I need to survive after that!Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-7026360067897977882009-03-13T22:23:00.001+05:302009-03-13T22:25:45.161+05:30That’s love for me!Like the tree, which<br />Unsounded and contentedly<br />Drown in the intimate hug of<br />A parasite creeper. <br /><br />Like a crow, which<br />Undiscriminating and Caringly<br />Aliment a Cuckoo’s child<br />Unknowingly that it’s not hers.<br /><br />Like the beach, which<br />Waits and moist its<br />Eyes, for the waves, even after <br />Water retrieved to the sea. <br /><br />Like the thread, which <br />Burns and illuminates others<br />Along with the wax <br />In the utter darkness<br /><br />Was how I loved ‘Some one’<br /><br />For me,<br />To die a painless death like the<br />Tree is a privilege. To care<br />Some one like a crow does,<br />Was a bestowed feeling. To recollect<br />The past, like the millions of sand on shore<br />Was an honor for lifetime. And the <br />Acknowledgement, that I gave some one light and<br />Warmth is beyond any explanation. <br /><br />But love for her was<br />DIFFERENT<br /><br />She was lit-candle and I the <br />Light-attracted insect. <br />Every time my wings caught fire<br />And I still crawled to watch her glowing.<br /><br />Her skin was decorated <br />Like the insectivorous flower’s<br />Sepals, and I like a bug<br />Tried to rest in her arms. <br /><br />Love may never lead to<br />Death, but a lover can!<br /><br />--Pavan Kumar H<br />28-02-09<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-25863730908951542009-02-23T15:57:00.001+05:302009-02-23T15:57:49.520+05:30FeelingsFeelings… feelings<br />The parameter of heart’s health,<br />And a catalyst to crater the mind. <br /><br />What a soothing feel is it to <br />Hold beloved’s soft hand and mop it.<br />Tasting the flavor of her lips with <br />The tongue.<br />Holding her waist and strolling<br />In the sun setting lane.<br />The way she makes you feel <br />That you are her ultimate support<br />By placing her head on your shoulder, <br />On chest, on lap.<br /><br />What a strong feel it is to know<br />That for all those jokes that no one had<br />Last laughed, but still put her heart out<br />Only for the sake that “you said that”. <br /><br />All these, create a life supporting system<br />During the last breath out.<br /><br />And there are other feelings, which make<br />To breathe last, before you have inhaled <br />The first in love.<br />A Simple truth, from the same girl<br />“I have no feeling for you.”<br /><br />Pavan Kumar H. <br />21-01-09Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-57219839537628923552009-01-30T22:04:00.001+05:302009-01-30T22:21:39.255+05:30Enemy’s deathVictory… triumph <br />I have …I have won <br />Over my enemy.<br />Who either was kept cold<br />In three feat six feat below soil or<br />Burnt like a camphor; but<br />For residue, to solute in river.<br /><br />What ever may it be. I have<br />And I have won over him.<br />We both had tussled in the <br />Tug of business. What if he<br />Had won then. But now… I have <br />I have.<br /> <br /> A tear flows out now<br />When I hear his name , as had<br />Not he been there; I would not know<br />The flavor of victory. Agony has<br />Filled my heart now.<br /><br />Its not that I will not have enemies <br />Any more. I will still fight with this<br />Soul. But I have lost a chance of ‘one’ win over him.<br />Now tell me have I won or…<br /><br />Pavan kumar.H<br />02 may 07Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-59909539784309352382009-01-23T12:41:00.000+05:302012-08-09T03:25:12.630+05:30I had a life like this<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Separation… ya the word separation, Hundreds and hundreds of types with hundreds of people, with less intensity or more feelings, separation is separation. I am a victim and a culprit. Why? Let me explain. </div>
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Looking at me now you will hardly believe that, I too had life to laugh, to leap with joy forgetting the peg of venom in heart. I had bunch of hearts, which symphonized with my beats. The melody of that reminiscence, give the fullest joy. </div>
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Only few people can reach my heart. Not cause there is dearth of front row seats, but with the fear that I may not be able to take care of so many properly. </div>
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Ujire is miniature heaven for me. The nature, the cluster of life lead, the college, the climate and the friends made it no less to heaven.</div>
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Leaving out every thing that is admirable, I shall state about the ‘creatures’ that I loved there. My roommates are an irreplaceable part of the story. They are my biography. Mahesh, Rajeev (Raj), Karthik (Kavi), Rahul (hybrid elephant). We summed up an entire lifetime in those there years of larva stage. Right from teasing Mr. Shankri to sharing the top secrets of our love stories. </div>
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All started at the Kanumane… Shankari’s resident. Mahesh, Rahul and I were roommates for a large part of our first year life. Karthik shifted out from our room and, Rajeev was in a different room in same mess. From the day one of “ Being together”, we synced in one color. We shared the same passion and thought for the hostel life. </div>
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Mahesh is the soft-spoken guy, but his close up smile would fetch him only one thing from us: Seal your lips and tongue!! Karthik is a well-read man and has some serious chemical imbalance in his head. His work justifies it all. Uncountable matured poems followed by a non-talkative film and documentary. </div>
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Ankura was the common thread in which we all were interwoven. Ankura (our first child) was the practice journal that we brought out regularly on an irregular basis. The fight, the struggle and the idea that was put into it are a matter of pride and nostalgia. Raj’s commitment for the journal is indeed commendable. Seven members were involved in its genesis but only one remained till the end and still he never lost hope. You all might know the story of the poem enterprise… the same happened to us too. </div>
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Outside the room, the first person that became close was Charithra (Chari). A strange kind of friendship blossomed between us. For all the ‘things’ I wanted from a friend, she was there and for what ever she wanted from a friend, I was not there. Hopefully she has realized that I am not the prefect friend. A small misunderstanding has resulted in we turning into cats and dogs. She wished to be a friend again but I am not worth it… I neglected her approach. </div>
