Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Fruits and Flowers

W. Somerset Maugham was ill towards his last days. One of his fans called him and asked, "Mr. Maugham, sir, how can I help you? Shall I send some flowers and fruits?".

"Thank you very much madam, but you couldn't possibly help. It is too late for fruits, and too early for flowers!", came W. S. M.'s reply.

Future

His life has little meaning left now. And he knew of this before long.

Some people have a great interest in knowing their future : he was one of them, exceptionally motivated to find out the means of knowing what was written in his fate. But no more so.

All his sorrows began one fine day at his home. He was having his regular morning tea, and flipping through newspaper reporting the stale news of the day before. He would always start at page one, then move on to the last, sports page before his eyes settled on the "today's fortune" column. He was somewhat irritated at the prediction of a particularly bad day ahead. He wanted to forget about it and hope nothing bad would happen that day. He had observed that bad-day-ahead predictions usually would not turn up right, and the day would pass without much notable incidents. And resting his hopes upon his past experiences, he relaxed and finished the last sip of Red Label Tea left in his cup. After his daily walk in the lush green garden in the neighbourhood, and pondering upon the need for better traffic management of the city, he returned home only more cheerful than when he had left.

And then he found the parcel lying on his desk. The morning mail had brought in a bright coloured, heavy parcel for him. He was disappointed to find nobody under "from" heading, and trying to guess the sender, went in his study to get his paper-knife. He had his misgivings about opening the packet for it could have been a mischief, even harmful. But his curiosity overcame his misgivings and finally he started to open up the parcel, carefully as not to do any damage to the contents. To his surprise (and maybe some disappointment) he found only a thick bundle of papers, bound neatly, bearing nice curved letters, "Your Future".

This was strange. He checked the calendar - it was not April the first, and certainly the sender had taken a lot of efforts to create and send this amusing parcel to him. He checked the envelope again, in case he had missed a fine print revealing the sender's identity. But there was none, not even the postal stamp of the originating post office. After much thought he finally opened the first page of the thick booklet.

"You will open this book precisely at 10:46:23, October 27th, 1989", read the first sentence. He was taken aback. The wall-clock with ever rhythmic pendulum (his grandfather's possession) showed near about 10:45, and there was no way to find out the exact number of seconds. He read on. "Don't bother, the wall-clock may not have confirmed the time of the above sentence for you, but you could believe these words, that surely that was the time when you read the above sentence". This was getting interesting. "Now you will go ahead with the rest of the book", and he did so. (or was it his destiny that he would do so?)

The booklet was no mischief. It was the book of future. He was overwhelmed to see his dream come true. Never was a day spent without a thought of what the future had in store. And this parcel containing the incredible booklet revealed as much as he wanted to know.

"You will finish reading this booklet at 12:33:08, the same day", and the book concluded. He did not bother to look at the wall-clock again. He was sure that it was true. All he had ever longed for, he had got today. He knew his future. Every nook and corner life would take him to. All the troubles and sorrows he would encounter, happiness and glory he would achieve in the days to come, he knew everything now.

Maybe it was fate that whatever he had read in that small booklet of Future actually turned out to be true. The days passed the way they were slated to pass. The life continued, and the future that he had known slowly dissolved into the past. The excitement of the knowledge started to wear off. He wondered, if he had not read the booklet, would the things have turned out the same way? Maybe yes, maybe not. And then he knew the meaning of the little warnings on the later pages of the booklet. "Do you really want to read further?", they asked him. "Continue as you will, but it may destroy your life." If only he had paid heed to those warnings!

He had lost all the interest in his life. He knew what was to come, and it became a mere formality to undergo it, and convert the present into past. There was no excitement of unknown, unexpected events in the day. He wished that he had never read the booklet beyond a certain point - the point after which the warnings had become severe, and had explained a mindset, which was a reality only now.

Only one hope keeps him going today - may the book fail once. He would treasure that unknown moment for the next 27 years, 3 months and 8 days, till the end of his days... And sadly, it is no surprise to him that such a hope would keep him alive!

Monday, May 30, 2005

The Motorcycle Diaries

"Let the World change you and you will change the World"

is the catchline of this spectacular film.

When I realised that this was a true story of a 23-year old, I felt sad to have lived for more than those many years without really knowing what the life has to offer and I, in return.

Catch hold of a VCD/DVD/ticket to this movie. Go for it.

You

I do not have fear of running out of ideas to put in writing : you being in my thoughts all the time!

Sunday, May 29, 2005

The Open Window

(1)


The road to my office went through this wonderful colony of flower-clad trees. These flowers were the first beautiful thing I saw out of the Open Window of the bus that carries me to the office everyday. This place, though not so far from my house, certainly took some extra energy and enthusiasm to visit it on a Sunday. I compulsorily took Sundays off from the heap of work that always awaited me at the office.

The extra energy and enthusiasm, however, was not altogether rare; and I found myself walking to this place on many Sundays.

The Sunday which I'll draw your attention to, was one overflowing with energy - it was my birthday!

