http://slashdot.org/ - First thing I do everyday.
http://gtd.marvelz.com/blog/ - A great get things done site.
http://reddevnews.com/ - Redmond developer news web site.
http://www.greenpastic.com/ - Radiohead stuff.
http://discovermagazine.com/ - Discover magazine
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/ - secret blogger
http://www.ibm.com/developerworks/
Monday, October 22, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
U-turn
This '97 thriller has its part partly in the cameos of Sean penn (The protogonist) and Billy Bob Throton (the care mechanic). The plot is quite simple and typically full of oddities. Sean Penn on his way to pay a gangster his debt, is stuck in a remote Arizona town, Superior, when his cars gives in. He is stuck over there with the mechanic Darell (Played by Billy Bob) and a step-father and daughter couple who are at each other's throats and comically, with a love pair. He is robbed of the lot of his money, by way-side robbers and he's denied help of 150 bucks to take his repaired car back. Most comic element of the movie is the 5o buck increase in the repair bill proposed by the mechanic when he finds something new to repair in his car, everytime Bobby goes to him. He plans to escape to Mexico but fate snatches the ticket from him in the funny brawl he has with the love-pair. TNT Tobby N Tucker - when he rises, someone is hurt :) He can't kill off Grace (J' Lo') and he finds that she wants instead to kill her step-dad for reasons of loathing acrimony towards his lust for her. At the end, she's the one to kill her step-dad, the cop (sheriff) and Bob, while Bob kills her. Everyone ends up dead and the movie ends as the hose pipe of Bob's car goes bust when he's the only one of the four alive and badly in need of an escape. He curses the place and resigns to its killer design and dies. A cool pic worth watching once.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
September Sixth
Come September Sixth, one lively soul on this globe, Orkay, sheds his disease. He exercises his volition. He lets go his longing for an unworthy sufferer, Majiji. Orkay dreamed of sharing Majiji's troubles and suffer on Majiji's behalf. He sought to forget the world for a piece of contradictions, Majiji. He is thenceforth liberated, alive again, restored to his original self. Peace be upon the sufferer, for it is doomed to suffer. Peace be upon Majiji, for Majiji can only suffer and one can only hope, Majiji can withstand the pain. The pain wrought by longing souls all around, put forth by multitudes of heart aches, increased by the multitudes of desires to own Majiji. Majiji is set to rotten in the world of ephemeral beauty, to degrade to a symbolic death and decay made disgraceful only by the fragile and fleeting quality of Majiji's attractions.
The celebrating entity, Orkay, takes a decision. To give indifference to the sufferer Majiji. Majiji is confused. It was always confused. Indifference for life. While happiness takes over the heart of Orkay, doom envelopes the inners of Majiji. Things in this universe always square up. Pain wrought on Orkay was to square an earlier mistake. This pain of his finds its square in the pain of Majiji. Pain stays no where but in the heart of bitches who give it.
It was banal attraction that Orkay had suffered. Commonplace, is the longing for bitches. That longing is what makes them one.
September sixth, is a day on which one soul stops crying and another, pity can't help, starts wandering in the vast, unending lands of wilderness. Crusades that split that hapless soul into twelve equal pieces, blood oozing out of it.
Chance once lost is lost for good, for, goodness knocks only once. Let peace be upon the sufferer. Have a peaceful hell.
The celebrating entity, Orkay, takes a decision. To give indifference to the sufferer Majiji. Majiji is confused. It was always confused. Indifference for life. While happiness takes over the heart of Orkay, doom envelopes the inners of Majiji. Things in this universe always square up. Pain wrought on Orkay was to square an earlier mistake. This pain of his finds its square in the pain of Majiji. Pain stays no where but in the heart of bitches who give it.
It was banal attraction that Orkay had suffered. Commonplace, is the longing for bitches. That longing is what makes them one.
September sixth, is a day on which one soul stops crying and another, pity can't help, starts wandering in the vast, unending lands of wilderness. Crusades that split that hapless soul into twelve equal pieces, blood oozing out of it.
