wild, wild west.

On the second day of the world wildlife week, I thought of writing a series of stories on wildlife renting the forests of the state. Some of them are incredible, some imaginary. Well-told wild stories could delight children. This first one is a favourite of my daughters…

The Black Panther.

This is an interesting story of a forest watcher’s encounter with a black panther in the wild, wild west. In the Tamil country, west is the western ghats, one of world’s biodiversity hotspots, is truly an abode of wildlife.

Top Slip is a tourist hotpsot in Anaimalai, literally meaning Elephant Hills, in the Indira Gandhi Wildlife Sanctuary. It was from here, the British used to roll down teaks that would drift in the rivers and carried to Cochin to be exported to England.

Apart from the elephants, tiger, leopards, and Nilgiri tahr, the state animal, Anaimalai is home to a host of tribes. Anyone visiting the isolated village of malai malasars will think they are in the Dark Continent for these tribals share the facial symmetry of the First Ones.

Of the tribes, Irulas are the most common and mainstreamed. Natarajan is a favourite for wildlife enthusiasts. He is a born birder. When he was a young child, he used to stand below the sky-reaching trees staring at sounds of birds. The tribe thought that he has lost his mind. In fact, he had, in a sense and in essence, lost his body and soul to the wild.

It was up to the greatest birder of the sub-continent, Salim Ali, to discover the birder in the tribal. When Ali visited the sanctuary, he sought the company of someone who knew the habitat well. Natarajan was the chosen one as he knew the season and places where most of the 250 species of birds nested, including the hornbills, the pride of the sanctuary. Ali presented him a binocular. His prized possession till date.

Nataraj went on to be the field guide to nine research scholars tracing the life of reptiles, amphibians, birds, fishes, elephants and big cats. Whenever we were there, he was our guide too. To have him as a guide, there is only one requirement. One should walk non-stop for miles and hours.

One night, when we decided to climb the karian shola, filled with fear, he shared the story of his encounter with black panther and how his elder son saved his life. It was his school going son, Murugan, named after the Hill God, and perhaps the only native of Tamils from the pantheon of gods of the country. In the nearby hill, the child god stood in penance with only his underwear on. He could be one of those primitive tribal shepherd boy performing heroics to save his smallish community and venerated later by saints and poets.

Murugan climbed down the hill in a clattering bus to study in high school at the foothills and took the same bus back home early in the evenings. As he has seen most animals in pictures in the museum nearby his thatched house, Murugan was surprised to see a big black cat wriggling into the bushes at the first bend up hill. He told his father that he had seen a really big, black cat in the dry, thorny bushes.

Overcome by curiosity, Natarajan told his wildlife warden that he is going to keep a watch on the big cat and sought permission from his job as a watcher for few days. From the next day, Natarajan started spending his evenings near the first bend waiting for the big, black cat. On weekends, his elder son will also wait with him till darkness set in. For twenty two days, they had no luck. Only herds of elephants crossed the stretch on a few days. In the second week, a leopard was spotted. In the third week, they saw a tiger and a group of lion tailed macaque. But they had seen them all before. Finally, the father decided to call it quits but the son persisted and persuaded his father to stay put till the fourth weekend.

There they sat, on a stone by the side of the narrow, bartered, winding hilly road, leisurely without any expectation, breathing in the winter wind, when lightning struck on the western sky. And then walked the big, black cat, actually a black panther, lazily from under the silk tree, and, on to the bumpy-grumpy road.

The rattling last bus had climbed uphill half-an-hour ago and the forest was still. The father-son duo could neither believe their luck nor their eyes. They were the first ones to spot a black panther in the history of the sanctuary. The black panther watched both sides of the road, like a school boy trying to cross the road on an evening, and started stretching himself. He looked sleepy but sober and unsuspecting of the human presence.

Before lying himself down on the middle of the tarred road, the panther growled briefly. Watching the black panthers growling could chill ones blood. It can be one of those most frightening sights in the wild. On that tranquil day, the panther’s growling came as a pleasant surprise. It then yawned for what seemed to be an eternity and the big, black cat started sleeping peacefully as the setting sky drizzled down golden drops. With the wild within, the father and son wanted to have a closer look at the rare visitor.

The father and son split up. The father moved up by the side of the road crossing the panther and came back on to the road. The son was on this side of the road. Talking in wild language, both took the sleeping position like the panther on the middle of the road and slowly rolled towards the panther from either side.

``When we were ten feet close on each side, the black panther, smelling different, jumped up from sleep. We were terrified. I asked my son not to move and be still. The panther was not looking at him. I lay there before its eyes in my watcher’s khaki uniform. The big cat slowly stepped towards me growling. My heart stopped for a moment. Holding my breath, I lay there in prayer. When the panther came close to me and started sniffing around my body, my son jumped to his toes and started shouting,’’ a terrified-looking Natarajan told us.

Murugan shouted aloud: ``De, karum chiruthai. Nee enna periya evana? Un vala pidichu thooki adichuruven (hey, black panther. I will take you by your tail and throw you away).’’

``Caught unawares by a strange sound from the other side, the black panther looked confused. Now, I jumped up and shouted: `De puli, enna dhairiyam irundha en kittaye vaal attuve (hey panther, how dare you wag your tail to me). With commanding sounds from both sides, the black panther, sensing danger, vanished into the bushes under the tree in a jiffy.’’
Natarajan and his son walked back to the seven kilometre up the hill singing and dancing in unbridled joy. They had not only seen the big, black cat, but have even terrified it no ends.

Postscript: Try telling this story to your sons and daughters by you playing the role of black panther and them as the father-son duo, you sure will have a great time, especially when the black panther sniffs, they hold the breath, and when it runs for cover into the dark, they can’t stop giggling for a long time and everytime. By the way, when you take them on a trip to Top Slip, do show them the bushes near the silk tree at the first bend and the brilliant white eyes of the big-black cat watching them over. They will be delighted.

flowing silver, sea of sponge

For months, I have been thinking of this particular post. Four of us escaped from the newsroom to landmark. Amitav's reading session of his latest poppy. I have heard of him but never read him. The other three have enjoyed his prose thoroughly. I was promised a book to read by two.

We found him at the doorway. Dressed in white kurta, he stood there slantingly talking. His spongy, silvery hair stood out. I have never seen anything more spongy or silvery.