The day broke bright and sunny. After a heavy breakfast, I started walking towards the garden. It was peak of spring and of the blossom as well.

I came to this particular crossroad and as I did everyday, I looked up to the Open Window of a bungalow at the right. I was dead bored to see the same face looking out of the Open Window - everyday, without fail I used to see this face when our office-bus stopped at the red at the crossroad. The expression on that broad face never changed - the face would never be blank, but anxiety and curiosity always filled it. I had always thought much about this mysterious face, always looking out of the Open Window-- had even thought of visiting that bungalow to quench my curiosity, but never had actually done it. Should I do it today? I wondered and again looked back to the Open Window - to my surprise, the face was not there! I almost let out a cry, and---

(2)

This had been my favourite pastime of all. To stand at the Open Window, and look outside. I saw the life moving at its pace, the weather changing when it's time for it to change. I could see everything. The life outside amused me the most. I enjoyed looking out of the Open Window. But the particular Sunday, to which I'll draw your attention to, was not altogether cheerful.

I had always observed my company bus traveling to the office - I always took the next bus, about half an hour later. And I always was surprised to find a broad face looking to me through the Open Window of the bus - the same seat, everyday! The expression never changed - it was filled with so much of curiosity and maybe, a trace of anxiety. About the work lying ahead in the office? Maybe. Then I started seeing this face even on Sundays, not regular on Sundays, though. I was curious enough to go down and ask this fellow what he found so amazing in my face, that he should always take a look at me the first thing in the morning? But I actually never did so. This Sunday I thought I should go down and ask him. I may even make a new friend, I thought. But it was not to be. I looked back to him again, with a smile on my face, and---

(3)

---and before I could realise, the big reckless truck was upon me. I glanced at the Open Window, the face was back. He smiled - and I remember - I returned the smile, and as far as I remember, it was the end of the world for me at that instant.

(4)

I should have taken care before the truck ran over me -the very instant when I remembered this experience of mine. But how could I, for I had actually seen the accident take place when I was standing at the Open Window. I wish if only I had known better not to look towards the Open Window...

(5)

Or I should have shouted a desparate warning to him, so that I could have avoided the mishap...

Judge

I prefer one particular side of the badminton court - I am a better judge in that court :)

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Infinity

(1)


In my humble opinion (if it counts at all) I am an ordinary person. I know many things but that's not it. I can do many things. But so what? Many can do a lot of wonderful things. I can think. And there is no dearth of great thinkers among us. Who are they to decide if someone is great or not? Are they really ordinary? And obviously, who are they to decide if people are ordinary also? Are they the extra ordinary people? Every person is a mine of gold. He may not have realised the value of it; but sooner or later he will. What of it if I have found it (if that's what you want to observe). That doesnot mean much for me.

In my humble opinion, I am an ordinary person, and I expect to remain so.

I know I have a knack of doing things differently. And a passion for doing a lot of things. But that I have learnt from the fellows around me. I was not born with that, it's the life around me that has polished the coal. And surprisingly enough, they have found it to be gold. I will not underestimate myself, though. For I know what I know. And I know what I don't know.

Let's keep it at that. Thank you.

(2)


He is a renowned scientist, a philosopher, an artist par excellence, truly, a genius. There are some living miracles- those who when touch anything, the thing turns to gold. He is one of those rare species on Earth. You will struggle to find a topic about which he can't speak, or can't direct to a person, his friend, who can. He has led people to great laurels, he has revitalised so many lives, and he continues to do so. Relentlessly. People of this world write to him, and to their surprise, he replies to them : in their own language! His words soothing, comforting and encouraging, as fresh as ever.

Conflicts between the greatest of men is so common! Given this, there being so many great characters around, it is simply amazing that all of them agree upon a single statement : He is without any doubt, the world leader of today. Maybe the people are putting so great a burden of expectations on Him, that I shudder at the thought of his failing to stand up to it. But that doesn't happen. And I believe a failure could never happen with Him.

(3)

After His emotional address to the people of this world, it just got confirmed that infinity less infinity is still infinity!

Make ↑

Perhaps, not all the ladies have beautiful face; therefore they must make up for it :)

Thursday, May 26, 2005

He and She

This is the story of He and She.

He, not unexpectedly, was poor once upon a time but is financially stable as of today. She, quite expectedly, is sufficiently beautiful to keep the reader's interest in the story alive. And His interest as well.

Quite naturally, they meet: where else, but in the college. He, being risen from the poor background, has to borrow books, borrow class-notes for he would miss the classes often because of having to work hard in this cruel world to earn his roti and ghee: you know what I mean. She is inclined to have sympathy towards him, she has never known poverty (I doubt if she can spell "poverty" correctly), and tries to help Him as much as she can; and as much as he would allow.

It is not long before they realise there is something more than just helping friendship between them. And as should happen in all stories, they finally fall in love. The days suddenly become brighter. Everything comes there way. He finishes his studies with flying colours and doesn't forget to mention Her contribution (both class-notes and books, besides all the moral support) to his success. He even recites the old saying of, "behind every successful man...". And she is just too happy for Him. She also passes out with excellent ranks and instead of helping her mother in the household activities, decides to take up a job. No, not a teacher's job, but a job in an MNC.

