The pain of losing a loved one is immense. I ve learn t this over the years of 'cinema experience'. Frivolous it may sound, it is true.

The Second World War has interested me greatly. The Katyn Massacare especially. 22,000 humans were mutilated. Their bodies lay on the forest grounds of Katyn. Imagine the plight of the families that were expecting their POW husbands, fathers, sons. Put yourself in the shoes of that wife who receives news from her husbands best friend that her husband is dead. That husband, for whom she has been waiting for the last five years. Imagine the state of the mother who has lost both her husband and her son at the same time. It was a dirty war. The dirtiest of all.

The numbers are staggering. Those who died at Katyn included an admiral, two generals, 24 colonels, 79 lieutenant colonels, 258 majors, 654 captains, 17 naval captains, 3,420 NCOs, seven chaplains, three landowners, a prince, 43 officials, 85 privates, and 131 refugees. Also among the dead were 20 university professors ; 300 physicians; several hundred lawyers, engineers, and teachers; and more than 100 writers and journalists as well as about 200 pilots. The list is endless.

The sad part is that these soldiers didnt lose their life fighting, they were executed. It was methodical. They were shot at the back of their skull so that the bullet came out through their forehead and sometimes through their noses.

It is sad.

I cant bear the pain, even now, to feel what she felt.

Time Passes.

Chilled Beer…Rickety Buses…. Sand…. Cigarettes….Food…. Kakke and Me

My train got delayed by three hours in Delhi, and a total of five hours by the time I reached Chennai. It took me another 40minutes to get a bus which was full of smelly people. I had no place to sit. Three malnutritioned boys gave me a tiny amount of seat on which I could only fit one cheek of my right bum. It further took me three and a half hours to reach my destination. Alas, Puducherry.

I started my day with the first smoke of the morning and a good conversation with kakke. Nex t came hot coffee and some more conversation with some more cigarettes. Hunger was riding with me since eight o clock last night. South Indian breakfast is recommended, its healthy and cheap. Softest of idlis and crisp vadas with piping hot genuine filter coffee made my morning.

Bread, mayo and chicken salamis’ is what one should eat while drinking beer on a beach. Kakke and me decided that we shall sit on the beach and drink beer in the afternoon scorching sun. The drive to the beach was a little long but it was worth it. I had never in my life seen such beautiful backwaters. To reach the beach we drove through a road which was covered with palm trees. Shacks on either side of the road gave me a kick which I had never experienced before.

The sand was burning hot and we were hopping like hot pancakes till we reached a place where we could cool our feet off. We met a couple of locals and opened the bottles after that. Even one beer in the sun gives a buzz and we were stupid enough to go into the ever fast receding east coast waters. The sandwiches’ tasted even better after the beer. Excellent conversation and the uniform sound of waves reaching the shore was the cherry on top for the afternoon.

After sleeping for four hours in the evening and a lame Punjabi party, we went to ‘Le Café’ and sat there by the shore for hours. Talking, smoking and drinking black coffee is fantastic in the night, especially when you can hear the water splashing on the rocks. Something was missing. It was incomplete. We were crazy enough to go back to our room and get the laptop. Its two o’ clock and this is end of the events of day one at Puducherry. Courtesy… ‘Le Café’.

The second day was as exciting as the previous one. Starting from traditional sappad which was spicy and mouth-watering at the same time to visiting Auroville is an opportunity of a lifetime. It’s a society in itself. People from forty different nations numbering to about two thousand have become Aurovillians. Its not based on any religion or god. Aurovillians have no property of themselves. There is no sense of possession or ownership, everything that an individual has is acquired by Auroville. These people work for Auroville in all sorts of manners and Auroville takes care of these people. I still haven’t been able to figure out how these people are so peaceful, especially staying in India. There is not even one police station which I could see on my way to Auroville. On the outside, it’s a Eutopian township.

They have two boutiques where one can find sandals and chappals made with women’s undergarments to erotic scented candles. T- Shirts and Kurtas are expensive but the fabric is soft. Then there is a leather section and a crockery section. Soft music playing in the background and quietness all around the boutique makes one peaceful.