The man was as soft as the sponge with hair steely as silver. He read passages from his new book and took questions from a sea of admirers. The last time, I heard about him was at the time of launch of Hungry Tide. It was sunderbans that attracted me to read the reviews, mostly favourable. I did not get a chance to read the book. On hearing him read, it was evident that this man was reading from the forgotten, rather unknown, pages of the subcontinental history. Here is one writer working to enlighten the socio-cultural history the historians have not focussed on. Of course, his is a work of fiction. The canvas being history. Like him, I was more interested in knowing the history of those brave men and women who sailed as far as the west indies than the works of naipaul.

His reading was not impressive. It was a session to make people meet him. His readings will not sell even a single book. His writings will. In several thousands. I learnt it after reading the glass palace. It was one of those books which you finish without bothering to do anything else. I took three days to finish the book. From the time, Rajkumar said the British are bombing to toothless octagenarians' naked-hugging at the end of it all, it was time worth well spent.

Irawady river, Mandalay palace, the fort, beach and cemetry of Ratnagiri, the floating Rangoon, Morningside jungles, Calcutta culture, the chilling war, the flight of refugees, the siege, all written evocatively and the unsaid anninhilation of an egalitarian culture by crooked colonialism. The characters too remain deep inside. The King's distant eyes, the uncompromising Queen, the making of a feminist from a collector's wife, a little girl's thirst for the supreme state, a producer husband and a loving wife, all chronicled through the life of a poor boy rising to be a prince.

It was after a long time a book rekindled my passion for filming. The last time was while reading the city of joy. The story is tailor made. Only, one has to visualise. The creeking teashop on a treetop, a young boy presenting a jewellery to a bright eyed girl, the king with a binocular on top of a crumbling fort, the coach rider with his pregnant princess, two young men recruiting in andhra for work in burma, the capsized boat and the death of collector, a young liberal woman sailing in the pacific, the wooded house at morningside estate, the first photograph of a naked lover, the first officers in the army, a young producer hugging a wannabe actor in a cal studio, the bombings, the killings, the cruel images of the war, the interluding delight in wine and woman, the trampling of elephants, the mother sinking into the river, the fight for faith, the photograhper and his wife within walls, that peaceful face from being the prison gates, the train to ratnagiri, not to forget the naked-hugging and kissing of two old people, who hated each other for six decades, at the end.

The images are countless and the canvas breathtaking. Well, will me ever get to make a film?

Saving a crow, Raising the bar

This happened a month before the much awaited launch of Times of India in Chennai.

***

Timeless In Times.

It has been a week since we walked into Times House on Chamiers Road with the mandate to bring out a liberal paper, a great paper, an editorially flawless paper. One that would be both loved and respected, by the culturally conscious citizens of Chennai.
Late one afternoon, Sooraj D. Singh walked into the office looking for Priya M Menon, the person who cares for the voiceless, who has received awards for saving scores of soulful animals.
When he told her there was a crow was dangling from a kite string on a tree outside, she refused to take him seriously. "Come on stop bothering me, I have work to do," said Priya. "I tell you, it's hanging from a tall tree," he insisted. Then she realised that Sooraj was, for once, not telling tall tales. She went out to have a look and to her horror, she saw a crow hanging from a kite string from a coconut tree beside Times House.
It was close to five in the evening. Over the next hour, she was seen striding round the office, making calls, trying to find help. Some of us went out to look at the poor creature, some of us were too insensitive to even listen to her.
"One of its wings is caught in the string. It is a pathetic sight. I don't know how long the poor crow's been dangling there. It has to be rescued,'' she kept repeating.
Finally she tracked down Daniel -- the man who gave up eating chicken after becoming an animal rescuer -- of the Blue Cross. Priya waited nervously for the rescue team to arrive but it was past five and her son would have come home from school. She had to go. She went. With her heart dangling with the crow.
When it was getting pitch dark, a four men from Blue Cross arrived at our second floor office and asked for a torch. By this time, most of us, the insensitive, were leaving office, only to feel bad at home for not caring for the crow. As we trooped in the next morning, we all wanted to know what had happened to the poor crow.
Daniel tells us: "I was asked to come to Times House and oversee the rescue operations. I had three more persons to assist me. The crow was hanging from a very tall coconut tree. One of them tried climbing the tree but gave up as it was slippery from last night's rain.
He says the owners of the house allowed them to set up a makeshift tower on the terrace. "We used a big iron pole to untangle the crow from the kite string. The pole was heavy and two had to balance it. There was a chance that the rescuers could also fall from the terrace.
"Finally, we tied a stick to the pole and managed to rescue the bird. The crow fell to the ground. It looked dead but was barely alive. The doctors at the Blue Cross attended to it all morning." Daniel ends with, "I am sure, the crow would have died if we had not rescued it that night."
That crow's heart must still be beating. Our hearts too.
We care. Love.

PS: I thought this was page one anchor for launch!

swiftly...

Now and then, the soul of your story goes missing when it appears in the paper.

When the Indian Institute of Technology - Madras, IIT-M, celebrated golden jubilee in the cool comfort of the students activity centre, only a few realised that the doors have been closed, forever, to a few swifts that had made the centre its home.

In fact, a professor in charge of the nature club in the campus wrote that change in architecture of the centre could endanger the swifts, an uncommon bird, in the guindy national park. Swifts do not nest everywhere and look for places like chimneys. The student centre in the IIT-M suited them perfectly and appealed the administrators not to interfere with the architecture of the building.

When I called up her for a feedback, she said: ``For the golden jubilee celebrations, they have air conditioned the students centre. I think, the swifts have lost their home''.

Needless to say, the story of technocrats shutting the door of the swifts went untold. Till now. A few days later, a deer drowned itself into death in an open tank. Technologists sure need to think hard about clearing the forests for construction. They should go vertical or underground :)

its all happening.

It has been a while writing real stuff, the heart's feelings and desires. Journalism can be pretty difficult a profession as many of us are discovering. Demanding and painful. The three months, however, have been eventful.

First: After years, my friends think me working. Page ones! Second: Sri Lanka discovered Mendis, not Duleep's son. Third: Federer loses wimbledon, Nadal is No 1. Fourth: An Indian wins an Olympic gold. Fifth: Bolt from the blue. It is time the 9.6 sec barrier fell. Sixth : Phelps wins eight gold medals.

I sure want to write about everything but its past.

Things not happening: My wife still has no mobile. Asthmatic children. Congested traffic. My mom's mutterings. Stalin's dream. My laziness. Litter.

kuchu turns 1

For those few kindred souls who prayed for a faceless little boy born last summer in chennai, here he is. kuchu turned 1 few days back.