He knows His responsibilities towards His mother and younger sister: she has already found a caring boy for herself. So it may seem that the End is approaching; even without an entry of a villain. Sorry, there is no villain in the story, for the villain is also well settled in the story- he knows better than to trouble the Hero and does even better to avoid his fall. So it is now left for Him to climb the ladders of success in terms of money in His life. And to nobody's surprise, (not even to the reader's I guess) he does exceptionally well in His job. Suddenly, gone are the days of sorrow and poverty. There is happiness in the air. The long love between He and She continues without any third party arriving in their lives. After His sister's marriage, they decide to get married soon. Their families, to the lovers' relief agree to their wedding without slightest of trouble. Mom-Dad and maa even congratulate the couple on having spared them the tasks of looking for daamaad and bahu respectively. And finally they get married on a full moon's day!

Now the reader may be wondering what the hell is left in the story of He and She? They may be right, for there is no hell left in the story; but a slight hurdle, though, remains.

He has bought a small piece of land on the shores of the Deep Sea. He has grown quite rich and he decides to gift her with a wonderful beach-land clad in silver sand and cordoned by tall trees.
He decides to stun them all by announcing this on her birthday (I'll not reveal Her age, on Her special request). Both He and She then leave for the Beach of their dreams the very evening. Early morning they bring their car to halt near the sea, and almost run towards the gushing, shining waters. As they approach their piece of land, he excuses Himself for a while (maybe He has more surprises in the small cottage He has built for themselves.) And goes inside. When he comes out, he can't believe his eyes. He finds that there is a great hurdle now lying in front of the cottage between Him and the sea-shore where she is enjoying the morning breeze. "Pray, what is your name?", He asks the Hurdle, "Anjaanaa" comes the reply. He shouts His question to Her, "Dear, have you ever known, this Hurdle here, called Anjaanaa?". She is as puzzled as a student before the examination panel. And she answers accordingly, "No, honey, never have known it". Anyways, the rest is history, and they actually live happily ever after till the end of their days.

And thus the story has come to the end. Now's the time ripe for a song, which if the reader is still around, will be amused to hear. And maybe the mystery behind the Hurdle could be revealed.
So let's sing together,

"tere mere beach mein
oho oho oho
tere mere beach mein
kaisaa hein yeh bandhan Anjaanaa!
tune nahin jaanaa - maine nahi jaanaa
kaisaa hein yeh bandhan Anjaanaa!"
---
The End

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Rediscovering Myself


On the shore of the great Arabian Sea,
I found myself, keenly observing
the serene sky of the west, a coconut tree
the colours of the dusk was I grasping

Never did the sky look so beautiful
and never ever so inviting
the sun had blazed on until
was it time ripe for His parting

It was time to bid Him good-bye
and to welcome the coolness in the sky
for the Moon was on its way
what more of the scene could I say?

Parting is important, for then, otherwise
how can there be a reunion, suffice
it to say I bid goodbye to the me of past
and perhaps found a new myself, at last!
----
♣ This photo was taken at GaNapatipuLe the last week...

All that is Gold...

All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither
Deep roots are not reached by frost
From the ashes a fire shall be woken
A light from the shadows shall spring
Renewed shall be blade that was broken
The crownless again shall be king
"The Lord of the Rings"

संवाद

या जगात कुठलीही गोष्ट हा एक संवाद आहे. माझा आणि या blog चा असो - माझा स्वत:शीच असो वा नाटकातल्या पात्रांचा एकमेकांशी - पुस्तकातल्या शब्दांचा वाचकाशी - वक्त्याचा श्रोत्यांशी - ताऱ्यांचा चंद्राशी - सगळ्यांचा एकमेकांशी संवाद चालू असतो. मनात विचारांचे खेळ सदैव चालतात. हाही एक संवादच नव्हे का?

संवादांना देवाणघेवाणीसाठी मूर्त स्वरूप घ्यावं लागतं - शब्द, सूर, रंग, पदलालित्य, ही सगळी संवादाचीच मूर्त रुपे. माध्यमातून होतो तो संवाद.

मला असंच वाटायचं. माझा माझ्याच मनाशी होणारा संवाद सोडला, तर प्रत्येक संवादाला माध्यमाची गरज असावी असा माझा विश्वास होता.

दोन मनांमध्येही संवाद घडू शकतो - माध्यमाशिवाय - ही जाणीव फारच वेगळी आहे - आश्चर्यकारक आहे - आणि त्याचे परिणामही इतर संवादांसारखेच सुंदर आहेत. अशा सुसंगत संवादातून मिळणारा आनंद खूपच वेगळा आहे - आणि कदाचित इतर सगळ्या माध्यमांतून व्यक्त करण्याच्या क्षमतेपलिकडचा आहे. त्यासाठी दोन मनांमधलं अद्रुश्य-अद्भुत माध्यम हवं, हेच खरं!