Chance once lost is lost for good, for, goodness knocks only once. Let peace be upon the sufferer. Have a peaceful hell.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Poignant and Mellifluous
mujh se pehli si mohabbat meray mehbub na maang
mein ne samjha tha kay tu hai to darakhshaan hai hayaat
tera gham hai to gham-e-dahar ka jhagdra kya hai
teri surat se hai aalam mein bahaaron ko sabaat
teri aankhon ke sivaa duniya mein rakkha kya hai
tu jo mil jaaye to taqdir niguun ho jaaye
yun na tha mein ne faqat chahaa tha yun ho jaaye
aur bhii dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke sivaa
raahaten aur bhi vasl ki raahat ke sivaa
anaginat sadiyon ki taarik bahimanaa talism
resham-o-atalas-o-kamkhvaab mein bunavaaye huye
jaa-ba-jaa bikate huye kuuchaa-o-baazaar mein jism
khaak mein lithade huye khuun mein nahalaaye huye
jism nikale huye amaraaz ke tannuuron se
piip bahatii hu_ii galate huye naasuuron se
laut jaati hai udhar ko bhi nazar kyaa kije
ab bhi dilkash hai tera husn magar kya kije
aur bhii dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke sivaa
raahaten aur bhi vasl ki raahat ke sivaa
mujh se pehli si mohabbat meray mehbub na maang
- Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Translation
Don't ask me for the love I once gave you, my love
I had thought if I had you, life would shine eternally on me
I had your sorrows, those of the universe would mean nothing
Your face would bring permanence to every spring
What is there but your eyes to see in the world anyway
If I found you, my fate would bow down to me
This was not how it was, it was merely how I wished it to be
There are other heartaches in the world than those of love
There is happiness other than the joy of union
The dreadful magic of uncountable dark years
Woven in silk, satin and brocade
In every corner are bodies sold in the market
Covered in dust, bathed in blood
Bodies retrieved from the cauldrons of disease
Discharge flowing from their rotten ulcers
Still returns my gaze in that direction, what can be done
Even now your beauty is tantalizing, but what can be done
There are other heartaches in the world than those of love
There is happiness other than the joy of union
Don't ask me for the love I once gave you, my love
mein ne samjha tha kay tu hai to darakhshaan hai hayaat
tera gham hai to gham-e-dahar ka jhagdra kya hai
teri surat se hai aalam mein bahaaron ko sabaat
teri aankhon ke sivaa duniya mein rakkha kya hai
tu jo mil jaaye to taqdir niguun ho jaaye
yun na tha mein ne faqat chahaa tha yun ho jaaye
aur bhii dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke sivaa
raahaten aur bhi vasl ki raahat ke sivaa
anaginat sadiyon ki taarik bahimanaa talism
resham-o-atalas-o-kamkhvaab mein bunavaaye huye
jaa-ba-jaa bikate huye kuuchaa-o-baazaar mein jism
khaak mein lithade huye khuun mein nahalaaye huye
jism nikale huye amaraaz ke tannuuron se
piip bahatii hu_ii galate huye naasuuron se
laut jaati hai udhar ko bhi nazar kyaa kije
ab bhi dilkash hai tera husn magar kya kije
aur bhii dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke sivaa
raahaten aur bhi vasl ki raahat ke sivaa
mujh se pehli si mohabbat meray mehbub na maang
- Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Translation
Don't ask me for the love I once gave you, my love
I had thought if I had you, life would shine eternally on me
I had your sorrows, those of the universe would mean nothing
Your face would bring permanence to every spring
What is there but your eyes to see in the world anyway
If I found you, my fate would bow down to me
This was not how it was, it was merely how I wished it to be
There are other heartaches in the world than those of love
There is happiness other than the joy of union
The dreadful magic of uncountable dark years
Woven in silk, satin and brocade
In every corner are bodies sold in the market
Covered in dust, bathed in blood
Bodies retrieved from the cauldrons of disease
Discharge flowing from their rotten ulcers
Still returns my gaze in that direction, what can be done
Even now your beauty is tantalizing, but what can be done
There are other heartaches in the world than those of love
There is happiness other than the joy of union
Don't ask me for the love I once gave you, my love
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Robot Child
I wanted to write about this child of one of my cousins, whom I had never seen. But I heard about him from my uncle and his attitude was so kewl that I could not resist putting something about him here :)
This kid is a naturalized U.S citizen and has probably seen 2 summers, and a winter since his birth. He is chumpy and has a flowing hair which he meticulously brushes off his eyes, a million times, without having even a wee bit of bother. He looks at you as if you were his friend from the infinite past and he knows all of your secrets and worse, you know all of his. He just looks and smiles at you long enough to catch your undulating attention and then immediately wanders off to something else. Almost everything around him manages to catch his attention and care. He can distinguish between animate and inanimate things, though. He takes enough care not to disturb animate objects. A look and a understanding smile are all, he has for them. But inanimate objects are lucky enough to get a closer treatment from the hands of this kid. He picks the lifeless objects looks at them, carefully caresses them, waves his hands with them in hand, but oh, so carefully as to not let them fall down. He is their caretaker. He is their God.