As you read this, he is spending his summer holidays in the cool climes at his father's home in kodaikanal. His mom is still anxious as to how he will adjust to the chillness of the hill station. This is the first time, he is travelled up the hills. All these days were spent at the windy town that happens to be the constituency of one of the corrupt lady of our times.

Of course, kutchu knows the grand-old hero, now dead, who stands as a statue right in front of his home. His grandpa, the quintessential doctor, has been his teacher as mom and dad are busy treating hundreds of patients at the government hospitals in the hinterland. Achu, who goes to school in the district headquarters, is a strong man now.

Leaving the big city, kuchu has had his difficulties, specially in eating, but has slowly swallowed it. If you ever visit him, you can see him speed up and down the long, narrow dark corridor a hundred times a day in his car (see the pic). Simply unstoppable.

kuchu's aunt delivered a baby girl just before he cut his first cake.

;-)

passion vs programming

Of late, the transsexuals have to, often, straddle between passion and perfection.


On one side is the raw desire to live a carefree life. On the other, there is this programming by the NGOs wanting to transformthe life of transsexuals. Wednesday's fashion shows at Villupuram, organized on either side ofthe KanyaKulam Road, by the locals and an international agency, were reflective of the two entirely different worlds of the present day*aravanis*.

Ms Koovagam, organized by the local *aravani* welfare group with networks in major cities in the nation and the world, was that of the old world, full of flesh, glitz, high decibel and all chaotic. The who's who of the *aravanis* in the state were there. Along withtheir companions (One of the badmouth was beaten up by the localmedia). And they were all honoured on stage by the organizers. Thedancers were not great but their enthusiasm was infectious. At least,one dancer was asked to the item number again.

The fashion show, as elsewhere, was mostly boring. The cute as well asthe intelligent never reached the final stage much to thedisappointment of the crowd. Ms Koovagam went to Ms Mantra. She hadglamour but importantly she was from the right gang. Governmentofficials being the judges, the third prize went to a transsexual whowas dressed as, of all things in a fashion show, *Bharat Matha*.
``Education is the most important thing,'' said Ms Koovagam beforerushing out of the hall and flew off in a car. Once the hall was empty, the organizers were finding it difficult to get back to normal life. ``We have spent over a lakh of rupee. The government has stoppedfunding. Now, it gives it only one NGO. First, the NGOs have to bethrown out of the lives of transsexuals,'' said Radha, president,Villupuram District Aravanikal Nala Sangam. She has been organizing the fashion show for sometime and now suddenly she has no funds from anywhere.

Bang opposite, the Tamil Nadu AIDS Initiative (of Bill & Melinda GatesFoundation), has a parallel fashion show. A well organized one. Onlythe perfume was too much. There are no gangs but there are teams of*aravanis* (SHG members). The team spirit and bonding is evident. Theyhave dressed up in folk, classical and modern and perform at ease the respective dance forms.

The group monitors, female facilitators, are with the members, givingthem tips. And an Australian team is documenting the event from startto finish. The crowns went not to the glamorous but to the diligentand intelligent. Noori, Chennai's 59-year old veteran, got the secondprize for her service to the community. Malavika, the winner, was all in tears. She never thought she was beautiful and so never thought she will win Ms Koovagam. In both, only one thing was common. The fashion shows were evidently fixed.

The transsexuals, true to their style, straddled both the worlds with ease.

times launched...

``Hey,'' said Jojo. Almost a shout.
Vikas, with his greenish meditative eyes over the monitor, has just cleared the front page.
Many of us shouted aloud. It was the moment. The magical moment the city has been waiting for years now. Tomorrow, the city will wake up to a new paper. An aggressive, intelligent, proactive paper.
As an afterthought he said: ``Let us hope that the other papers don't come up with something special.'' Like him, the editors of other papers might have gone through sleepless days. It has been a dream come true.
``Ok guys, lets start work on tomorrow's new edition,'' Derek says, with a laugh. Sunil gets a pat from everyone around. ``You owe us a big treat,'' he is told. Everyone is relieved. The past one month has been spent for this moment.
``We will read other papers tomorrow,'' says Priya and Ayyappan. ``I am sure the others will have special stories for tomorrow,'' says Suresh. Hundreds have been working day and night for the past 20-odd days. It will be some of the most memorable days in their career. No one is interested in leaving the office. Everybody wants to stay till morning. May be, we will go to the press to see the first copies despatched while the city is sleeping. We are awake.
The city will have to wake up. Tomorrow will never be the same.

Srirangathu sci-fi mama

Sujatha @ Rangarajan

It happens that I am paying a tribute again. This time to a writer.

Sujatha is a familiar name in the Tamil country. Of course, the girly name has its own phonetic beauty and I always thought that girls withthis particular name were beauties as well. I remember readingsomewhere that it was a girl named Sujatha who first fed the enlightened as he walked through the paddy fields in Gaya afterself-realization under a peepal tree two millennia ago.So, the name is as ancient as the Buddha but the man who popularised it is no more. S Rangarajan has achieved something that no otherwriter has even dreamt of in the language primitive than the Buddha.

In fact, by the time Buddha was born, Tamil text had its own set ofsyntax.Yet for two millennia, it was a language rich with literary, musical, poetic and philosophical notes. It was this writer who popularised science to the masses. He introduced his language-loving countrymenrobots and holograms. Not to forget the haiku.

I was fortunate to be introduced to his writing in my boyhood itselfwhen he was at the peak of his writing career. My *chithappa* was abook seller and my *chithi* would gobble anything and everything in print and had in binding all the serialized novels appearing inpopular weeklies. It was at her home-bound library, I took to books ina big way. After Kalki, it was Sujatha who delighted me with his intelligent and tehno-rich writing. Holding my breath on most occasions, I would flip pages waiting for the young lawyer duo of Ganesh and Vasanth to unsolve one mystery after another.

To say the truth, a studious and legal genius in Ganesh and a flirty and intuitive Vasanth, went on to capture the imagination of a young generation. I'm sure that girls of 70s and 80s were in love with either Ganesh or Vasanth. The good ones with the formers and the liberatred with the later. It is sad that till now no one, including the writer himself, has translated the spirit of his writings in screen, may be with the exception of *Karaiyellam Shenbagappu*. In the small screen,Ganesh and Vasanth have been captured quite a few times but mostlydisappointing and at times disgusting.

