tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-194505512012-01-29T09:52:23.619+05:30Sanity SucksI feel an inner drowsiness so great it overflows the bounds of self. And I want nothing, prefer nothing, there is nothing I can escape into: The Book of Disquiet, Fernando PessoaRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.comBlogger1691100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-46896833621787498732011-11-08T10:45:00.000+05:302011-11-08T10:45:37.649+05:30There never has been a home
“But is it wrong for a man to make a house, a place where he can return in the evening?” – The Journals of John Cheever
There never has been a home. He thought of it many times. In the cacophony of train compartments. At some airport lounge. On some night journey in a bus. He has not been able to sleep. He gets up in a fit, at some odd hour in the night, and then he cannot return. In the Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-41825451063697806262011-09-03T18:17:00.008+05:302012-01-25T17:19:02.993+05:30Hypocrisy of Distant Cheers
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Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-16147895141515721542011-08-31T20:11:00.000+05:302011-08-31T20:11:35.347+05:30The Autumn of Hypocrisy
Tonight, they will raise a toast. Tonight, they will pat one another’s backs, and, in the confines of their apartments in New Delhi and elsewhere, may even take out victory marches. Someone might even hurl an imaginary stone, declaring that finally, the Internet Intifada has been successful. Congratulatory messages will flood Facebook and Twitter. After all, a sinister design has been defeated. Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-76214205120656449992011-08-26T13:40:00.000+05:302011-08-26T13:40:51.311+05:30Guerilla in the forestThis girl is a member of the Chetna Natya Manch, the cultural troupe of the CPI (Maoist). Along with other members, the girl travels from village to village in the guerilla zone. If need be, she can also defend the group in case there is a police ambush. Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-54554926351671283452011-06-16T16:22:00.006+05:302011-07-06T17:31:18.972+05:30Hello, BastarPRAISE FOR "HELLO, BASTAR":"Rahul Pandita had done something unusual - He had studied the Maoist movement at ground level for more than a decade, growing ever more interested in the way it functioned, travelling through the remoter jungles of Central India for weeks on end and spending time with the tribal people." -- PATRICK FRENCH, British writer and historian."This book could be useful for anyRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-71313273870965652512011-05-01T10:43:00.002+05:302011-05-01T10:45:47.893+05:30MuchinessLong time ago I used to know this woman who was much older than me. We met at a bar one cold winter night where we sat at different tables, both of us alone, and both of us nursing the same brand of whisky. The waiter who served us both knew me well since I was a regular. At one point, and I think I was on my third drink, my glass and that of the woman emptied about the same time and we asked forRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-31382540046765518522011-04-06T16:15:00.001+05:302011-04-06T16:16:50.057+05:30In Pursuit of a Collector | OPEN MagazineIn Pursuit of a Collector | OPEN Magazine (Pic by Ishan Tankha)Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-50620978511552397552011-02-02T19:03:00.004+05:302011-02-02T19:06:55.951+05:30The Unsaid WordsA woman remembers her best friend, a man dubbed a Maoist and killed by the Republic of India. He happened to be her journalist husband “For the first time in my life,” says Babita Pandey, “I had a wifely chat with Hem a night before he was to leave for Nagpur.” They discussed how they never took a holiday in their eight years of marriage, she says. “I told him that there were so many things that Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-34624509227881081162010-11-17T12:55:00.003+05:302010-11-17T12:57:26.227+05:30Hemlock Destiny“Why do you say every man is a planet?” the demon asks him, licking his scalpel. He lies on the ground, wounded, bruised, tattered, crippled, fragmented, nauseated, destroyed. He passes a faint smile at the demon. “Leave that, tell me, where does one get strength?” he asks. “It’s too late for you. Ha ha ha,” the demon laughs. And then he stops. “But why do you ask?” he is greedily looking at hisRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-5231931159348677432010-11-16T20:12:00.004+05:302010-11-16T20:42:22.859+05:30Fever is a jilted loverIt is so tough to unsettle the haze, he thinks. The haze inside his chest. Sometimes it scares him. And then he has to close his eyes and imagine light - red light - surrounding him, like some sort of celestial shower. When there is haze, no song stirs his soul. The blue-chested bird perched on the high-tension wire evokes no feeling. A young girl in school uniform only makes him aware of lost Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-29635231030182863112010-11-07T13:40:00.002+05:302010-11-09T15:00:11.501+05:30The Long MarchWalking with Maoist guerillas along a flooded river, somewhere along the Maharashtra-Chhattisgarh borderRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-74645672896240624542010-11-07T12:02:00.002+05:302010-11-07T12:06:50.986+05:30Among the guerillasWith Maoist guerillas somewhere on the Maharashtra-Chhattisgarh borderRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-53650537115820414332010-11-07T10:13:00.003+05:302010-11-07T10:59:32.525+05:30The Absent StateMy book, "The Absent State" (with Neelesh Misra) is out in book stores now. Hachette India has called it the non-fiction book of the year. It has already topped the non-fiction list of The Hindu. Here are some reviews of the book:Filmmaker Sudhir Mishra in the Hindustan TimesVed Marwah in TehelkaNithin Belle in Khaleej TimesShylashri Shankar in The Financial ExpressYou can buy the book online Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-90129322087192467092010-08-02T15:43:00.001+05:302010-08-02T15:44:58.201+05:30बारिश का एक दिनआज बारिश बहुत हो रही थी. तुम भीगते हुए पहुंची और कैफे के दरवाज़े पर मुझसे लगभग टकरा गयी. मैं वहां खड़ा तुम्हे दूर से आते हुए देख रहा था. बहुत सुन्दर लग रही थी तुम... मन हुआ तुम्हारे बाजू पर स्माल पोक्स के टीके के निशान को चूम लूँ. कैफे में मुझसे रहा नहीं गया. मैंने इधर-उधर देखा और हाथ बढाकर उस निशान को छू लिया. तुमने फ़ौरन मेरा हाथ झटक दिया और बोली "शट अप". "पर में तो कुछ बोला नहीं." तुम बस मुस्कुराRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-87262248357909604822010-04-16T11:55:00.002+05:302010-04-16T12:04:37.460+05:30Everything ends with FormalinThe police arrived and went straight to Bajirao Potawe’s house and beat him up. “With their boots and lathis,” he says. “They said bad things to my mother and sister, called me a bastard, and said how dare my family accuse them of rape,” he recounts. Then they made him run errands like fetching water to cook a meal of dal and rice they had brought along. Potawe himself hasn’t been able to eat Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-5596338828074126582010-03-13T16:51:00.002+05:302010-03-13T16:54:52.749+05:30Times of PartingLove dies slowly. Like an ember. More strands of hair have turned grey – the right temple looks like a blooming cotton field. There is dust on bookshelves. Pens look pensive. Empty notebooks lie moth-eaten. You called up the other day. You sounded tired. Perhaps if we were together, I could have made you some tea. Or I could have made you laugh over some silly joke. Or I could have just curled upRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-5742325219007420382010-02-13T12:18:00.003+05:302010-02-13T12:24:25.966+05:30My name is Dharmendra KumarThe media is overwhelmed with Shahrukh Khan. I mean, I care a damn if his film does not work. Or that the multiplexes are not able to run his film. In any case, the government is so pusillanimous that it won't touch Bal Thackeray. Meanwhile, see what else has been happening in this country:Dharmendra Kumar, 18, was carrying a light on his shoulder and walking next to the groom’s horse-drawn Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-30584732469471299522010-02-11T03:35:00.003+05:302010-02-11T03:42:02.517+05:30Trader of storiesIt is 3.45 am. Give me some coffee. Or, can I have some silence, please? I am tired of the noise around me. It makes my head spin. I can feel the bile in my mouth. The noise enters my body and hides in my guts. God, can someone give me shelter? I can trade my stories for a peaceful stay.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-78119667704451101432010-02-09T19:43:00.002+05:302010-02-09T19:47:52.670+05:30JourneysI am writing today because my body is sort of forcing me into it. I have this sinking feeling that refuses to go away, and I think writing – punching the keypad hard – would at least partially take away that feeling. I have also been scared that if I continue like this, not writing at all, my readers will permanently disconnect from me. It’s not that I have had nothing to say to you or share withRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-47318697845491602442010-01-19T19:00:00.003+05:302010-01-19T19:04:11.650+05:30The Khaki FidayeenThe Khaki Fidayeen: Five policemen from Kashmir who have broken the back of militancy in the valley. Read here.Pic: Shome BasuRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com53tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-74706482205855383832009-12-12T22:39:00.002+05:302009-12-12T22:41:56.372+05:30Somewhere, anywhereAs long as there is fire the mosquitoes keep away. But as soon as the embers begin to die, they come back. And so does the pain in the knee. I sit on the rooftop, alone, caressing a drink, as the smoke from the half-burnt wood stings my eyes. This is a Delhi suburb, soon to be connected with the big city by something which slithers – sometimes through the belly of the earth, and at times overheadRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-89529135315754303802009-11-01T12:29:00.003+05:302009-11-01T12:33:44.200+05:30Whose war is it, anyway?Arundhati Roy quotes my interview with Maoist supreme commander Ganapathi in her latest essay.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-13170631297074005402009-09-25T14:00:00.003+05:302009-10-12T18:59:32.903+05:30The rebelShe could have been the academician who does the circuit at seminars and round tables. Or the opinion leader in a NGO or a UN body. But she chose to sling a rifle on her shoulders, and stride in the dreaded jungles of Bastar for the sake of the poor and overlooked. The life and times of senior Naxal leader, Anuradha Ghandy who died of cerebral malaria in April 2008. Her husband, senior Maoist Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-62619020364724118302009-09-09T11:43:00.003+05:302009-09-09T11:46:59.908+05:30Erase memoriesOne day I will just pop some sleeping pills and erase all memories. What do you do with them, anyway? Some you just share with your friends every time whisky and cigarettes are being passed around. They know it well by now. It’s like a journey to a place where you have been a thousand times. You know every turn, every bend, every pothole. The same is with the memories I share with my friends. Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-9021014783439635712009-09-07T12:09:00.001+05:302009-09-07T12:11:48.973+05:30NoiseHi there. Do you know someone who can suppress a yawn and an erection at the same time? Just a random thought, nothing else. Don’t read too much into it. Hell, do, if you can’t resist the idea. I am a man of ideas myself, a slave to multiple thoughts which come and go on their own. You could call them gate crashers if there is something like a gate of the mind. Sometimes I think how sane it is toRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-56389201432541003132009-08-30T19:43:00.003+05:302009-08-30T19:53:23.778+05:30Kasauli diariesKasauli musings. One, written by me for the Hindustan Times is here. Second by my friend Neelesh Misra is here.