When his parents or the so called elders give an angry glance and tell him, he should not be playing with anything, he gives it back with a smile and the same understanding glance and leaves all he has in his hands and moves on, in search of another thing, that's waiting for his masterly treatment and care.
Like a Robot, he crawls on and on, checking with all these objects. To an indifferent observer it would seem as if he is trying to fill these things with what humans tout to have, LIFE. While I don't completely understand his philosophy towards life, it is so impressive and attractive that I am dying to see him whenever he can come over to India next.
I guess, he thoroughly embodies the most successful attitudes towards meterial things in life. The one which has been so widely propogated by the followers of Lord Krsna. The idea of having extreme fondness towards objects around you and at the same time, having the capability of detaching oneself from them upon short notice. Like a drop of water on a lotus leaf and the patch of oil on a non-stick pan :-), this kid carries with him the essence of happiness.
This kid is a naturalized U.S citizen and has probably seen 2 summers, and a winter since his birth. He is chumpy and has a flowing hair which he meticulously brushes off his eyes, a million times, without having even a wee bit of bother. He looks at you as if you were his friend from the infinite past and he knows all of your secrets and worse, you know all of his. He just looks and smiles at you long enough to catch your undulating attention and then immediately wanders off to something else. Almost everything around him manages to catch his attention and care. He can distinguish between animate and inanimate things, though. He takes enough care not to disturb animate objects. A look and a understanding smile are all, he has for them. But inanimate objects are lucky enough to get a closer treatment from the hands of this kid. He picks the lifeless objects looks at them, carefully caresses them, waves his hands with them in hand, but oh, so carefully as to not let them fall down. He is their caretaker. He is their God.
When his parents or the so called elders give an angry glance and tell him, he should not be playing with anything, he gives it back with a smile and the same understanding glance and leaves all he has in his hands and moves on, in search of another thing, that's waiting for his masterly treatment and care.
Like a Robot, he crawls on and on, checking with all these objects. To an indifferent observer it would seem as if he is trying to fill these things with what humans tout to have, LIFE. While I don't completely understand his philosophy towards life, it is so impressive and attractive that I am dying to see him whenever he can come over to India next.
I guess, he thoroughly embodies the most successful attitudes towards meterial things in life. The one which has been so widely propogated by the followers of Lord Krsna. The idea of having extreme fondness towards objects around you and at the same time, having the capability of detaching oneself from them upon short notice. Like a drop of water on a lotus leaf and the patch of oil on a non-stick pan :-), this kid carries with him the essence of happiness.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Innocence
He is the one who his friends call a Bigot. An immaculate one at that. He believes that world is to be doomed. That the globe is living out a cursed tenure. There's no semblance of reason to what he believes. After all, he is a bigot. An immaculate one.
The bigot is travelling to his workplace which was an hour's drive from his dilapidated house. He is sitting by a window of a state run bus. The bus is, as usual, very crowded and noisy. The ticket distributor is doing his job. He's struggling effectively in going back and forth through the maze of people distributing tickets. sweat is trickling down his body. He has a thin body and that helps him, thinks the bigot.