Afterwards, whenever and wherever I came across the name Sujatha, I spent time reading with my whole intellect hooked. Otherwise, Sujatha could be difficult to understand, more so for a person with unscientific temper like me. Even now, I remember vividly the serialized novel in which Nila, a young girl as the lead character,with a small dog as advisor, dethroning a dictator in the age ofrobots. Sujatha possessed quite an extra-ordinary imagination and hissuccess lied in translating the technical jargon in simple language.

It was he who introduced archaeology and space science, aesthetics and appreciation, haiku and holography, romance and robots, folksongs, fiction and a whole range of subjects to millions of middle class boysand girls growing up in small towns across the State. Most of them had the habit of abandoning books mid-way as most of the literature wasserious then. Perhaps, Sujatha was the first fiction writer in Tamil to have hooked to the masses. He was the man who opened the windows ofthe small minded showing them new vistas in the realistic frontiers of science and technology, all the time stretching the horizon.

He must have been a man with an in-depth and rare knowledge of theTamil language. He was also the master of modern prose. Combining them eloquently and evocatively, he captured the imagination of hisreaders. His simplified answers to scientific questions for years havebeen the cornerstone of science education in the state. He was awardedby the Centre for such a special contribution.

Soon, I went to college and graduated to RKN, Ayn Rand, Tagore,Dostoevsky, Gibran and Gorky among others and by this time Sujatha had stepped into screenplay devoiding a new generation the pleasure ofreading his fiction. Working with many of the big names and best mindsin the industry, he wrote both the screenplay and dialogue. He couldsense the pulse of modern middle-class families and came up with crisp, chirpy dialogues. It was an extension of his experience withrealistic theatre with lively dialogues. He was one of the rarewriters to establish firmly in celluloid. Director Shankar's *Robo*will be his last contribution to the film world.As an engineer, Rangarajan has had a distinguished career. A formercolleague of him says that he has quite a few inventions andinnovations to his credit. The Electronic Voting Machine (EVMs), thetouchstone of Indian democracy was developed under his leadership at Bharat Electronics Ltd. Not many know his engineering skills but itwas while working in his office room in Bangalore in the earlyseventies, Rangarajan took to writing in the name of his beloved wife Sujatha. In these thirty years, that name has become his.

In his autobiograhpy of his boyhood, Rangarajan fondly remembers thefirst time his name appeared in print. Playing cricket in the holytown of Sri Rangam where he grew up, he scored a twenty whereas at theother end his friend scored a whirlwind ninety or hundred. Both the names appeared in the ``prestigious paper''. ``I have seen my name(Sujatha) thousands of times, but I will always cherish the first timeit appeared,'' he would recall fifty years later. In the last literarymagazine he edited, Sujatha predicted a golden age for writers inTamil. His friends reveal that he continued to write in the hospitaltill his death.

It is sheer coincidence that the missile man, APJ Abdul Kalam, studiedwith him in college in Tiruchirapalli. After a distinguished service,Kalam, as Peoples' President went on to ignite millions of young mindsto science and technology throughout the nation two decades later.Unfortunately, the two great men were not great friends at college butboth went on to accomplish their mission, of popularising science, with utmost sincerity and devotion, in their respective ways.

Sujatha will be special. For, he will be lying in print, littered orhidden, somewhere in the cupboards and bookshelves of millions ofhomes in Tamil country. Someday, in Space Age, some boy or girl mightpick up the book and begin to read with ease. I am sure, they will straightaway identify with the sci-fi writer from the age of primates.

``its a heaven down there''

tribute to the first man to touch the sky, standing on top of the world, yet dying a modest man

- sir edmund hillary, the man, the mist and icy mountains loved to take care of for over fifty years -


For years, the world thought tensing was the first one to climb the highest peak in this known world. The sherpa, for whom the himalayan peaks were his backyard, showed the way. Till this date, the defining moment in adventure sports is the moment when tensing and hillary conquered the peak for the first time fifty years ago.

The first photograph taken on top of that icy peak showed the short man with a flag. Naturally, people thought that he was the first one to set foot on top of the world. Only years later, hillary, with his modesty, told the climbers that it was actually he who reached there first. ``The last 500 mts was the toughest climb. I decided to take it. Tensing and others followed,'' he recalled.

Early this morning, he died. with all that modesty at a hospital near his home in new zeland. his countrymen called him their greatest son. Not because of he climbed everest, ten other himalayan peaks, and innumerable others. ``He was the humblest,'' said a lady, on mike in a street corner.

of that glorious moment, he had said: ``We felt quite satisfied. Even surprised.'' In the lesser known kingdom of the sherpas, the small community mourned the loss of their saviour. hillary had built two dozen schools and two hospitals for the community, guiding the world climbers to the upper reaches of the snowy kingdom.

as the world condoles his death, the flags fly at half-mast in antartica, the artic mourns the departure of a dear one deeply, and the snowy peaks of the himalayas keep shedding tears, slowly in silence and the icy winds along the peaks whisper the world the bravery of a man. the deep blue sky, the frozen snow, the peaks in penance all stand still. in salute of a friendship.

those touching the sky in the years to come might walk through two friends, wearing the snow, jumping the peaks effortlessly.

The Spanish Conquest.