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

I wonder

I wonder-
will you be ever able to understand me.
I guess not.
For I have been trying since last 24 years.
And I don't think.
I have understood myself.
But I don't think
that all things be known.
And all the roads
should they shine?
Sometimes I wonder
some things are understood best,
unexplained,
for the pleasure lies
in not probing them.
I don't think
You will ever understand me truly
and neither will I
ever understand you, fully
One hope yet it may provide
reaching for the colours unknown
and yearning for notes unheard
I wonder
what other luck may ever be bestowed
than to breathe memories of only you
and
deep in the thoughts of only you,
I find myself buried!

The Question

I had never imagined that such a question could exist.

"Why do I like her?", I lost my sleep over this, most incredible question I had ever heard.

"Why would someone have such a question in mind?", was the question lingering in my mind when I started in the search of the answer.

It so happens, when you are in the search of answer, all you come up with is another question!

And many times, that question is the answer!

"If I could answer this question in my words, would I be still in the possession of that emotion about her?"

Confidently I answered the questioner - and suddenly realised, it was nobody but my alter ego who had asked this question!

This didn't come as a surprise, though, for I knew only I could create such unearthly questions, and answer them too...

काय?

हा प्रश्न मला जेव्हा कुणितरी विचारला, तेव्हा कुठे मला असा प्रश्न अस्तित्वात असू शकतो याची जाणीव झाली.

"तू मला का आवडतेस?" असं मला विचारलं गेल्यावर माझी तर झोपच उडाली.

असा प्रश्न कुणाला, का पडावा, असं स्वत:ला विचारता विचारता मी उत्तराचा विचार करू लागलो - पण ते सापडेना!

होतं अनेकदा असं - उत्तराच्या शोधात असताना उत्तरादाखल एक नवा प्रश्नच उमटतो - आणि तो असतोही अचूक!

"तू मला का आवडतेस या प्रश्नाचं उत्तर मी माझ्या शब्दांत देऊ शकलो असतो, तर तू खरोखर मला आवडतेस असं मी म्हणू शकलो असतो का?"

अत्यंत आत्मविश्वासाने मी प्रश्नकर्त्याला उत्तर दिलं - जाणवलं, की प्रश्नकर्ता दुसरा कोणी नसून माझंच मन होतं!

असा प्रश्न विचारण्याचं आणि स्वत:चं संपूर्ण समाधान व्हावं असं उत्तर देण्याचं समाधान मिळवण्याचं भाग्य माझं; आणि फक्त माझं होतं!

काहीतरीच काय!

काहीतरीच काय?

तुझ्या आठवणी जवळ असताना मला अमावस्येच्या रात्रीची भीती वाटणं शक्य आहे का?

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Can blogger be the answer?

I get amused by the number of people around me. Some of them, I know. And most of them I do not.

There is the juice-wallah. The tailer. The professor. The auto-rikshaw driver. The librarian. The sweeper. The office-boy. The student. The managing director. The begger.

These are all the occupations people assume - as masks over their personalities. Every personality has lived many years and more than that, many many experiences. Of happiness, of sorrow, of enjoyment, of agony. Of determination, of courage, of defeats, of indifference. And the person has learned through all of them. Or maybe unlearned the unwanted. For better or for worse. Every day, every month, every year has built a person from the person of the past.

What if they start telling their life-stories. Simple stories. Great stories. Ordinary-extraordinary stories. They may want to reveal everything or maybe, nothing in the end. Yet, what a collection it would be! The times, as they have been spent. One place, at one time, lives are burning with war. Another place, at the same time, life is blooming with love! Infinite, true stories.

Why not give people the platform they need. What medium other than the Internet can provide a better platform?

Can blogger be the answer?

The Lord of the Rings

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lkords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie
One Ring to rule them all, One ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie

सानिया

सानिय मिर्झाचं नाव (की नावापेक्षा फोटो?) सध्या फारचं गाजतंय. वयाच्या अवघ्या अठराव्या वर्षी तिनं स्वत:भोवती प्रसिद्धीचं प्रचंड मोठं वलय तयार केलंय. आजच्या द्रुतगती जगातल्या media चा तिच्या या यशात बराच वाटा आहे. क्रिकेट ज्या देशात राष्ट्रीय खेळापेक्षा कितीतरी पटींनी जास्त लोकप्रियता मिळवतो, त्या देशाला टेनिसकडे वळवणारी ही सम्राद्नी.

अथक परिश्रम, जन्मजात कौशल्य आणि अविजित आत्मविश्वास यांच्या जोरावर जरी तिनं हे यश मिळवलेलं असलं, तरी केवळ media मुळे ते तिनं एका रात्रीत मिळवल्यासारखं वाटतंय. आंतरराष्ट्रीय स्तरावर कुठल्याही खेळात यश मिळवणं अत्यंत कौतुकास्पद आहे. वरवर पाहता मात्र ही कामगिरी अल्पायुषी ठरते की काय अशी शंका आल्यावाचून राहत नाही.