Twenty minutes into the drive already, the bigot looks out of his window. What he sees would leave him in a state of suspended sorrow for the rest of his day. He sees a small hut near a bus stop where the bus jolted to a screeching halt. Inside the hut which was small enough to be labelled unfit even for a scavenging place, there's enough that a family of four can ever need to live. There are cooking pots, a mud fireplace, a few untensils, blankets strewn around, a few pitures of dieties that is probably their sacred praying place. All of these in a six feet by six square. What he sees outside the settlement stunned him to death. There is a boy and a girl. He can't gather what their ages are. They might be around 10 years each. They have a huge hammer each in their hands. They were indifferently listening to a man who's seated on a small rock with a reasonably big iron-hook in his hand, to help hold a lump of iron in its place on an iron plate.
He sees the elderly man shout - "Hit". The boy and the girl make dextrous movements and pull their hammer down taking turns, while the man, probably their father, adjusts the hook to expose the right part of the moulded piece to get it into a desired shape. It seems to him that the girl, especially, would follow the motion of the huge hammer and fling into the air with it, but she's not. She's holding her feet to the ground, firmly.
There's an unbearable stech emenating from a drianage canal beside the hut which has been overflowing with human filth for god knows how many years. The bus moved after taking in some of the commuters who barely had place to stand in the already overcrowded bus.
Of all things, the innocence of the children is what the bigot still has etched in his mind. They are innocent. They don't know what malice is. They don't have the envy that many of us have a better childhood than they have.
Innocence and Ignorance is truly a bliss to them, he thinks.
The bigot is travelling to his workplace which was an hour's drive from his dilapidated house. He is sitting by a window of a state run bus. The bus is, as usual, very crowded and noisy. The ticket distributor is doing his job. He's struggling effectively in going back and forth through the maze of people distributing tickets. sweat is trickling down his body. He has a thin body and that helps him, thinks the bigot.
Twenty minutes into the drive already, the bigot looks out of his window. What he sees would leave him in a state of suspended sorrow for the rest of his day. He sees a small hut near a bus stop where the bus jolted to a screeching halt. Inside the hut which was small enough to be labelled unfit even for a scavenging place, there's enough that a family of four can ever need to live. There are cooking pots, a mud fireplace, a few untensils, blankets strewn around, a few pitures of dieties that is probably their sacred praying place. All of these in a six feet by six square. What he sees outside the settlement stunned him to death. There is a boy and a girl. He can't gather what their ages are. They might be around 10 years each. They have a huge hammer each in their hands. They were indifferently listening to a man who's seated on a small rock with a reasonably big iron-hook in his hand, to help hold a lump of iron in its place on an iron plate.
He sees the elderly man shout - "Hit". The boy and the girl make dextrous movements and pull their hammer down taking turns, while the man, probably their father, adjusts the hook to expose the right part of the moulded piece to get it into a desired shape. It seems to him that the girl, especially, would follow the motion of the huge hammer and fling into the air with it, but she's not. She's holding her feet to the ground, firmly.
There's an unbearable stech emenating from a drianage canal beside the hut which has been overflowing with human filth for god knows how many years. The bus moved after taking in some of the commuters who barely had place to stand in the already overcrowded bus.
Of all things, the innocence of the children is what the bigot still has etched in his mind. They are innocent. They don't know what malice is. They don't have the envy that many of us have a better childhood than they have.
Innocence and Ignorance is truly a bliss to them, he thinks.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Forget a Person ?
Sam took a course of philosphy in his first year undergrad. His professor breezed into the overcrowded and seemingly restive class, etched a number and asked them to try and forget the number they saw, by the time they would have their next class. Sam tried many methods, but the one which worked for him is to continuously remember two numbers 109 and 108.
He says
"I can no longer recall whether the number at the psychology class was 108 or 109. It is more a result of the passage of time than the success of my scheme: as I recall that I still could tell the number four or five years after that class. Time has helped me to confuse 108 and 109, but it's the nature's joke on me that I have to remember these two numbers for many more years or may be all my life just because I wanted to forget one of them. I would not be silly enough to say it's my victory over memory, rather I should be humble to confess it's memory's triumph over me in a crooked sense. So I shoved a burglar out the kitchen's window by open-arm welcoming him and his accomplice at the front door."