Tennis can't get any better. On a calm, late winter night, two champions from the Spanish country captured the hearts of thousands of feverish fans in a magnificient display of, possibly, the best tennis ever to be played in the city.
As the Chennai crowd cheered for close to four hours, the game bordering between unbelievable and out of the world, reminded us once again that tennis, at its best, is pure magic.
The stadium was filled with excitement even before the start of the second semi-finals. Everyone was saying that this should have been the final. The stands, for the first time, were full. It stayed the course, cheering all the time.
Moya, the two time champion and the darling of Chennai, had a large contingent of loyal fans shouting Moya, Moya, Moya. The young Nadal, lacking in charisma, had only the support of the tiny-toddlers to begin with.
There must be something orangy about Mallorca. Both the guru and shishya had a tinge of orange in t-shirts, trousers and even the shoes. While Rafa wore a ``sweaty'' bright orange shirt, Moya only had streaks of orangy on a white shirt. The crowd, though, was thoroughly colourful.
All the three sets went to the tie-breaker. In the first set, the players went with the serve. At 4-5, Moya was serving to save the first set. Ahead 30-0, he did somethingthat even Federer fears. Volleying against Nadal. Moya could barely watch the screeching passes on both sides. Break Point.
The champion character he is, Moya volleyed himself to win the game taking it to the the tie-breaker. A few forehand winners down the line gave him the first set. Even the cheer girls were jumping with joy as the crowd hailed its champion.
While the lenses were whirring towards his girlfriend at the stands often, Moya dint even look at her side once in the first set. He did look at her mid-way in the next set, lost concentration and lost his serve. Not many in the crowd knew, he had a delightful kiss with his girl at the players lounge in the afternoon.
Up a break, Nadal was now hitting the ball frighteningly fast. By now, Moya also had a measure of Nadal's game and was dictating terms with his fierce forehand firing on all cylinders. After a couple of delectable drops, Moya broke back with a lob. It was one of several play(s)-of-the-day. What a tie-break! The linesmen had stopped calling and the chair umpire had to cry `fault' a few times. When Nadal argued over a line-call, the crowd, showed its character, by booing for a few seconds. Perhaps, the crowd pumped him up.
Nadal, Mr Never-Say-Die, saved four match points to send the crowd into a frenzy. The last point was unbelievable. Tiring his friend out, Moya dropped a volley down. Sitting with the photographers, I was closest to the ball in the entire crowd. The ball was dipping and was millimetres above the surface, when the feared backhand whipped it to Moya's backhand that found the net. The crowd went mad. In disbelief, Moya could only sport a smile. Two more backhands equalled the scoreline.
Into the third set, the Spanish conquerors were fighting point after point with gladiatorial spirit. It looked like they were playing to find a place in eternity. The photographers were tired and had stopped clicking, waiting for the winning moment. Even the linesmen were aching. Only,
the crowd continued to cheer. To silence the crowd, the chair umpire had to call a hundred-odd times. `Thank you. Players are ready.'
With Moya literally dancing on the court, dictating terms with a flowing forehand, the crowd, for the first time, called `rafa, rafa; rafa, rafa'. They wanted a third set tie-break. By now, the world number two had clearly won over his share of supporters. It was a touch volley that gave Nadal the break as Moya was serving for the match.
Perhaps, the only let off in the game followed as Moya's forehands went long or caught the net in the third set tie-breaker. As always, Chennai stood up and clapped for Moya, as he got the obvious trophy, the very special player of the tournament.
``It was unbelievable,'' the Sapniards said at the post-match press conference. Of the tennis they played. Of Chennai crowd. Without any transport arrangements or public transport, many in the crowd, after giiggling at Nadal's cricketing skills, walked home after midnight.
Is someone thinking of shifting the venue somewhere else. Hey guys, its time to fly down the Fabulous Federer next year. Chennai deserves it. Or to say the truth, tennis deserves this city, a connoisseur of sports. All sports.

bbbbrrrrrreeaaaakkinnnnng news...

the rumour mills in the corridors of power at the fort st george have started churning out the latest. as promised, the dmk patriarch, is likely to crown his son, the heir-apparent, on his return. not as the chief. but deputy chief. with finance and industries, i suppose.

the prodigal son, is holidaying in the backwaters, musing from a house-boat along the still waters of kumarakoam, when heavy rains have claimed 49 lives in his own state. the poor chap, who has had a whirlwind tour of the state, is relaxing with his family. with wife, son, daughter and playing grand-daddy.

the son's close confidant, for a change, a male, once-upon-a-time teacher, with a foul mouth, is likely to take up the local administration stuff. the genial, the gold, once-upon-a-time, an engineer, with mild manners, is likely to take care of the higher education as well.

its confirmed, the wind says.

Ram and Rich

Ram Leelas...

If you thought, it was only Tamil Nadu chief minister M Karunanidhi who is a (lord) Ram baiter. you are mistaken. MK, who excercises control over the state press, clearly had no clue about satellite channels breaking news all the time. or else, the veteran dravidian leader was shrewed enough to have used them for the purpose of propaganda of his old-world dravidian ideals.

Reading William Darlymple, I was rediscovering my fondness for the printed pages. `At the age of kali', he quotes Laloo: ``Ram should punish these murderous fundamentalists - if he exists, that is. But he is nowhere. If he was there, so many poor people would not have died, there would not have been such poverty, such fights...''

In a country obsessed with religion, both MK and Laloo have demonstrated their ability to attack the saintliest of the hindu god, or his avatar, and continue to win elections. If it was dravidianism for the former, it was casteist pride and criminal power that helped the later.

But both, inspite of the personalities they are, can take pride in plunging the polity of the nation towards new lows. Of corruption and criminalisation of politics. While Laloo wears these two traits on his sleeves, MK prefers it to be an open secret.

Rich Ragas ...

Consider these two numbers. 358 and 2,500,000,000.

First, the audience at a preview cinema theater and the second almost half-the-population of the world.

The World's Rich and The World's Poor. UN 1996 Development Report: the riches 358 people in the world have the same aggregate wealth as the poorest two-and-a-half billion.

In other words, as Ambanis get richer, it is likely that millions of poor will get poorer.

This is a fact. Infact, it is globalisation. The modest, but neverthless historic, reductions in wealth and income gaps during the most of twnetieth century are being reversed under gloalisation.

Interestingly, it is intriguing to note that the two binding forces, both exploitative to the core in nature, religion and feudalism, continue to thrive even in the era of globalisation. Studying the political systems and predicting the State responses to these all powerful and all pervading forces could be an exciting profession for future social scientists.

Wither socialism and the welfare state? A friend said yesterday that the world is no more innocent. May be, the world is no more just as well. The planet is already paying the price for rampant industrialisation with its, and our, survival at stake. Still, the rich want to be richer. The poor will always be poorer.

Let us hail stock-markets but don't mistake brand and equity with brotherhood and equality.

its a pleasure... and pain

it was a pleasure driving on the roads of good old madras the day after deepavali. it seems all the migrant population has gone back to their native towns and villages and only those who really belong to chennai were moving around leisurely.

it was similar to the pace i witnessed when i migrated a decade-and-half back after which the city has also become too mechanical like any other teeming metropolis. it is time, the state thought of decongesting the heart of the city and take development truly to the suburbs by providing the required infrastructure.

it looks like an extended weekend and the city is at peace with itself. with easy mobility, you feel relieved and relaxed. after the wasteful extravaganza, that is diwali. i spent last evening in a park and the sky was littered with brilliant sparks.

here were a thousand blasts from all over the city every second. think of the level of pollution the city inherits in a single day of celebration. its like undoing a year of good work. its not just about the pollutants. its about the purse as well as the city has come to be gripped by the vulgar consumerism, a global culture.

i live in a home by the side of a shopping district and the last week has been terrible with lakhs and lakhs trouping in and out of all sorts of shops. people would have spent crores on buying sweets. forget that we are the diabetes capital of the world. it was a mad rush for plain consumerism.

you may ask what do people earn for. only to spend at times of festivals. i remember deepavali from my childhood, which may require another post. its no more the same. that culture is gone. today, the festival is celebrated in front of the idiot box romancing the stars. dont forget the first day first show madness and the all powerful dressing.

the skyline was lit up till late in the night. i was having a headache after having watched the sloppy indian team losing it to arch rival pakistan in a humdinger. the image, i carried to my dreams was that of a small boy, made to be a beggar, with her mom with the little sis on lap, begging for alms in front of the crowded sweet shop on the high road.

is narcisst and narakasuran the same? i wonder.

sometimes...