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-42161926949731179722009-08-12T10:41:00.003+05:302009-08-12T11:10:03.212+05:30Left, writeIt is too warm outside. And inside, too. The fan sighs. Newspaper sheets disintegrate and are strewn all over. Picture frames lie empty. A candle rues over disfigurement. An old woman stares down from a high-rise apartment visible from the window of the room I am in. She cannot see me. I lie in discomfort, with my back haphazardly resting against a dwarf pillow stuffed with cotton at least Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-48521451685675727042009-06-26T10:46:00.010+05:302009-06-26T11:06:30.625+05:30Once upon a place: Dispatches from Lalgarh Every fire starts from the belly, says Ranjit Mahato. Sitting on a string cot, and occasionally caressing his bandaged leg, Mahato awaits police fury. There is just a large tree and one order between him and the police. A day before, the security personnel have liberated the Lalgarh police station. Now they wait for the order to move forward. Beyond this they dare not go. Two kilometres ahead, Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-81548207300645207962009-06-24T13:06:00.003+05:302009-06-24T13:15:00.207+05:30Misir Besra is freeThis is a picture of Misir Besra. He is a top Maoist commander, who was arrested in 2007. Yesterday, he was freed by his comrades in a dare devil operation in a court in Bihar. My friend Neelesh Misra and your reporter are the only two journalists who have met Besra while he was under arrest. The meeting was organised at a secret location. Here's my previous story on Misir Besra. In his interviewRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-61222774387430233372009-06-24T10:53:00.002+05:302009-06-24T11:02:26.002+05:30Inside LalgarhThis is your reporter inside the liberated area of Lalgarh in the West Midnapore district of West Bengal. Behind me is a tree felled by the Maoists. The old man near the tree is my driver, Abdul Azeez, who has been driving in Kolkata since 1955. He is wondering if he could move the tree somehow to enable us to take our car ahead. I told him that would be a big mistake. There might be landmines Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-29254247427618851622009-06-15T13:37:00.006+05:302009-06-26T11:06:59.461+05:30Cheers for FearsAs the line between euphoria and arrogance fades in Sri Lanka, there are indications of tough times ahead for the TamilsSri Lanka is like Kosovo of February 2008. And Colombo like Pristina. It is as if the nation has just achieved independence. Prabhakaran is dead for weeks now. But the jubilation is far from over in Sri Lanka.The streets in Colombo are lined with Lankan national flags. They are Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-27805751476212763432009-06-09T14:07:00.008+05:302009-06-15T13:04:27.733+05:30Under the tableSunil and Arvind Parmar, owners of a tea stall in Surendranagar, Gujarat, breakfor lunch while their servant Mangal, an 11-year-old Dalit boy is made to sit under the table. This picture was taken by my friend Ritesh Uttamchandani, who is a brilliant photographer as far as I am concerned. He lives in Mumbai. My friend Neelesh Misra told me about him two years ago - Neelesh has earlier done some Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-61540011171385260432009-06-08T17:28:00.001+05:302009-06-08T17:30:30.983+05:30The squirrel(This squirrel took peanuts from my hands at a hotel in Colombo. Between two appointments, we decided to have beer, and the hotel staff gave us some free peanuts)Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-72988913590652481412009-06-08T15:54:00.006+05:302009-06-08T16:14:06.639+05:30The boy with the bombThe leader hugged him. With his military fatigues weighing on him, Dayalan could feel the metal buckle of the leader’s belt press against his waist. The leader looked at him for a moment, his hands still resting on Dayalan’s shoulders, and then he said, “Go and destroy the target.” Almost five months later, Dayalan saw the images of Prabhakaran on TV, his eyes open, as if to convey another Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-44468967807675956572009-06-03T13:15:00.012+05:302009-06-03T13:41:16.542+05:30Sleepless in Sri LankaSome of you must be wondering where I have been all this while. There have been no updates on my book, either. Well, friends, I was in Sri Lanka, trying to get into the war zone.Reporting in post-Prabhakaran Sri Lanka is very difficult. There is an iron-curtain on media reporting -- so much so that the government has threatened to prosecute journalists who try to report from the northern Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-36475326804476412282009-05-19T11:22:00.003+05:302009-05-19T11:30:53.471+05:30Six daysSix days have passed, six inconsequential days. On the eight day (the first of the six days), I managed to write about 500 words. Afterwards, no progress has been made. My right knee is sore and my achilles tendons are hurting as well. The muscle pain hasn't gone away completely. I had reduced smoking, almost to one or two a day; but that too has increased. Yesterday, I smoked seven. I have been Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-78197306452172170132009-05-14T09:01:00.007+05:302009-05-14T09:10:51.540+05:30Uneasy lies the turbanHe is probably the only Lok Sabha candidate whose mobile phone got stolen. But it’s something else that bothers Qamar Rabbani Chechi.Pic: Ruhani Kaur“Sorry, but that phone got stolen.”Hardev Singh is apologetic about the trouble we have had to face in contacting Qamar Rabbani Chechi. Two days before, I had spoken to Chechi over his mobile phone.“It would feel great to meet a fellow Kashmiri in a Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-58872023945392092102009-05-13T13:15:00.002+05:302009-05-13T13:31:02.373+05:30Day 6 & 7Two days just passed by. I spent time in office, working on small news items. There is this muscular pain I have had to endure. At home, I would lay motionless, almost all the time, somewhere between the spheres of sleep and daze. I read quite a bit, particularly Nirmal Verma.But for two days I could write nothing. I tried forcing myself into it.I just couldn't do it.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-47904179795522107022009-05-11T15:03:00.002+05:302009-05-11T15:08:53.557+05:30Day 3, 4 and 5I am glad to report that the last three days have been quite productive.On Day 3, I began making the change in the story plot, writing 334 words. On Day 4, I wrote about 500 words. That midnight, I got up and saw a full moon smiling at me from the window. I went out on to the balcony, lit a cigarette, and just sat there. The feeling was awesome.On Day 5, that is on Sunday, I wrote another 500.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-19351945586930804992009-05-08T14:28:00.002+05:302009-05-08T14:31:26.578+05:30Day 2Day 2: 239 words input. Constipated writing, like that of a teenager writing for his school magazine. Whole day spent in predicting election results over cigarettes and coffee.Day 3 has almost gone by. Have written nothing so far. If I do, you'll hear from me, tomorrow.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-27533266434665459422009-05-07T13:30:00.003+05:302009-05-07T13:43:47.377+05:30Day 1From May 6 till December 31, I have 240 days to finish writing my novel. Yesterday I didn't write anything. I woke up in the morning in a flooded house - the sink tap had been left open, and there was some blockage in the drain, and the water gushed out, innundating two rooms. I had to clear it all.I was in office by afternoon, and I had to write two small opinion pieces for the coming issue. In Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-63638786965366835542009-05-05T19:52:00.002+05:302009-05-05T20:03:26.118+05:30Last PostI have seriously started working on The Last Man from Kashmir.Dear readers, as the municipality says on the good, old roads: Kindly bear with us (me in this case).I have decided that till the time I don't finish writing it all, I won't write anything on my blog (Remember No Optional Striving message on my pin-up board at office?) But, yes, I shall update this post daily and tell you what progressRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-2595559086840699972009-04-24T12:07:00.003+05:302009-04-24T19:20:02.445+05:30Shock TherapyProbably by now you are tired of this: I have not been writing again.On my work station, I have pinned up stuff, which I thought would prod me into clobbering my keypad every day: A September 1, 1952 cover of Life magazine, with Hemingway on it. The issue carries his entire novel, The Old Man and the Sea.Then there are these two messages which are supposed to have been put by writer Philip Roth Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-17002511468463164622009-04-17T20:58:00.008+05:302009-05-06T17:56:50.765+05:30Gandhigiri in KashmirThe people of a tiny village in north Kashmir have won a small but decisive battle against the army, the first such example in twenty years of conflict.The 15,000 residents of Bomai are not leaving their houses now, something they had threatened to do. There is word that three soldiers of the army’s Rashtriya Rifles will have to face disciplinary action for what happened in Bomai on February 21. Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-39370818056475902262009-04-08T21:00:00.002+05:302009-04-09T14:55:02.197+05:30Line of ControlAt an undisclosed location near the Line of Control in KashmirRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-8946914106250318252009-03-27T19:27:00.002+05:302009-03-27T19:32:10.118+05:30Ayodhya imagesRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-15667354211792644122009-03-23T13:40:00.001+05:302009-03-23T13:44:47.862+05:30HypergraphiaI long for Hypergraphia. I am tired of explaining my mood swings to others, and justifying it to myself. I am tired of everything. I am tired of reading. I am tired of drinking. I am tired of behaving normally. I am tired of being social. I am tired of remaining awake. I am tired of falling asleep. The right knee is hurting again. That means I cannot run. Two nights ago, I was feeling terribly Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-6802986362400649932009-03-19T13:23:00.000+05:302009-03-19T13:25:01.971+05:30Just another dayToday has also passed by. I got up in the morning, and went for a run around the neighbourhood track. While I was at it, five airplanes flew overhead. I wondered who was in them and where all did they arrive from or were going to. Then I sat for a while on a broken bench. At my feet lay two empty bottles of mineral water and an empty packet of potato chips. Someone must have had something to Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-67802451867977477292009-02-24T19:06:00.002+05:302009-02-25T16:26:10.984+05:30Lovers like thatThe city sleeps like an old man with blocked sinuses. In deep slumber it seems to rise, monster like, producing sinewy sound. That is when he gets up, and in the darkness, he sits in the balcony, taking care to hide himself from the drunk watchmen who assemble every now and then outside his house, making lewd comments about women. A marriage party is passing somewhere nearby, and there is a Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-32443387342179066142009-01-28T14:13:00.000+05:302009-01-28T14:14:22.697+05:30MorpankhPosted here.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-86136380756257919112009-01-23T11:08:00.001+05:302009-02-20T14:38:02.782+05:30Cotton Candy ManRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-9237191812574029282009-01-20T20:56:00.000+05:302009-01-20T20:59:22.312+05:30The script, the plotI wish you were here. Or I were there. Or both of us were somewhere. The high gardens of my imagination lie barren. I need to talk to you. About words. About restlessness. About fear. About an injury in my knee. About Frangipani. About the bright green tint of a Carlsberg beer bottle. About sleepiness. The other day you came to the café. I spoke a little out of anxiety. “Baat karne aaye ho kya?” Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-69761488307483563682008-12-30T14:42:00.003+05:302008-12-30T14:44:44.143+05:30Family TreeI know nothing about my family beyond my great grandfather. My grandfather, who was a Sanskrit scholar, and who dabbled in astrology as well, died in the November of 1985. A day before he died, he had been shifted to a hospital. I remember my mother had come home in the evening after visiting him, and, in the night, as my father prepared to lay our beds, she advised him against it. “We won’t Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-34922685541577869172008-11-18T16:55:00.004+05:302008-11-18T16:59:07.925+05:30Yet anotherThe response to my Hindi poems has been so poor that I have been contemplating blog suicide. But before I do that, here is another:तुम्हारे उजले तलवों से दिन निकल आया हैमेरे स्याह माथे पर रात अभी लहराई हैमेरे सीने की नदी में पाँव डालकर देखोइसकी कितनी गहराई हैI invite readers to share their own poems - in Hindi and English, which has mention of sole(s), the bottom of the foot.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-51730281982173134022008-11-11T11:37:00.006+05:302008-11-12T09:50:00.987+05:30For MayaFirst, my apologies. It has taken me a while to post some of my poems even after receiving many responses. Actually I had been travelling again, with no access to the Internet. Anyway, here they are, four of them. I hope you like them. Do let me know. Also, one clarification: though I am a fan of Gulzar, the name Maya is not inspired by the usage of the name in some of his films. Maya is my muse,Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-47277577134799928182008-10-31T20:02:00.002+05:302008-10-31T20:16:00.092+05:30Fancy a Hindi poem?I have been trying to write poems in Hindi for a proposed collection. I need to have at least one hundred poems. By now, I have managed about thirty. I like some of them. I have destroyed some of them after finding them ridiculous. May be a few others also meet the same fate. All these poems are about love and longing, and are dedicated to my muse, the ultimate seductress, Maya. I intend to callRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-43801196549961353062008-10-17T21:17:00.003+05:302008-10-29T15:13:57.632+05:30Alien citiesAfter the old waiter, wearing a haggard bow tie, kept my luggage on the table, I tipped him and locked the room behind him. It was an old hotel, and there were rumours that it would soon be dismantled to give way to a shopping mall. The paint had been peeling off the walls, and the damp bed covers reeked of lovemaking. The fan moved about its wobbly wings and the television set’s volume control Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-61078111212450672522008-10-17T21:15:00.001+05:302008-10-17T21:17:38.865+05:30Lucknow Railway StationCopyright: rahul pandita@2008Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-22194348147057727192008-10-08T07:25:00.001+05:302008-10-08T07:26:35.853+05:30Shami Kabab and Inclusive GrowthWrote a piece in Hindi for Mohalla. You can see it here.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-84408210813982530122008-10-05T19:42:00.003+05:302008-10-05T19:49:44.788+05:30Those daysThe power went off early in the evening as I tried to put myself to sleep for a while. Droplets of sweat traversed like Morph Codes across my body, and I lay awake over the check bedsheet, hoping that a thunderstorm would saunter over. Last night I felt so dead and rotten inside that I suspected maggots might come crawling out of my nostrils. With trembling hands then I took out that old cassetteRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-6622357835295669532008-10-04T13:59:00.001+05:302008-10-04T14:02:28.383+05:30Burn the dreamsCan we burn the dreams again?So that poems are bornThey need canvasses of bodiesTo illuminate words andWhatever meanings they holdIn their varicose veins.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-13405007468356656222008-10-03T20:31:00.002+05:302008-10-03T20:36:49.042+05:30Travels through KashmirCopyright: Rahul Pandita, 2008Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-77784822727113109902008-10-03T20:12:00.002+05:302008-10-03T20:16:52.702+05:30Two songs, too many memoriesWhen I was, I think, seven years old, a couple of songs, which I heard and saw on a black and white Weston T.V. set, tore apart my heart. Twenty-five years later they still make me drunk. My childhood sweetheart, actress Sandhya features in both these songs. You can see them here and here.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-26291355456320629792008-10-01T19:36:00.002+05:302008-10-01T19:38:58.596+05:30Secret DesireI have always wondered about ambition. What is mine? Well, becoming a writer. Is it? I don't know. But here, let me share with you a secret desire of mine. I want to become this.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-8821370613454052592008-09-24T12:22:00.002+05:302008-09-24T12:39:04.000+05:30Poems of longing“Have you read Ritusamhara?” she asked. The four of them were driving out of the city. Somewhere in the northwest, a mansion lay waiting for them – an old relic of the past, which belonged to a man who had made it big in pharmaceutical business in a city along the Arabian Sea. Ritusamhara. The memories of a decade-old past occurred like a flash, very much like last-night’s perfume, which had now Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-8828208411206700032008-09-17T12:25:00.007+05:302008-09-22T13:26:05.845+05:30Grenades as metaphorsI have come back from Kashmir, my third trip in the last two months. This time I almost got lynched at Nawhatta, in downtown Srinagar. My colleague, photographer Shome Basu was also caught badly in an incident of stone pelting.The Kashmiris are too angry.But in between, we got some time off and, one afternoon, the two of us went to the Ahdoos for lunch. The hotel’s restaurant was empty because, Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-29181705925001020972008-09-01T20:11:00.005+05:302008-09-01T20:21:41.593+05:30Life is a half marathonThe well of my stories has not dried up – I have many stories to tell you. Like Anupam Kher says in Santosh Sivan’s forthcoming film, Tahaan, set in Kashmir: Mere liye to zindagi ek dastaan hai. But it’s just that I am increasingly struggling with right words and a right beginning. I also have a book to finish and at least two major assignments are to be done from Kashmir. That means I will have Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-2586288455378705382008-08-17T17:04:00.003+05:302008-08-17T17:50:45.204+05:30Gates open on SundaySunday means thicker newspapers – the joy of reading a ‘Moby Dickish’ piece hidden somewhere between articles on Olympics and obese kids. It means drinking mugfuls of tea and cooing at the plants in the balcony. It means washing your sneakers and cleaning the bookrack with Colin. It means scrubbing your body at leisure while bathing and working diligently on the shaving lather. It means combiningRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-11740834645683694952008-07-16T22:16:00.003+05:302008-12-12T04:27:22.736+05:30Barog's memory pillI thought I saw you. At the eatery, next to a railway station named after a Sufi saint, you sat in one corner, your hair tied the way it always has been, stirring an empty Styrofoam cup with a spoon. Or so I thought. When the face lit in the bright afternoon sun, I could see that it was not you. It could have been you. I wish it had been you. Passing past the shrine, I can see a few foreigners, Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-49313178563828889332008-07-14T19:30:00.004+05:302008-12-12T04:27:23.096+05:30Bullshit againThere has been a heavy spell of rain. As it fell on the top of the airconditioner fitted in my room window, I closed my eyes, listening to the pitter-patter of the raindrops. Then I got up and made myself a cup of tea. I have a bad throat which hurts badly. Actually I am bullshitting; I have nothing to say.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-14271784450575243672008-07-03T11:43:00.002+05:302008-07-03T12:07:28.934+05:30Geelani's shit and Hindu "hit"Every morning, Syed Ali Geelani sits on a white porcelain commode, probably imported from Saudi Arabia. His shit, full of anti-India sentiments, travels through pipes to the Wular Lake in his hometown Sopore, in Kashmir, and contributes, on a daily basis, to the shrinking of what used to be Asia’s largest fresh water body. Over the years, Geelani’s morning ritual has been responsible for Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-69433315640114650142008-06-13T08:43:00.002+05:302008-06-13T08:51:13.194+05:30The day Indira diedWe heard the news first on the All India Radio. Immediately afterwards, film songs were taken off air and one could only hear strains of Sitar. Indira Gandhi, the daughter of Kashmir’s most worthy son, Jawaharlal Nehru, had been shot by her Sikh bodyguards. I remember, father was about to leave for office. In the weak autumn sunshine I was playing my usual game of “Headquarters” – a game in whichRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-68558460812263161552008-06-11T22:58:00.001+05:302008-06-11T23:01:19.666+05:30Too much HemingwayThere is some wine in the cupboard and a half bottle of whiskey. A country song is playing on the space radio, and I am drinking some coffee. I cannot have wine; I am on medication – some strange-sounding antibiotics have been prescribed to me for an infection which no one has been able to figure out. I have been reading too much of Hemingway and, I am mesmerized with Paris, wine, typewriter – Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-75314311667788548922008-06-11T10:41:00.001+05:302008-06-11T10:41:40.344+05:30I need to writeThere is nothing to write about these days. There is no turbulence; my imagination has turned lame and I have no crutches to offer. Actually, it is very important to discipline oneself in order to be able to write. The American writer, Philip Roth is believed to have kept for a long time two small signs near his desk: “Stay put” and “No optional striving.” Optional striving, as one profile of hisRahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-14695890277845169742008-06-10T10:35:00.000+05:302008-06-10T10:36:15.130+05:30Looking at obituariesIs it important to have a cigarette stuck between my two fingers when I look at obituaries? I don’t pay much heed to this question that only I have thrown at myself. For now, I only look at the pictures of the dead. The first photo looks like one shot for a matrimonial alliance. Face tilted towards one of the studio walls, lips stuck together, almost in an embrace, and one end of the Sari hiding Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-74220739899022354322008-05-05T11:44:00.004+05:302008-05-06T20:13:06.825+05:30The story that never took offMore than a year ago, I tried working on a story about a man, born in Kashmir, immediately after the land was formed out of the water body.It went on like this:In the beginning there was only water. Even one’s thought could not go beyond it without getting wet. Nothing escaped it. Water overwhelmed. It shocked. Its massive tongue devoured everything. And then, one day, the Earth woke up. It Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-32195639144265246142008-05-04T16:55:00.003+05:302008-12-12T04:27:23.256+05:30The professor of CalculusHe walked alone on a frosty winter morning. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and the sky was overcast. Beneath the soft cushion of the fresh snow lay hidden a muddy crust of ice, capable of breaking the bones of the children and the aged, should they slip over it. He walked fast, trying to keep pace with the calculations his mind had gotten into. Inside the long pheran, the stitches of which Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-69498372574623484982008-05-02T23:11:00.008+05:302008-12-12T04:27:23.626+05:30Three cheers for daughtersJust like that! With this sentiment, Avinash of Mohalla started a new blog after he became the proud father of a baby girl. Aptly titled, Betiyon ka Blog (Daughter's Club), this little space became a meeting point of all proud fathers, and of course, mothers. Ravish, for example, put a few sound clips of his daughter Tanini's attempt at singing. Vibha Rani wrote about how her daughter Toshi is Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-52788693625246540852008-04-24T10:21:00.003+05:302008-12-12T04:27:23.656+05:30A graphic novel on Indian televisionA couple of years ago, I created a mini graphic novel for Sarai. A friend, Irfan, who is the only sensible guy in the entire Radio FM industry had been trying hard ever since to put this novel online. I sent a CD to another friend, Avinash, who runs perhaps the most popular blog in Hindi, Mohalla. But owing to my rich technological skills, the CD was found out to be blank. After waiting for any Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-60517373880275580942008-04-22T20:09:00.003+05:302008-12-12T04:27:23.672+05:30Gods' court marriageI am late again. It is close to midnight as I drag my feet, climb the eighteen stairs that lead to my first-floor flat, and gently knock at the door with my car keys. A faint cough sounds from inside – that is my father’s way of telling me that there is no need to knock again, he is awake. In a moment the door opens and I am let in. My clothes reek of cigarette smoke. My dinner is kept on the Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-42372003946768303912008-04-07T15:13:00.010+05:302008-12-12T04:27:24.499+05:30To Sir, with loveThe story of an award-winning, upper-caste Geologist who is silently changing the lives of underprivileged children, most of them from lower castes, in a remote corner of India. A fan has finally started working. But it is not that electricity has reached Kunaura, a small village, around 23 miles from Lucknow, the capital of eastern state of Uttar Pradesh, one of the major centres of rebellion Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-50129310925538935732008-03-30T20:11:00.008+05:302008-12-12T04:27:24.613+05:30Not without my fatherAway from the pseudo-activism of the Bollywood glitterati, a young assistant director of Taare Zameen Par fights for her father, who is under arrest on charges of being a Naxalite commander. Rahul Pandita reports. Aamir Khan has probably never heard of Prashant Rahi. But on the day his maiden directorial venture Taare Zameen Par was released to critical acclaim, a young assistant director of his Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-20667677261718279232008-03-28T12:16:00.005+05:302008-12-12T04:27:24.628+05:30The making of a NaxaliteIn his first ever interview, top Naxal leader Misir Besra tells me how a jackfruit tree led him to the Naxal movement. When the police party approached the car in which Misir Besra was travelling, he did not run away. The strategy was perfect since Besra’s photo had never appeared in the police records. And looking at his face and physique, no one would ever suspect him of being one of the Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-59291469599139253572008-03-08T21:02:00.010+05:302008-12-12T04:27:24.795+05:30Who is Manmohan Singh?Coke and Haldiram's have reached the worst-affected naxalite areas of Jharkhand but not the government. On the budget day, Rahul Pandita travels through the state’s remotest villages to discover that almost nobody has ever heard of Manmohan Singh, leave alone Chidambaram. That day, the Block Development Officer, Lalan Kumar visited Gitildih village for the first time. He brought along with him Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-64606938886844040222008-02-21T17:03:00.001+05:302008-02-21T17:05:24.935+05:30Times like theseHow does one liveIn times like these?Does one have to liveIn times like these? I don’t remember last night. It rained heavily and I only have faint memories of being held up at a traffic intersection. My shirt collar was still wet when I felt it this morning; I had not changed my clothes. While I was asleep, the maid had kept a cup of tea on the side-table, covering it with a tattered copy of Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-2723360013677769512008-02-16T23:28:00.001+05:302008-02-16T23:30:08.839+05:30Could I ever sleep?On the road belowThey keep on creating noise:Hawkers looking for Stale newspapers and emptyWhisky bottlesBeggars masquerading as ascetics With a tin God immersed in mustard oilSalesmen selling aluminum foil And those who clean gas burnersAnd herbs for slow learners I try to sleepOver yesterday’s headlinesAnd hangover induced at midnightAnd the stains that won’t purgeBut the shouts that emerge Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-88452233002366696832008-02-16T19:25:00.001+05:302008-02-16T19:29:00.660+05:30The man with a tieI like it when people pay attention to my stories. For a living I sell medicines – promote them, to be precise – but my real talent, if you really ask me, lies in storytelling. Six days a week, I wear a tie brought from the underground Palika bazaar, comb my hair backwards, eat my breakfast of two boiled eggs (except Tuesdays), wash it down with a glass or a cup of tea, depending on my wife’s Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-73435401546164055002008-02-15T17:33:00.006+05:302008-12-12T04:27:24.831+05:30Our own KolkatasIn the miasma of darkness, cars moved along the tall building. Their high-beam lights shone on the glass façade for a moment and then moved away quickly. Men did not have that virtue. They would slither through silently, some of them on rickety bicycles, their bottoms turned sore by cushion-less seats. From the third-floor window of a restaurant, he watched it all – the grand trapezium of light Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-87999259195827820852008-02-12T16:45:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:24.947+05:30Let's remember each other by nameI have this very strong belief that all stories deserve to be told. For a story-teller, imagination is like a whore. She entices him with fake lipstick. But despite her sagging breasts sometimes, a story-teller must conscript with her. He must be a debauch, or at least, act like one. I have told you many stories. Sometimes you get too entangled into it. There are times when you think that every Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-59190544469647850862008-02-02T19:50:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:25.258+05:30At the Oxford Book StoreSpeaking at the Oxford Book Store, Delhi during a discussion on Media Nagar 03.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-87149509105930942532008-02-02T15:02:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:25.597+05:30"Writing is the most exciting thing in my life"He teaches Marketing at the Oxford University, but if you read his three novels, you might take him for a historian. Unlike some of the Indian writers in English, his stories do not drip with nostalgia. A CPM cardholder in the 70s in West Bengal, Kunal Basu, by his own admission, is no longer a Communist. His latest work, a collection of twelve short stories, titled, The Japanese Wife is being Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-9585030254231728382008-01-25T23:16:00.000+05:302008-01-31T20:47:59.838+05:30On suicide, Wandhama and, perhaps, everything else in lifeThis evening, a middle-aged man with receding hairline jumped from the top floor of my office building and died on the floor, next to a promotional board of Johnie Walker which reads: Keep walking. His one shoe lay near his motionless body.People watched him from a distance. By the time someone called the police, a pool of blood was created beneath his face. The man was wearing a jacket and a Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-16720844800283092582008-01-02T17:47:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:27.097+05:30Friends don't die“He was carrying his revolver when they shot him dead.” The old caretaker at the Ghadar Memorial Hall in Jalandhar takes out a blue handkerchief and spreads its content on the table. There is an old spectacles frame and a blood-stained bus ticket, recovered from Darshan Canadian’s shirt pocket.“The problem with Comrades is that they are very fond of justifying their viewpoint. When the two young Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-4278102234806933932007-12-08T21:57:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:27.438+05:30On the Kodak paperBeneath the red quilt, your memories seep inside me like brandy. The days are shorter now and, in the night, when I am sometimes awakened, I feel my heartbeat – the feebleness of it. I have no more stories to tell; all plots are revealed. Some lie low, like dormant volcanoes. I suspect they will never ever erupt. How do I weep silently again, like I did that night, years ago, when I came home, Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-69428594545665037192007-11-11T13:01:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:27.535+05:30For old time's sakeTheek hai - so be ityou said, promising tobuy me a pocket watch.Opening its lid, I'llwatch seconds glide intoyears; wait for Captain Time's whistle, and then, I'll caress your tressesThese days I play todestiny's packed gallery,watching it bend with laughterat my antics. And in the solitudeof Begum Akhtar's voice when your memory bedazzles my heartlike her nosepin, I cry silentlyI remember you Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-88900790397874322602007-10-26T21:00:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:27.673+05:30One of those daysSometimes, nothing matters in life. You wake up, stumble towards the balcony, pick up the bunch of newspapers, remove the rubber band which binds them together, read the headlines, look at the edit page, stare at Calvin and Hobbes, and throw the sheets away. You don’t care about a smooth shave. It is a nippy end-October morning, and you wonder whether you should have a cold shower or switch on Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-485430789298122852007-10-12T13:36:00.000+05:302007-10-12T13:39:03.634+05:30Hindi postI have just written a piece in Hindi for a friend's blog. You can access it here.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-83511754669262318852007-09-06T13:42:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:28.332+05:30Is the apple tree still there? (Part2)Twenty-nine years ago there were very few houses there. And those had no boundary walls. The blossom-strewn patches of grass outside a house mingled freely with marigold flowerbeds outside another. In kitchen gardens, fenced with tree branches and thorny bushes, there grew tomatoes, chillies, brinjals, pumpkins, cucumbers, and on the small embankments, corncobs smiled gingerly from within their Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-49600216499632331192007-08-18T00:31:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:29.537+05:30Is the apple tree still there? (Part 1)Suhail tells me of a boy who went with him to a boarding school, in a remote district of Kashmir. The boy, it seems, felt home sick, time and again, and would run away from school whenever he got a chance. After a few days, he would resurface, with absolutely no emotion on his face. “What happened, why are you back so early?” his friends would ask him. “Nothing,” he would reply. And then after a Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19450551.post-16352269567261226972007-08-10T22:32:00.000+05:302008-12-12T04:27:29.711+05:30Dal lake, KashmirSo many stories to tell, from Kashmir. Watch this space.Rahul Panditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05196650742327722757noreply@blogger.com8