खेळातलं यशापयशाचं चक्र अटळ आहे. पण प्रसिद्धीच्या शिखरावर असताना येणार अपयश उद्ध्वस्त करणारं ठरू शकतं एका विख्यात खेळाडूचं एक वाक्य आठवतं, " यशस्वी झाल्यानंतर माझ्या चाहत्यांच्या अपेक्षांचा मला डोंगर न वाटता तो माझ्यासाठी स्फूर्तीदाता ठरला!"

अशा लहान वयात यश मिळवणं ही एक achievement तर आहेच; परंतु त्यापेक्षाही भविष्यात तितक्याच ताकदीनं perform करण्यासाठी आव्हानही आहे. हूरळून न जाता हुरूप घेऊन सतत focused राहणं यातचं खरं खिलाडूपण.

आजच्या professional जगाअत या गोष्टींची तिला स्वत:ला जाणीव असणारच - किंवा कोणीतरी तिला योग्य प्रकारे ही जाणीव करून देइलच. मात्र आज तरी ती तिच्या खेळापेक्षा कोर्टाबाहेरील उपक्रमांमुळे गाजते आहे.

सानिया हे मात्र एक प्रतीक आहे - एक उदाहरण - झटपट प्रसिद्धी मिळाली असं वाटायला लावणारं. काळ्या चष्म्याआड आणि झकपक कपड्यांमागे मात्र एक उच्च दर्जाचा खेळाडू आहे हे विसरायला लावणारं!

घेणाऱ्याने उत्तम तेचि घ्यावे या न्यायाने आपण मात्र तिच्या खेळातले spirit, नजाकत घ्यावी, आणि बाकीच्या दाखवायच्या गोष्टी कशा करू नयेत ते शिकावं!
काही गोष्टी आयुष्यात फारच महत्त्वाच्या असतात - दुर्दैवाने, त्या जेव्हा घडत असतात तेव्हा त्याचे महत्त्व जाणवतेच असे नाही.

तीन वर्षांपूर्वी मी पुण्यातलं शिक्षण संपवून इथे बंगलोरास आलो. Campus Interview मधून मला जर Texas Instruments ची नोकरी मिळाली नसती तर? ते जाऊ द्यात, बारावीत असताना चांगले marks मिळाले नसते तर? - आणि तत्पूर्वी...? आयुष्याच्या रेलगाडीची दिशा ठरवणाऱ्या ह्या सगळ्या घटना आहेत. महत्त्वाच्या junctions वर कुठला track निवडायचा हे ठरवणारे हे निर्णय, ह्या achievements! प्रत्येक टप्प्यावर असे अनेक पर्याय उभे - त्यात मी निवडलेल्या पर्यायांतून माझी अशी घडण घडत गेलेली आहे. आता कुठला टप्पा महत्त्वाचा आणि कुठला दुय्यम हे कसे ठरवायचे? माझ्या एका खूप जुन्या कवितेत मी लिहिलं होतं -

आयुष्याच्या एका महत्त्वाच्या टप्प्यावर मागे वळून पाहताना,
मीच मला दिसलो-
आयुष्यातल्या एका महत्त्वाच्या टप्प्यावर मागे वळून पाहताना...

प्रत्येक टप्प्यावर जर वेगळ्या घटना घडल्या असत्या, तर आज मी मला जसा दिसतोय- मी जसा जगतोय तसाच जगलो असतो का?

लहानपणी नजर फार दूरपर्यंत पोहोचू शकत नाही - दोन-तीन वर्षांपलिकडचे जग ते कोवळं मन imagine करू शकत नाही. निदान माझ्या बाबतीत तरी ही गोष्ट खरी आहे. याला कदाचित 'महत्त्वाकांक्षेचा अभाव' असं संबोधलं जाण्याची शक्यता आहे - पण माझा त्यास आक्षेप नाही. माझे स्वत: आखून घेतलेले milestones एक-दोन वर्षांपलिकडे extend होत नाहीत. कदाचित त्यामुळेच मी बदलत्या conditions मध्ये पटकन adapt करू शकत असेन.

IISc तली दोन अत्यंत मौल्यवान वर्षं आता संपत आली आहेत; आणि एक टप्पा संपतोय - दुसऱ्याच्या आगमनाची वार्ता आणत. बदल नेहमीच चांगल्या गोष्टी घेउन येत असतो - आणि त्याचेच आता मला वेध लागले आहेत.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

My favourite sentences

Taken from Douglas R Hofstadter's "Metamagical Themas", following are some of my favourite sentences---
  • This sentence was in past tense.
  • What would this sentence be like if "pi" were 3?
  • This sentence no verb.
  • The whole point of this sentence is to make clear what the whole point of the sentence is.
  • I don't care who wrote this sentence---whoever he is, he is damn sexist!
  • 'T' is the first, fourth, eleventh, sixteenth, twenty-fourth, twenty-ninth, thirty-third, . . .
  • Remember me? I am the one who never made any impression on you.
  • Why does trouble always come at the wrong time?
  • "yields falsehood when appended to its quotation." yields falsehood when appended to its quotation.
  • When you are not looking at it, this sentence is in Spanish.
  • As long as you are not reading me, the fourth word of this sentence has no referent.