So a more commonplace problem - How can we forget a person ?
He gives a solution thus -
"A clever scheme I have devised and I did believe it was an ingenious thing absolutely backed by sound psychology. Step one: find a song which describes your mental state perfectly, which really touches your heart and pricks the wound every time you listen to it. This is no difficult step, considering the abundance of love songs in the pop music market. Step two: make the song played repeatedly back to back every morning, every night, in other words every time you think of the person and do allow and force yourself to think of him or her more, more, more and more until saturation - you had better ensure that your stereo has an auto-repeat function for the best therapic effect. Then step three: after 100 or 200 plays, which work as rubbing your wound against a file 100 or 200 strokes, when you cease to sense any pain from that part of you, out of weariness or damage of sensory cells, you can stop the song and lock up the record until the end of your days. My theory was, according to the theory of association, your memory has been associated with the song so much so that your ability to recall this moment and revive your memory is dependent upon you hearing this song. As you can deduce, it is necessary to choose a not-too-popular song for the whole therapy - or you risk sudden unwelcome off-guard encounters with your old problem sometime somewhere in a bar, a shop, an airport or at a party - and it will be perfect if the melody of the song is not easy to memorise."
Hope it works for you guyz.
He says
"I can no longer recall whether the number at the psychology class was 108 or 109. It is more a result of the passage of time than the success of my scheme: as I recall that I still could tell the number four or five years after that class. Time has helped me to confuse 108 and 109, but it's the nature's joke on me that I have to remember these two numbers for many more years or may be all my life just because I wanted to forget one of them. I would not be silly enough to say it's my victory over memory, rather I should be humble to confess it's memory's triumph over me in a crooked sense. So I shoved a burglar out the kitchen's window by open-arm welcoming him and his accomplice at the front door."
So a more commonplace problem - How can we forget a person ?
He gives a solution thus -
"A clever scheme I have devised and I did believe it was an ingenious thing absolutely backed by sound psychology. Step one: find a song which describes your mental state perfectly, which really touches your heart and pricks the wound every time you listen to it. This is no difficult step, considering the abundance of love songs in the pop music market. Step two: make the song played repeatedly back to back every morning, every night, in other words every time you think of the person and do allow and force yourself to think of him or her more, more, more and more until saturation - you had better ensure that your stereo has an auto-repeat function for the best therapic effect. Then step three: after 100 or 200 plays, which work as rubbing your wound against a file 100 or 200 strokes, when you cease to sense any pain from that part of you, out of weariness or damage of sensory cells, you can stop the song and lock up the record until the end of your days. My theory was, according to the theory of association, your memory has been associated with the song so much so that your ability to recall this moment and revive your memory is dependent upon you hearing this song. As you can deduce, it is necessary to choose a not-too-popular song for the whole therapy - or you risk sudden unwelcome off-guard encounters with your old problem sometime somewhere in a bar, a shop, an airport or at a party - and it will be perfect if the melody of the song is not easy to memorise."
Hope it works for you guyz.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Empty hands
Raza was walking home after a strenuous day's work. He had been working for the past 20 years, twelve hours per day, as a coolie in a railway station in the interior Vidharba. His red dress was dappled with sweat. He never wasted any time before he went home after his day's work. Nine in the night was the moment he waited for all through the day. That was when he always felt happy to be alive.
The air was cool and dusty. The night revelers were relaxing in groups of threes and fours talking and laughing often too loudly than they would have had it been day. Some of them seemed to have been intoxicated with the local liquor and some, it seemed, by the pleasant night. The Ajanta express brought a little drove of villagers who usually came from the town nearby, from their work. As they were overtaking Raza, Raza noticed no one. He was dreaming of something. This dream of his had been his constant companion since he saw the face of Fathima, his first and only child and his dream today was accompanied by a fear of that of empty hands.
He could see the door of his house at the far end of the lane he just turned. It was open. His wife Rubila should be home he thought, singing, in chaste Marathi the rural folklore. As he approached his door his ears were searching for the voice which was so sweet and fresh that he never could get bored of it. He wondered what it was that made her voice so very pleasing to hear everytime.