Sometimes, sinners become saviours.

It happened that the sinner, a minister in tamil nadu, wanted to destroy 40 hectares of shola rain forests in the fragile eco-system of kolli hills, and lease it out. Believe it or not. For mining.

Already battered by uninterrupted mining for bauxite for over 40 years, kolli hills, in the eastern ghats, with not many even visiting his pristine beauty, has been languishing for long. The predator, the mining company, wanted nothing other than the rain forests this time, and applied.

the forest department said a firm no. rightly so. which forester will ever accept to the destruction of shola? but the file was sent back to the forest officials by none other than the minister asking it to be reviewed in the positive. the file has been sleeping in the forest office for five months now.

now the minister piles up pressure on the top conservators to keep the file moving. inspite of the fact that the file have to travel a long way, till the supreme court's central empowerment committee to get the nod. he was confident of taking the file till that committee as his partyman happens to be sitting in the chair that seats the man who matters most for the environment and forests that are under threat.

he failed to realise that there is one paper that can spoil his designs. the paper carried the report. not the one it wanted to. in an effort to protect the sources, the sinner had to be shown as the saviour. never mind. another time will come to fix the minister. for now, the shola forests are safe.

the battle is by no means simple. think of the fragile habitat under pressure from development. the melting glaciers in the upper reaches of himalayas, the unabated pollution of the rivers, the thick, smoky urban air, mining in most of the forests, and the list could go on.

if the tribals are to be believed, the mining company, that has about 70 hectares in possession, has applied for rights over 650 hectares, including that 40 ha of rain forests. mind boggling. we may save the shola. but can we save the companies digging deep into the heart of the hills?

hope, eco-terrorists start surfacing soon to send terror along the spines of the mining managers.

dancing in the rain ...

i haven't watched people dancing spontaneously for a long time now. in my early twenties, i used to dance for hours in a small town below the ghats, my soul town, by the western ghats, as it rained for hours.

yesterday, the nation rejoiced as bombay was seen dancing in the rain to the tunes of chak de for five hours with a band of boys on a historic march. most of them have not seen the sweet home for three months. they have been away, in the land of whites and then in the land of black and white. breathing cricket all the time. well, none of us even dreamt of winning a world cup. but the band of boys had a rare self-belief. like, the kapil's devils.

at hindsight, the boys, it looks, had the right willow. shewag, gambhir, yuvi, robin, dinesh and dhoni. everyone likes to hit. they all crave to get after the bowlers, each one in his own characteristic way. shewag, square of the wicket; gambhir, driving down; robin, scorching and scooping; dinesh, always innovating; yuvi, the thunder bat and dhoni, straight cutting! given an option, they will attack all the way. twenty overs suited these daring batters perfectly.

on sep 24th at johannesburg, gambhir was dancing, not in the rain, but down the wicket to caress the cherry to extra cover and mid-wicket boundaries, in an expedition of elegant batsmanship, on a slow pitch.

to start with, walking in for the injured shewag, yusuf, when a nation was wondering on his identity, hoisted asif for a straight six. no one expected such ruthlessness. it was plain disdain. robin floundered again driving a rising delivery. tactical and shrewd, shoaib brought the spinners on straight-away after seeing yuvi's scintillating form against pacers.

at times, the most indisciplined attack, the pakistanis were on target. they knew that their record against india in world cups. not even a single win. this was the final. umar gul had measured the pitch well and the indians faced the music. the one length delivery he bowled landed on the scoreboard. he had the last laugh as gambhir's scoop was gulped by asif at short fine-leg. gambir had showed the world that even in the shortest format, batting is not about breathing fire but is also about craftsmanship.

if we look back, the team dancing started with the brutal aussies wanting twenty from two on a cool night in durban a few days ago. harbhajan doing a banghra at deep mid-wicket. the team was a minute away from eliminating the champions.

but one billion started dancing at the same kingsmead as yuvi carted the cherry over long-on for a sixth time in six balls at the kingsmead ground to the delight of one billion. having seen the same faces and strokes for fifteen years, sachin, dravid and sourav, the india had something anew to celebrate.

the little fellows were not the masters. they knew little about reputation. they are not purists. they had no respect for opposition. they had a plan. and the plan had a place for a young boy named rohit. hardly a hitter of the cricket ball, the little chap has a brilliant cricketing brain that rescued his team twice taking the total to respect and thereby giving the bowlers a chance.

ah! the poor bowlers, in a baseballish version of cricket. there were two reinventors in the bowling department. it was remarkable for pathan and bhajji to have found the lost rhythm when the nation had finished them off. the cup is as much a tribute to the duo who were nowhere in the cricketing horizon as much it is to the young guns rudra, straight and swinging, and sreesanth, wayward but wicket-taking. after a long time, the nation delighted itself to the constant clatter and cart-wheeling of stumps.

i am not sure if joginder can dance. the televisions did not show his true emotions. well, those bowling at the death, the very death, can't have expressive faces. by design or by choice, the wary-looking joginder was tossed the ball to bowl the last over. twice, that too in the semi-final and final. remember, sandhu's inswinger licking the off-stump of greenidge. like that ethereal image, joginder's run up to bowl the last over, and misbah's lone mishit and sreesanth's near spill, will remain etched in the memories of at least two generations.

thats the emotion, the game of cricket has on the lives on the people of the sub-continent. while an entire nation erupted in joy and dis-belief, another nation went into deep mourning across the borders. that is a nation that never forgets, especially the defeats. on the field or on the front. it always looks to hit-back. on the cricket field, we can always hope for another fairy tale final, like the wanderers.

i wonder if there could be another world cup final as dramatic as this. from the first six to long on to the last six over long-off, it was thrilling all the way. with ups and downs at every corner. think back on the pak innings. imran freeing arms, hafeez edging and kamran missing, the out-of-place younis khan, and the run-out of imran. then irfan's three dismissals. shoaib mistiming a pull, the stupid-slog by afridi, no one knows if he will ever mature, and the rattling of tariff.

you think you are home. misbah is still there. taking it to the very end. wonder how the pak selectors took these many years to unearth such cricketer, cool as a cucumber. he is thirty three. he also represents the raw cricketing talent all over the sub-continent, mostly undiscovered. the last six off a full toss brought back memories of chetan sharma's full toss at sharjah two decades ago.

thankfully, the band of boys were too small at that time and probably have no memory of it. the rest is history, including dancing in the rain. it is nice to have new generation, dancing all the time, not caring for the mumbai rains.

briefly, the boys will be back in the homes, in small towns, by the villages, shouldering the soul of the nation. these small town fellows have truly emerged from the shadows symbolising the spirit and soul of the nation to a whole new generation.

this is an unprinted page in the nation's cricketing lore. myself waiting for the day the small town fellows will make it big in print. To imprint the simplicity of soul truly on the literary landscape.

lets keep dancing in the rain, even if its a hailstorm!

Gram Jyoti aka e-Exploit

Ericsson, BSNL, Airtel, Apollo Hospitals, Edurite Technologies, Turner Broadcasting and an NGO Hand-in-Hand are partners in reaching out to about one-and-a-half dozen remote villages around the
ancient sea port Mahabalipuram.

Pioneered by Ericsson's WCDMA/HSPA technology (basically 3G), the Gram Jyothi scheme would ensure that these villages are connected to the world through broadband for e-health and e-education. It may look like a programme of combined Corporate Social Responsibility, though in reality, it is the roll out of a fantastic business model to leverage cutting edge technology to tap the rural economy. Not in lakhs or thousands but in installments of one or two rupee per family per day.

Each partner provides a service and has his share in the business. After a visit to Vadugambadi panchayat to have a taste of the pilot project, an Ericsson boss said the 3G technology could be rolled out simultaneously in the villages along with cities once the government grants license for the technology. Using the existing GSM towers of the operators, Ericsson could roll out broadband to lakhs of villages with no landlines across the country but connected through GSM network in a cost-effective manner. Offering 3G using existing GSM network could cost about 25 percent more, said Ericsson's director for 3G Programme.

Radiating 3G signals through existing telecom operators, Ericsson would have business partnerships with like-minded service providers to offer services like e-health, e-education and e-governance for the benefit of the local community. At the office provided by the panchayat free of cost, the staff of the concerned agencies and a few trained village youth help doctors from Apollo Hospitals in Chennai to diagnose the illness of the villagers through a detailed discussion and prescribe tablets or syrup for common ailments. The medicines are also given to the villagers free of cost; for now.

``There is no free lunch,'' says Prof K Ganapathy, president, Apollo Telemedicine. For the system to be self-sustaining, there has to be business in it ultimately, he emphasised. Apollo has a plan to collect 50
paise per person in the panchayat that roughly has about 3,000 inhabitants. The panchayat is yet to accept the plan.

Once the deal is through, Apollo will earn about Rs 50,000 per month from the panchayat. ``If we can offer the e-medicine service to thousands of villages, then it is blue chip,'' Ganapathy said. Insurance companies also are in the loop. We presume that there will not be thousands of patients to be take care for serious illness, Ganapathy reveals his heart. With his experience in tele-medicine for over seven years, Ganapathy feels the 3G platform to be stable. So, the technology is there. Will the villagers accept? Giving away a rupee or two will not be a problem, says an elder adding that the men spend hundreds in bottles.

Simultaneously, a teacher sitting in Chennai starts lessons to three schools around Mahabalipuram. As the technology was being tested, the teething troubles are there. But the video and animation are quite good.
Again, e-education comes free of cost for the first three months, the trial period. ``We will offer lessons in Tamil as well,'' assures a technician from Edurite. It will come at a subsidised rate. Wonder, why the state that distributes television sets to houses is not giving it to schools and have the best teachers take classess. Vikram Sarabai thought this fifty years ago. Still, the governments are thoughtless.

Services on e-governance like obtaining birth and death certificates, paying bills or tax among other things would also be offered in future, for a nominal rate. As e-governance is still in its primitive stages not many villagers have a taste of it. The internet kiosks are basically for kids to play karate and car race. But we are talking about private companies here. Ericsson, plans to have partners for information, entertainment are also
in the loop.

Theoretically, the business model is possible through unwiring and cross-subsidy. Just a reminder. It is not a service. It is purely a business model. It might work but the question is will it work wonders for the rural folk?

Left, Right, Left ...

At about 9 am on a damp, sultry morning in front of the port of chennai, the march against new imperialism was to begin. As always, the Red Flags lent majesty to the air. Sadly, the crowd was so sparse that it could have been numbered within minutes.

None other than Karat was to lead the march. Chennai has a huge chunk of CITU members. It looked like the comrades were asked to work for their families and not for the nation. For now.
A couple of spirited Communist cadre were shouting anti-imperialist slogans. As Manmohan Singh thinks, the voice of the proletariat sounded shrill and meek.

Only a stern-looking Karat and the resolutness of CPI national secretary Raja gave some sort of credibility to this historical march for sovereignty through mass mobilisation. Raja explained why chose the city that had hosted the US flagship carrier Nimitz that bombarded Iraq not so long ago.

Chennai was one of the cradles for communist movement in the nation. In fact, the first May Day parade was marched on the streets of this very city. Till the 1980s, soviet literature was part of the reading habit.

We have conveniently forgotten all of it. The new generation will not even know. Times have changed. This is the New Age. People are no more idealists. They have turned to commercialism in a big way.

For once, it looked the Left was not without allies. The State Agriculture Minister, the DMK strongman, Veerapandi Arumugam and PMK president G K Mani were at the venue. Not to lend solidarity to the Communist struggle but to pay tributes to VOC, a true swadeshi who sailed ships on his own fighting the old-world (British) imperialism. While Arumugam arrived before the Left leaders, Mani came after the march had left. It looked deliberate as the DMK and PMK, share power with the Congress at UPA. They want more money.

Moving on, the Left leaders were accorded warm reception at several points enroute Vizagapattinam. It was off the coast of Vizag, the joint naval exercise was taking place.
It was evident that the Tamils had not cared about the Left's fight against imperialism or they did not care to come out in support. The convoy led by Karat in a Tempo Traveller, a few vans and comrades in motor-cycles, stopped at Sulurpet, Gummidipoondi and at few roadside points.