Our next stop was the infamous Auro beach. I had heard that it was smelly and dirty. When we reached, it was dirty alright, but to our surprise, it wasn’t smelly. It was just like another beach but one could find more foreigners than locals. We sat there for about an hour or so and then decided to get authentic Italian pizzas which were better than any pizza made by Dominos or Pizza Hut.

The evening was the highlight of the day. Sitting in the balcony with pizza and conversation with cigarettes and vodka was too good to be true. It doesn’t get any better than this. Pity that I have to leave in another two days.

Saturday came and kakke had to go fly. I did what I do best. Sleep. I was famished even after eating a hundred grams of salami. So me and kakke and two of his friends went out to eat shitty lunch where we encountered four beautiful women, and nothing happened.

Evening time was binge time. The whole act of authentic Itallian Pizza, Rum, cigarettes and good conversation envisaged the evening. The balcony of his mansion is the highlight of every evening. One can sit there for hours and hours together. Pity this was my last night of awesomeness.

Going to ‘Le’ Café’ was a risk which we were ready to take. In search of women we set course to the beach side café. Pity it was closed. We didn’t give up. Thinking that we might find some in Café Coffee Day, our next stop was Ginger Hotel. Again we had to be happy with coffee and ‘The Hindu’. No regrets.

On my last day in Puducherry, there were only two things left to see. One was Aurobindo Ashram and the other was the Old Port. Being a Sunday, the Ashram was crowded like Sarojini Nagar, and I couldn’t see any tourists, all I could see was locals in one long line waiting to enter the Asharam. So we decided against standing.

Old Port was next in the agenda. It’s a beautiful ride from the city to the outskirts of Puducherry. It was the most picturesque place I had ever seen. We were standing on a concrete pathway which extended to a hundred meters into the sea. The perimeter of the port was surrounded with huge black rocks. Backwaters on the right and sea on the left with the light house, this was the place to be.

The evening went eventless as after dinner we went and sat at my favourite place. I boarded the bus around one o’clock and reached Chennai. From there I was waiting to reach home.

I’ve been to many places in India. But I haven’t seen a place like Puducherry.

I have seen insane amount of movies which have depcited events which have occoured in various wars. There are movies made which define emotion and tell us what the loss of a fellow being, soldier, father, son and a brother means.

We read the papers everyday. An encounter here, a soldier dead there. But do we really feel anything about the poor mans' family? 'Its just another piece of daily news' is what we say and dismiss it. Atleast this is what i had always done till i was 19.

Most of the films i had seen before i was even 18. I could never understand the loss of a soldier till i saw ' We Were Soldiers'. It makes my heart pain when i read that a soldier died or an officer was killed in an air crash. I' ve been around a few fatal accidents myself. Though there is one i remember distinctly because i was the neighbour of a martyr(i dont want to talk about this one).

You are taught from the very begining to be strong and not let your emotions take control of you. I ask myself, 'how can i be, when i spent my evenings playing basketball and squash with that man?'

I came to know about his demise when i was reading the newspaper in the morning after a round of golf with my father. He never told me, it was a year later that i came to know from the newspapers. I remember almost breaking down on the breakfast table, and all he said was 'its ok'. I was forced to not let my emotions out. Thats how a soldier is, and thats how his son is supposed to be.

I remember when i was a little kid in Bhatinda, i was a decent basketball player and was teamed with a six feet plus, tall, dark and handsome man, always. We were quiet a team. He came to visit us when we were in Srinagar, I remember being overwhelmed. I came to know about his fatal accident from the newspapers again. I remember being sad for two whole days.

Every now and then my mind wanders about this unfortunate mishaps. I can't seem to understand how difficult it is for their families and their loved ones. I hope i never do. The insane amount of pain and sorrow that they go through. The little memories, the funniest and the happiest moments never go away.

Understanding the worth of a human life is the most difficult lesson i have ever learnt. Especially for those who were with you when you were a kid. Life is a little more difficult, even in the tinest way, without them.

World Peace

Its 0000. The room is very quiet. You can hear the clock on my wrist tick. Every second passing with every word i read. I am sleep deprived and the book is my saviour. It has caught my attention and it is now impossible to let go. I learn about the cold war, i learn about the spies used. I learn the brutal methods which the Soviets use to torture the traitors. Spine chilling. A bullet in the head is what they beg for. One bullet, just one bullet. 