"So, did you see the shahukar ?", said his wife. She was not singing today. Her voice was dour as if in an anticipation of a nagative answer.
"Yes, I did.", whined Raza as he lied on the floor. The one room dwelling they had was more than enough for both of them. They had a kerosene stove which painted the walls with dark color all around it and an array of kitchen equipment scattered in the two shelves beneath the platform that, in addition to the stove had two steel containers. Rubila carried water in them from a well five kilometers away daily in the evening.
Raza felt too tired to speak. He was looking at Rubila, with half closed eyes. After gulping two mouthfulls of not-so-sweat water he got enough energy to utter a few sentences.
"Our old debt is cleared now. ", he said in his husky voice.
"Allah had his grace upon us. It feels good that we owe no one a paisa now.". Relief was evident in her voice. She had a faint smile on her face a rear sight now-a-days.
Rubila was normally talkative. She spoke with a childish enthusiasm tying the listeners with her eagerness to dwell deep into whatever she spoke. Raza liked to listen her speak of myriad things of which he most liked, the tales of local women and their plights. She had a great gift of making a compelling drama out of the lives of her friends and neighbours. The local mela was approaching fast. That is where she would fill her stock of stories and tales, when she got a chance to meet all of her friends from her and the neighboring villages.
She looked at the trunk above the shelf with anticipation and joy. It had the four bangles which her mother gave her when she got married to Raza. They were made of gold and were the only gold ornaments she possessed. She wanted to try them on now but hesitated assuming Raza would be too tired to fetch the trunk at this time of the night.
Raza was hungry and Rubila served him his rotis and the dal. He always ate his food with great appetite. Rubila took enough care that his plate was always full of helping of his favorite curry. One thing Rubila did not quite like much about Raza is his habit of slipping into deep sleep as soon as he is done with his dinner. She always longed to talk to him late into the night. But he seldom stayed late.
She slept pretty late that night, and she dreamt of the mela and the crowd. She also fancied hearing stories about people of her village. It also reminded her of her daughter who is now staying with her grandmother in a neighboring village, Gondi. It was for the sake of her wedding that Raza went to meet the Shahukar. The Nikah was planned to take place two months from now and mela was to be held the next friday.
It was thursday. Raza did not go to his duty that day as he was feeling ill and of late he stopped working as hard as he used to in his younger days. He said "What should I work for ? Our daughter is going to get married and we are going to get out of our debts soon. We need to earn just to survive." Rubila liked to hear him say that. She never wanted him to work hard and earn more money than they needed to spend. She was waiting for the next day. Raza promised to come home early and take her to the Mela.
Raza came home early the next friday. Rubila was beautiful in her new saree that Raza gave her for the last Ramzan.
"Fetch my bangles from the trunk.", asked Rubila looking at Raza in the mirror. She was impressed with her own beauty despite her age. She was quite a picture to be held in a mirror.
"I gave them to the Shahukar. I was short of six thousand rupees. I took a fresh loan from him for the wedding.", said Raza.
Rubila's heart sank as she listened to Raza. Tears trickled down her powdered face. She tried to hide her face from Raza even though he was not looking at her. He was looking abstractedly outside the window. Rubila hurriedly washed her face again.
A few minutes later, her bare hands without her bangles were in the palms of Raza. She was talking to him about her neighbour Urmila and was narrating how she was smiling wickedly when the Shahukar threatened that he would send Raza to the dock if he did not pay his money as soon as the next day. Raza was listening to her intently. He was also able to feel the empty hands he was holding devoid of the beautiful bangles.
While realizing his dream of marrying his daughter off was two months away, his fear of empty hands vanished in the childish banter of his wife.
-----------------
The air was cool and dusty. The night revelers were relaxing in groups of threes and fours talking and laughing often too loudly than they would have had it been day. Some of them seemed to have been intoxicated with the local liquor and some, it seemed, by the pleasant night. The Ajanta express brought a little drove of villagers who usually came from the town nearby, from their work. As they were overtaking Raza, Raza noticed no one. He was dreaming of something. This dream of his had been his constant companion since he saw the face of Fathima, his first and only child and his dream today was accompanied by a fear of that of empty hands.
He could see the door of his house at the far end of the lane he just turned. It was open. His wife Rubila should be home he thought, singing, in chaste Marathi the rural folklore. As he approached his door his ears were searching for the voice which was so sweet and fresh that he never could get bored of it. He wondered what it was that made her voice so very pleasing to hear everytime.
"So, did you see the shahukar ?", said his wife. She was not singing today. Her voice was dour as if in an anticipation of a nagative answer.
"Yes, I did.", whined Raza as he lied on the floor. The one room dwelling they had was more than enough for both of them. They had a kerosene stove which painted the walls with dark color all around it and an array of kitchen equipment scattered in the two shelves beneath the platform that, in addition to the stove had two steel containers. Rubila carried water in them from a well five kilometers away daily in the evening.
Raza felt too tired to speak. He was looking at Rubila, with half closed eyes. After gulping two mouthfulls of not-so-sweat water he got enough energy to utter a few sentences.
"Our old debt is cleared now. ", he said in his husky voice.
"Allah had his grace upon us. It feels good that we owe no one a paisa now.". Relief was evident in her voice. She had a faint smile on her face a rear sight now-a-days.
Rubila was normally talkative. She spoke with a childish enthusiasm tying the listeners with her eagerness to dwell deep into whatever she spoke. Raza liked to listen her speak of myriad things of which he most liked, the tales of local women and their plights. She had a great gift of making a compelling drama out of the lives of her friends and neighbours. The local mela was approaching fast. That is where she would fill her stock of stories and tales, when she got a chance to meet all of her friends from her and the neighboring villages.
She looked at the trunk above the shelf with anticipation and joy. It had the four bangles which her mother gave her when she got married to Raza. They were made of gold and were the only gold ornaments she possessed. She wanted to try them on now but hesitated assuming Raza would be too tired to fetch the trunk at this time of the night.
Raza was hungry and Rubila served him his rotis and the dal. He always ate his food with great appetite. Rubila took enough care that his plate was always full of helping of his favorite curry. One thing Rubila did not quite like much about Raza is his habit of slipping into deep sleep as soon as he is done with his dinner. She always longed to talk to him late into the night. But he seldom stayed late.
She slept pretty late that night, and she dreamt of the mela and the crowd. She also fancied hearing stories about people of her village. It also reminded her of her daughter who is now staying with her grandmother in a neighboring village, Gondi. It was for the sake of her wedding that Raza went to meet the Shahukar. The Nikah was planned to take place two months from now and mela was to be held the next friday.
It was thursday. Raza did not go to his duty that day as he was feeling ill and of late he stopped working as hard as he used to in his younger days. He said "What should I work for ? Our daughter is going to get married and we are going to get out of our debts soon. We need to earn just to survive." Rubila liked to hear him say that. She never wanted him to work hard and earn more money than they needed to spend. She was waiting for the next day. Raza promised to come home early and take her to the Mela.
Raza came home early the next friday. Rubila was beautiful in her new saree that Raza gave her for the last Ramzan.
"Fetch my bangles from the trunk.", asked Rubila looking at Raza in the mirror. She was impressed with her own beauty despite her age. She was quite a picture to be held in a mirror.
"I gave them to the Shahukar. I was short of six thousand rupees. I took a fresh loan from him for the wedding.", said Raza.
Rubila's heart sank as she listened to Raza. Tears trickled down her powdered face. She tried to hide her face from Raza even though he was not looking at her. He was looking abstractedly outside the window. Rubila hurriedly washed her face again.
A few minutes later, her bare hands without her bangles were in the palms of Raza. She was talking to him about her neighbour Urmila and was narrating how she was smiling wickedly when the Shahukar threatened that he would send Raza to the dock if he did not pay his money as soon as the next day. Raza was listening to her intently. He was also able to feel the empty hands he was holding devoid of the beautiful bangles.
While realizing his dream of marrying his daughter off was two months away, his fear of empty hands vanished in the childish banter of his wife.
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