A dhoti-clad Karat, sweating profusely and shying away from the crowd, spoke as sternly as he could, warning the UPA Government not to take the Left for granted. ``The UPA's commitment is to the people. Not for George W Bush,'' he remarked.

Raja warned the UPA not to deviate from the common minimum programme or face the consequences. ``We mean what we say,'' Raja kept reiterating at all the points.
Into Andhra Pradesh, the Left leaders were happy to see more crowd. At the same time, their hearts must have been gripped with melancholy at the sight of poor peasantry gathering around them. To see if the socialist leaders can give them a cent or two to be sheltered in a hut.

There were many farm women as the landownership was a issue in those parts of the state. The children with thin legs and vacant eyes were there. They are there like that in the rural countryside all through this nation. Not many notice nor care.

When the educated Chennaiites could not comprehend the Left's zeal for sovereignty, the poor women folk visibly had no clue as to what the leaders meant by joint naval exercises or nuclear agreement or even 1.2.3. It was a sad commentary on the times we live in.

The march went on.

poetry of the past

I must confess that I am amazed at the language skills of the young writers, mostly girls. Reading blogs of these girls, in their early twenties, has been a pleasurable passing time.

I was wondering what all things I wrote when I was in my early twenties. I know that I penned down two of my most memorable poems ever when I was 22. Titled `Framed Forever', on a lost sister and an untitled one about a young man watching his very own funeral. Both lost. I have been searching 'em for years. Yet to find them.

I stumbled upon two other pieces of paper. Here are they. The first one was written the night, I had a glimpse of two unknown women, in the same crowded market place, where we reside now. And the other, on an introspective birthday.

Little bit of editing has gone into it. Not all that bad, I think.


***

An ode to feminity

Walking along crowded market street
I saw the lady-little, yarned in yellow

Radiant was she, ransacking my heart
it was evident 'at she was collecting hearts

She had a poise to carrying objects
and lashes to filter animated subjects

Fortunate was I, for the twin stars
illuminated dark holes of this avatar

The creative colour had crossed me in a flash
consoling a humiliated heart heaped all in ash

A rare glimpse to cherish from a dark night
but 'at was not to be the end of that lone night

I saw a girl warped in white as
i climbed down from a complex story

Serene and simple her soul was
stranding me in a moment of victory

Creative was i before, complete i 'came
at that graceful glance of girlish purity.

Years of forlorn vanished, with 'at mind insane
planting in an untamed heart at once morality!

Away from realities of darkness and time
Light pure and new hath entered my mind

Hail the women of this world
the benign bonds of lasting love
and charming chains of continuity

Pray, my soul rests in 'at vast ocean
Of cosmic love. Called compassion.



***



Happy Birthday


On this day you 're born
Now seem to feel forlorn.

You wish you were not born
for the life has revealed thorns;
In the span of wishful years
that have gone concealing tears.

New rays alight the endless horizons
of earth where we all will be buried soon.
The cloudy mayhem of illness surround
the reality of existence present all around.

When there is an inner ever glowing flame
Why then seek wealth, power, place and fame?
When there is so much of light within the self
Why seek comfort in the murky, egotistic self?

Nature seems to be the only solace
relations deter the mind of its peace
Free you are to give everything in nature
attachments demand things giving pleasure

You never realise the truth within
and search for eternal liberty - wherein
you forget the beauty of being born
on a planet 'ch is being continually torn

You are the person, You are the planet.

When will humans understand this facet?
Even if you are a miniature cosmos by yourself,
Hope seems to be the only saviour of soverign selves.

the neighbourhood series...

It was while crying upstairs for a lost friend for long, I got to know my neighbour number four, five and six. Dovely friends. As I sobbed uncontrolably for having not been in touch wtih a very good friend for over a decade, a whitish dove, in all radiance in the evening light, landed on the stairs outside.

The iron gate was locked. My cries stopped for a moment. Then the other two friends flew down. An ash smeared and a grey necked dove. For a moment, I was caught in between crying and smiling. Even a cellphone camera could have captured the thriving vitality of the birds. Life couldn't have been stranger than that second.

To lift my soul, the three walked in a slow, measured, procession in front of me. This way and that way. Unmindful of my presence. I sat still. Smiling inside. The birds kept on picking the grains on the floor and ambled across, leisurely and lyrically. The terrace has been home to a dovely clan. I dint knew it before.

Birding can be levitating. For humans have long desired wings. Poor creatures, they are bound by the laws of gravity, all the time. The human flight is confined to the realm of imagination. Forever. Forget the steel birds. I am talking things natural.

Then this morning, I kept watching through the window. Three butterflies. True Blue, Mellow Yellow and Gorgy Green wafted through the sultry air one by one around the mango tree. I lost myself watching the beauty and carfree creatures. The Gorgy came by the window, the Mellow drifted wide and wide in semi-circles and the True kept licking the little leaves.

It was 12.30. The kutti kingfisher flying from the western side perched himself at the same place when i took that picture a few days ago. Almost, the same time. Not to be missed. Jawa was there. Stupid being, he said the bird could not be captured better.
Wonder why they have lenses like that? Told him straight that he cant be a photographer, if he was not willing to take even a shot. Grumbling he went.

By now, the birdie flew the same way he did few days ago. So, he must be a regular.
Then the squirrel came as well. On the same branch. Today, he was not lazy and kept climbing up and up. Like me, they too were at work as well!

Sat there expecting the shikra to drop in. He never came. A long parrot, out of the mango foliage, flew around in a circle, and disappeared. Parrots must be there in plenty. I could hear their constant conversation loud and clear.

As I stepped outside, someone climbed down from the terrace. Up there, there were hundreds on a flight around the city's skyscape. On the high-rise apartments. On the ground. They were everywhere.

A wonderful world waiting for me. Back by the window, I saw a squirrel (is he the same?) chirping at the branches and a piece of paper tangled looking for food. There was no need for a camera. He was so close. Watching him that close, you also could free yourself.

I was hungry. A pot-belly brewing with acid. Yet, I lingered on for few more minutes. I think I will have to dedicate a post to the crows criss-crossing my window. For now, I leave my window. Back to my home.

``What is the purpose of writing the same things again,'' Tangled had asked me last night when I told her that a column on natural world in a concrete city could be a good idea. I had told her that columns could contain the message of conservation. I am not sure, if there is any in this post.

I remember the wife of an ageing but agile photographer telling him this. ``For forty years, you have been photographing the same tiger, the same leopard, the same elephants, and the same butterflies. For what joy?''

Well, any answers?