And finally, the masterpiece:

Only the fool would take trouble to verify that this sentence was composed of ten a's, three b's, four c's, four d's, forty-six e's, sixteen f's, four g's, thirteen h's, fifteen i's, two k's, nine l's, four m's, twenty five n's, twenty four o's, five p's,sixteen r's, forty-one s's, thirty seven t's, ten u's, eight v's, eight w's, four x's, eleven y's, twenty seven commas, twenty three apostrophes, seven hyphens, and, last but not least, a single !

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Rain, rain don't go away!

Today is the eleventh day of the month of May. If I may add, this is supposed to be summer in the whole of India, but not here in Bangalore. It has been drizzling lazily since the early morning. The droplets tickling against my face woke me up very early, and I couldn't believe it's raining. It always rains in the evenings here. Guess, today is different. Surely it has taken out all the heat of the summer that was looking dangerous a few weeks ago.

As I look forward to my journey home, I get shivers, for it would be very hot out there in Maharashtra this time of the year. There is no heat control system as we have it here- every now and then when the temperature rises above comfort levels, the rain starts to bring it down to the set levels. It is failsafe, or at least has been so since I am around in Bangalore.

As the rain continues throughout the 'summer', IISc remains lush green throughout the year. Once the rain has stopped, the water in the leaves starts its journey downwards. They say, IISc rains after the rains have stopped. I would add : IISc reigns after the rains have stopped...

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Problems... problems...

A problem is at the peak of its beauty when one is not able to solve it. Once it is solved, it looks so simple and ordinary? Perhaps, the answer steals all the beauty from the problem then.

The problem that we♪ are trying to solve looks so easy. We are even able to define the problem very elaborately, and during these definitive discussions, many concepts are made clear. But what eludes us is the answer. Not only we have understood the problem perfectly, but we know ways arriving at the answer; yet, we are not at all clear as to how to go about it!

Yet we know that this is the last mile, before we finish our journey of the project work, and in effect, of the Master's degree. And obviously, that's why it is taking so long. Seems like the problem has decided to make a permanent impression.

Fine. We are ready for it; for a problem can only be beautiful...

--

♪ : Myself and my project-mate

सूर मनातले

तुझ्याच आठवणींची ही अशी गर्दी
               मनात माझ्या आज अशी झालेली
सुसाट वाहताती सूरांच्या लयी मात्र
                शब्दांच्या दूतांची पुरी कोंडी झालेली.

त्या स्वरांच्या मधुर ताना आक्रमक,
     घेता समजावून तेव्हा नकळत
अनावर अखेर शब्द माझे झाले
                 आणि, सूर मनातले कागदावर सांडले!

Monday, May 09, 2005

Lunchtable Conversations

Lunchtable conversations are always tasty, even if the lunch is not.

Fellow A asks fellow B, whether the German Language course completion certificate was actually written in German.

Fellow B answers in the negative, giving reasons that the Chairman who would sign it wouldn't know German. He doesnot appreciate the extra chilly in today's vegetable.

Fellow C creeps in insisting that the Chairman (or Chairperson, to be on safer side) doesnot sign it, but it's only the signature-stamp that certifies the language skills. So far he was busy in emptying his glass of lemon juice.

Fellows A and C almost concurrently jump on the opportunity and give example of the reserve bank governor, who would have to sign all the notes in use (which include the notes that he earns out of this job). Fellow X, the neighbour is in deep thought.

Fellow B is amused at this : he visualises a machine in which the governor would sit and keep signing the notes throughout the day! He is apparently struggling to cut the roti into equal-sized pieces for its physical properties are not mature enough today.

Certain amount of time is allowed to pass at this point, as some unknown girl Q comes and joins the queue for lunch. Fellows A and C are distracted because of this change of subject. Fellow B doesnot care.

Fellow A simply remembers some incident from Kamal Hassan's Pushpak, a mute film. Perhaps the girl reminded him of that movie, but one cannot be sure about such things.

Fellow B has not heard about this movie. He doesnot like the idea of a mute film, and asks, "Now, then who wrote the dialogues?". A pointless question, really. Fellows A and C are used to such questions, therefore they can manage it with the target maintained in the eye-sight.

Fellow C starts to clarify some of the incidences that used to occur in cinema-halls where this film used to be screened. Fellow B is eating too slowly, and maybe, deliberately.

Fellow A jumps in to say, "Actions speak louder than words - and thence the film didn't need any dialogues whatsoever!", adding an archaic touch, inspired from the antiquated taste of the pickles.

Fellow C, after another, sip of lemon juice, adds, "In those cinema halls, the public used to shout madly, threatening to damage the furniture - their demand was to lower the blaring volume in the auditorium for they would go deaf otherwise. The film included only actions, you know - unlike all other films in which the actions are diluted by words in the dialogues and songs!"

Fellow B doesnot appreciate this fact, and assumes (as always) others are kidding him.

The target settles in its home-ground which is now out of sight for the fellows, and soon they safely exit the scene...

Living the writing

I take a leisurely walk towards the cricket field. I know there is a match being played today. Expecting a gripping dual, I sit down under a tree. My eyes follow the ball in motion and the players' movements. All my concentration is on the game. I forget rest of the world. The match,however, turns out to be a boring matter. At least, I fail to gather any excitement from it, as a mere spectator. I leave the ground and again start walking, undecided of where to go.

I take pleasure in admiring the red-clad Gulmohar trees. The nature is at its best of colours this summer. I can't keep my eyes fixed on that red colour. My gaze keeps moving - from one tree to the other, all in their full blossom. On the street I see fallen flowers - the whole street is also dipped in the colour dripping from the above. The fresh flowers on the trees look at their brothers and sisters - the youngs of yesterday - now fallen. And maybe they realise their future. The fallen flowers recount their memories - perhaps they are telling the wind everything about their days up there. The wind is trying to unsettle the patterns, probably pitifully attempting to soothe the old petals. I keep admiring this majestic scene, and move on.

Am I living my writing, or writing my living?

I am not sure, but I am surely enjoying both!

Saturday, May 07, 2005

The ambulance

(1)

The whole evening it was raining. The streets were flooded with the muddy water that ran in no sensible direction. I clearly remember that particular evening, and that particular incidence.

"husssshhh, calm down. It's nothing. It'll be over soon."

An unknown face was trying to comfort me. I found myself lying flat on the stiff ambulance stretcher. I couldn't believe it. A while ago, I was riding happily to my place, almost riding on the clouds. The breeze was cool. The spring was in its full blossom. I could sense the jolly mood taking me over. And now I lay there, not knowing what suddenly transformed my cheerful world into this gloomy vehicle, -oh and and that deafening thunderstorm. Painful. But just why am I here? I felt as fit as ever. Nothing seemed out of place, except for the situation I was in. I was thinking clearly, so I concluded at least my brain was fine. I could move my limbs, I even tried too hard to move once and the attendant almost shouted at me. Or was I dead? I guess, I was little dizzy from such a bizarre incidence. The ambulance slowed down at the crossroads. From the wet, twinkling window, I could see that actually, there were no roads! In fact we all were flying. The time also was flying! Literally. I had finally met my fate finally, I thought. I thought that was the end of it. I was no more. But clearly, there was more to it. As I was hurried to the operation theatre...then what happened I can't remember, for I don't know.

When I remembered this incidence, the next minute, if not the next second, the alarm broke the silence...

(2)

As I remember this story, I feel better. For such things could be possible. And I may even escape this situation. Here I am lying on the stretcher of a speeding ambulance. The rain pouring down outside, beating hard on the street. Yes, even the attendant is trying to soothe me.

"husssshhh, calm down. It's nothing. It'll be over soon." didn't he say so, just a while back? My belief in the story is only strengthened by minute. Should I try to move my limbs for once? I try to look out of the window - what was the word that described the window? yes- "twinkling". Now I know why that exact expression was used. Do I feel dizzy? I am not quite sure, for I have never felt so in my life before. Oh, the ambulance is slowing down. As I look out, I fail to recollect what to expect. What are they going to do now? Going to rush me to the operation theatre? Am I getting that void feeling? Just as was described in the story? Or is there really something more to it? Hoping for the story that I have lived so far, to be true, I wait for the alarm to go off!

And precisely at that instant, one dreadful fact strikes me hard. All the hopes die. I know it : such stories cannot be true. Not that one corner of my mind was skeptical about strange stories becoming true, yet I could not give up hope. Besides, there was nothing else for me to believe in. I know it's all over.

The alarm cannot go off.

For I remember that I have forgotten to set it before sleep got better of me yesterday night!

(3)

It's really strange that I find myself thinking about this strange story. In such terrible situations? Can anyone imagine thinking about writing in an ambulance? But I do. As they rush me to the hospital, I think furiously. Thoughts crowd over my imaginary skies. I have written so many strange stories, involving strange incidences, why not make the most out of the situation I am living this very second? And I do precisely that thing. I complete it in my thoughts and decide to pen it down the first thing after the surgery that surely is going to take place once we reach the hospital...

Friday, May 06, 2005

कोरा कागज था यह मन मेरा...लिख दिया नाम उसपे...

...13!

Yes. That's precisely the number. I do not believe in any science (or ad-hoc methods) that co-relate a number with personality. Still it is interesting to see the number coming back, again and again. Here are some of the facts involving 13 and me :

I was born on Friday, the thirteenth.

In my first adventure in this competitive world, I grabbed rank 13 in the divisional board, in the SSC examination.

My telephone number has two 13's in it : 4+3+6 = 13 and 4+9=13, make up my "43649".

My room number has a thirteen attached to it : T 76!