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Mata alias Mahesh (not the same one in my room), was another black precious pearl in my ornament of friendship. A tough guy who with his determination did what most of us just kept dreaming about. Now he is a master-ate student (English) of some Bombay college. One more person who stood with me in all those ‘happy days’ was Sandesh. I can never forget the day both of us were about to get a cane on the hips from the Police, the midnight walks and Chicken Bhiriyani will be the trademark for his remembrance. </div>
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Next in line and the most and most important creature in my life so far has been ‘my teacher’. She is not the literal meaning of teacher; she is my best friend and taught me English literature in college. A cute village girl, who is yet to see the world and its odds and evens. Now to explain this Angle… I may really need one encyclopedia and nothing less than that. So it is ideal not to make you read all that now, hence wont divulge into details.</div>
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There was another important person; they may not feel good about this. Still, this is a tribute to what they were to me. I have named them as Inspiration, for the simple reason that they were the inspiration to most of my poems. (Writing any thing else would reveal their identity so a full-stop to this Para.)</div>
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Last but the not at all least by any means- Supiritha, A live wire of action… a devilishly innocent sister. There was hardly any day when we both had not fought. Such was my life at Ujire.</div>
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But why did I say all these to you… because</div>
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I miss all of them so much… The cold weather in Bangalore has made the tears into ice and my heart aces to get back to that heaven… the paradise…yes all means the same and that is MY UJIRE. </div>
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</div>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-39640426684843926402009-01-16T16:46:00.002+05:302009-01-23T12:12:21.326+05:30Click on pic to read<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/SXllM4bKcUI/AAAAAAAAAB8/Dg9qullRIGo/s1600-h/eye3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 353px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/SXllM4bKcUI/AAAAAAAAAB8/Dg9qullRIGo/s400/eye3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294374108929880386" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9ULw41PhiCQ/SXBsxxetASI/AAAAAAAAAB0/_3huXoGfddo/s1600-h/eye2.jpg"><br /></a>Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-73697563223803704902009-01-06T20:30:00.000+05:302009-01-06T20:31:55.512+05:30Like me...<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Pavan/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msoclip1/03/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning:0pt;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">Like me </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The new moon pretended </p> <p class="MsoNormal">To smile even after losing </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Its better half.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Grape pretends to</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Please others,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Even after fermenting itself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The tall ‘oak’ tree</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Stood bold even after</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Its beloved creeper died of age.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like them, what else </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Could I do, than to suffer and</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Smile!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I Muted my Heart,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Which shouted in deep agony.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her reminiscence slaps</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My thoughts, like the over-excited </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Waves racing to the beach.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And the scar carved by that diamond</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Will remain forever on this</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Stoned heart.
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<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">05/01/2009
<br /></p> Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-5852439113462960672008-12-14T22:17:00.000+05:302008-12-14T22:17:00.799+05:30For your birthdayOn your birthday honey;<br />I wanted to gift you <br />‘The sea’ of bounties.<br />But feared; it may ‘drown’ you<br /> So left it.<br /><br />Then thought of the <br />Morning ‘sun’s’ first rays<br />But the pleasure would be ‘finite’<br />As the time passes; it may burn you.<br />so I left it.<br /><br />Next came to my mind was<br />‘The full moon’s’ glow.<br />But the glean would ‘vanish’<br />When no moon day comes, which may hide you.<br />so I left it. <br />Last but one thought that came<br /> To me was, the siblings of plants.<br />But the nib would detach as it<br />Grows, and may separate me from you<br />So I left it.<br /><br />Honey… even I am poor,<br />To buy you all worlds pleasure.<br />But one thing I can, which even<br />The nature could satisfy you, is<br />A small mansion called ’my heart’<br />So I am gifting it you.<br /><br />My heart will never drown you,<br />Neither my love would be finite<br />Nor my desire vanish. I promise you,<br />I will never detach from you<br />Till ‘my’ end comes.Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1735341330909601954.post-60567712396232029642008-11-10T10:17:00.001+05:302008-11-10T10:19:04.308+05:30Angel of disasterShe was hardly thirteen. In a<br />Torn blue gown had stretched<br />Her self on a cloth in the<br />Railway station lane of the port city.<br /><br /><br />Few metallic currency of my country<br />Was scattered around her. Hard to<br />Tell whether those lovely dead eyes were<br />Looking this world.<br /><br /><br />She was fine to look. Just<br />Her leg were disproportion to<br />Her body.<br /><br /><br />“Begging is a offence in my<br />Country”- A stout man<br />In uniform and stick scrolled<br />Near her to pouched all the alms.<br /><br /><br />The passer by said: “this was routine”.<br />Not a drop of water melted from her eyes.<br /><br /><br />But what happened next brought<br />Floods even in my heart and eyes.<br /><br /><br />Two stooped men, full drunken<br />In the name of console-ling<br />Felt all her hidden organs, another man peeped<br />Through the windows of dress.<br /><br /><br />Even then her eyes did not get wet.<br /><br /><br />Her mother came pushing both the<br />Loafers aside. Lifted the ‘child’ in arms.<br />The eyes still gazed in the same direction<br />Where the governments advertisement<br />Was hung- let us eradicate polio.Pavan Kumar H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16915632003513079425noreply@blogger.com1