He wakes up early morning at his usual time and puts on his sport gear and gets ready for his morning run. A middle aged man, in his 26th year as a CIA operative, still runs his assets and hasnt mentioned them in the 301 files, the reason for his assets to be alive. He still had not lost his pace, running five miles in forty minutes, better than any cadet at 'the Farm'. 

He entered his building suspicious, his 26 year old career had taught him to be. The shrinks had given up on him. His last hope had turned their backs away. He started to climb the stairs to his appartment with sheer suspision. He  opened the door only to find his partner in the kitchen. The only one he ever slept with in his 48 year old life.

To be Continued....

COLD WAR

It is 1991, the soviet union is divided with USA winning the 40 year old cold war with Jason Monk putting a bullet through Colonel Grishin's head.

The Cuban Missile Crisis almost brought the World to the brink of World War III. The Russians had missiles all over Cuba. USA was under potential threat from the Soviets. The Bay of Pigs fiasco made JFK look like a clown.JFK had no option but promise the Soviets to remove their missiles from Korea, which were a threat to the Soviets.

The Cold War had many spies who worked for either Governments. Agents and Double Agents. They were paid in millions to spy against their motherland. Some did it for money, the Americans, some did it because they did not believe in what the Russians were doing.

The Mafia were the moneylenders to the Government of Russia. KGB and the mafia worked in close proximity of each other. After 1991, they were against the Russian Jews and Chechens.

Lee Harvey Oswald, who assassinated JFK had roots to KGB(not proved though). It is said that Lee Harvey Oswald was a communist and was also involved with the CIA, FBI. 2010 will be the year when the assassination videos of JFK will be released from the Archives. It will then become clear who was actually behind the assissanation. By that time it will be too late.

Igor Komorov, the future President of Russia wrote a Black Manifesto which was stolen by a man with three metal front teeth was brutally beaten by the UPF, which resulted into his death. All those who read this dreaded document have been killed. It is now up to Jason Monk to bring Kormorov's exploits to a halt.

PS: This is a blend of fact and fiction.

The Appeal

The latest by the Author who has 19 Best-sellers under his belt is not so impressive. The tag line 'Every verdict comes with a price' is good enough for a Grisham fan to pick up the book. It opens very strongly with a very strong plot. Remember the movie 'Erin Brockovich', one part of the book is based on the class action shown in the movie.

The book is divided into three parts which go into detail and are loosely linked with each other. Sticking to the plot is something which is not found in The Appeal. The author has gone into detail with all the three parts, of which the best being 'The verdict'.

What the author is trying to potray through this book is 'how easy it is to get elected as a judge of a supreme court of a state and reverse the verdict '. Here is where he has made the mistake of deviating from the plot.

He could have stuck to the plot without going into too much detail of The Campaign.

The ending is absolutely medicore. Chetan Bhagat's 3 mistakes... ending was better.

It is a one time read for a die hard Grisham fan but not worth putting it in your book-shelf

A Junky's Story

Heroin is a sensory deprivation tank for the soul. Floating on the Dead Sea if the drug stone, there's no sense of pain, no regret or shame, no feeling of guilt or grief, no depression, and no desire. The sleeping universe enters and envelops every atom of existence. Insensible stillness and peace disperse fear and suffering. thoughts drift like ocean weeds and vanish in the distant, grey somnolency, unperceived and indeterminable. The body succumbs to cryogenic slumber: the listless heart beats
faintly, and breathing slowly fades to random whispers. Thick nirvanic numbness clogs the limbs, and downward, deeper the sleeper slides and glides toward oblivion, the perfect and eternal stone.

That chemical absolution is paid for, like everything else in the universe, with light. The first light that junkies lose is the light in their eyes. A junkie's eyes are as lightless as the eyes of Greek statues, as lightless as hammered lead, as lightless as a bullet hole in a dead man's back. The next light lost is the light of desire. Junkies kill desire with the same weapon they use on hope and dream and honour: the club made from their craving. And when all the other lights of life are gone, the last light lost is the light of love. Sooner or later, when its's down to the last hit, the junkie will give up the woman he loves, rather than go without sooner or later, every junkie becomes a devil in exile.

- Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram