Idyllic Thoughts

At last! I am both happy and sad. We were successful in shifting the man lying outside the city bus stand in Mysore to hospital. I called up the District Rehabilitation Centre and they said due to the recent deaths at the Centre, they have been ordered by the DC that they cannot admit any old person directly. So we called up the Police and they shifted him to K.R. Hospital. The sad part is, whereas normal people who are poor don't get treatment in that hospital, how many days will this man survive?

  My Chief Sub-Editor told me to take a picture of an old man left on the pavement outside Mysore City Bus Stand. No one has bothered to take him to hospital or the District Rehabilitation Centre even after a fortnight. I called up the Rehab Centre who said they are not allowed to take beggars or old men anymore. We are even trying to inform the Police. But is he invisible to the authorities? Here is a picture of the ailing man who may die due to vagaries of nature and neglect. Hope somebody does something soon.

Writing is a passion for me. The urge to write comes so strongly like a wave that it never lets me rest. But most of what I manage to write are never seen by anybody because I write on pieces of paper I find in my bag, on the back of a visiting card or a bus ticket, on a small notebook I keep in bag which is torn in every possible way a notebook can, with a sheet lost every time I open it, in my mobile notebook and in a diary. Even the diary has become a journal of not just personal feelings but also a collection of thoughts. Most of my thoughts get lost because before I manage to get my hands on a piece of paper. And I write in bus, auto, walking along the road trying not to bump into some one else or an oncoming vehicle. It really is a torment writing on the road. I wish the roads would have more people than vehicles. Once I even managed to bump into an electric pole in a bid to quickly note down what I was thinking in my mobile; and on another occasion, I was so engrossed, that I d...

It rained after a long time yesterday night in Mysore and I missed it. I was fast asleep and woke up to find the earth cool and oozing a beautiful scent. I love to see the roads after rain in the mornings. There is no word in English which adequately describes the serene beauty of the wet leaves and bent trees which look so happy that they seem like a fair maiden who has just returned from visiting her lover - shy and yet knowing, lost in memories and oblivious to surroundings. The empty roads look untrodden and we seem to be trespassing. Walking alone, I get the same feeling I used to get when I lay on the very huge rock near my grandma's home. Looking up at the sky, I could see only the sky everywhere and got lost for hours, imagining myself to be alone in the whole world. The world down looked tiny, the compound walls looked like faraway territorial boundary of a castle and the setting of the sun, like the sun setting on an empire. Sometimes knowledge stands in the way of enjo...

Mysore mornings are very cold now. It was so chilling a few days ago that we would shiver from feet up, to the very tip of our lifeless hairs. And I hate sweaters, jerkins. I start for the Press from home at 7.30 am and shiver all the way. After reaching I take a minute outside in the sun who too seems to radiate cold rays and fails in his duty to warm us up. It is fun to get warm and cozy after braving the chilly air. Nowadays, however, only the morning chill remains, as the day and night are getting warmer.

I travel in bus everyday and buses are a treasure trove for those who love to study the twists and turns in human behaviour. Today I saw two incidents which I wanted to share here. At the first instance, the bus was full to the roof and everybody was half on top of another. A man accused a college boy of trying to steal his mobile phone from his shirt pocket just because the boy's hand accidentally brushed against his shirt. All men (!) threatened to thrash the boy though he said it was unintentional. The second incident happened a little later in another bus. A man told the conductor frantically that someone had stolen his money, new currency notes just got from an ATM, and even recited off the serial numbers. The conductor ordered the doors to be closed and told the driver to take the bus to Police Station. After a few minutes, the man found his notes on the floor. When a teenager got down, all started pointing fingers at him saying that he must have been the thief, of course wi...

Art is never chaste. It ought to be forbidden to ignorant innocents, never allowed into contact with those not sufficiently prepared. Yes, art is dangerous. Where it is chaste, it is not art    - Pablo Picasso. Though I don't agree fully, it is true.