Today I found my blog ranked at number "283" amongst the fellow indian bloggers.

...

...

I guess, in the end there will be thirteen such facts before the spell breaks!

The Artiste

They say path to the heart of a man is through his stomach. And I am a strong believer in this saying.

I have been staying in hostels of one kind or the other for almost 7 years now. And the first question people ask, after knowing this, is, "where do you have your food?". "In the mess, of course!" I answer.

The mess. It has been an integral part of me. In every sense of the word. I have seen all the "seasons" of various messes. The new academic year, with the rains bringing in new delicacies for the boarders. The menu matures as the climate progresses towards the winter, and it's the season of blossom, as then the markets are overflowing with fresh green vegetables. The blossom is not forever though, and we soon have to taste the dryness of summer. Nevermind, the mess takes enough care to provide enough water and juices cooled to correct temperatures.

The mess food is life. The days are remembered by the food we eat. The dosa reminds us of a peaceful Sunday morning - ah, who can forget the delicious fish fry of a Tuesday evening? And the food is not only remembered for the very taste of it, but for the wonderful time one has had at the institute. These two things are not separable.

All this comes as the result of a very mature process, developed over the years, called "cooking". And perhaps we tend to forget, that it's not only a process, but an art in itself. The hands that cut the vegetables, fry the dal, mix the curry with the right ingredients, and what not, move gracefully at a rhythm. The concentration and energy that goes in cooking food for such a large hungry crowd must be enormous. Every dosa made has taken a certain energy out of the cook, and maybe, a lot of emotion. I doubt if a machine-made dosa would taste even half-as better! The cook is a painter, a composer, a writer, a true artist. Spices, veggies, the meat, merely being the colours- or the words at his disposal. And what of it, if sometimes the artist jumbles them a bit too much, he knows how to improve upon it. The artist knows what the audience is like - and comes back very strongly. And he believes that his audience will surely wait for him!

Last week one of the cooks in the C mess passed away. A truly unfortunate event. The messes paid their respect by closing the kitchen for one day. The mess lost one of its artists. I never have really gone inside the mess kitchen to see what really happens there, and unfortunately never have thought so deeply about the cook who feeds me everyday. But I know, now the kitchen will be filled with a silent note amongst the hissess and sschhharrrs in the frying pans. The studio will always miss two of the dexterous hands. Forever.

I like the spicy rasam they make everyday. The spice always brings drops to my nostrils and eyes. I am so addicted to it. But today, I am not sure if the drops were entirely due to the spice in the rasam. I am not sure.

--
As it so happened, one of my friends suggested I write about the cook who unfortunately expired last week. Sincerely, I had never really thought so much about the mess, the food or the cook for that matter. I have taken for granted that the Mess is always there for me. Perhaps I should think about it again, as I have to leave the institute in less than two months.

I have always wondered if the writers really live the life they describe in their writings. Or is it only the power of imagination that allows them to weave the web including some real threads with many imaginary ones. In simple words, is writing only the matter of "preaching without practicing?" I am not sure. As I am not quite sure if I really shed those drops for the cook. No. I am not sure.

I guess I'll write more about writing soon.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

The Blog

This is a self referential blog about itself.

The Hindu, dated May 1 2005, published an article "The essence of blogging "which muses upon the new rage that's called blogging.

Here is an excerpt :
"Blogger doesn't have a waiting audience and isn't paid to write. Blogger writes because she discovered something that she's simply bursting to share. Blogger is under no pressure to write about something else tomorrow, or to write at all. Blogger writes simply because she feels like it. Reader feedback is immediate. There's no waiting for the issue to go to press and feedback arriving in the mail. This absence of pressure allows Blogger to explore both her writing skills and technical mastery."

You could read the complete article here.

Chicken and...

I wonder why a "chicken and egg" problem is called so,

and not "egg and chicken problem"!!!

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

वाटतं

तुला मी पूर्णपणे कधी समजेन का?
मला नाही वाटत
मी मला २४ वर्षांपासून पाहत आलो आहे.
आणि मला नाही वाटत
मी स्वत:ला पूर्णपणे समजू शकलो आहे.
पण मला नाही वाटत
सगळ्या गोष्टी पूर्णपणे समजायलाच हव्यात
मला नाही वाटत
वाटा सगळ्या स्वच्छ दिसाव्यात
कधीकधी वाटतं
काही गोष्टी अंधुकच छान दिसतात
वाटतं
मीमांसा न करण्यातच अधिक जाणणं आहे
कधीकधी
काही गोष्टी अव्यक्तच ठेवण्यात गंमत आहे
मला नाही वाटत...
तुला मी पूर्णपणे कधी समजेन
आणि अर्थातच
मीही तुला पूर्णत: समजू शकेन
पण कदाचित
याच एका आशेवर - रोज निराळे रंग शोधताना
आणि
रोज निराळे सूर ऐकताना- वाटतं
वाटतं
याहून मोठं भाग्य ते काय असावं
सदैव मी
तुझ्याच विचारांत असताना!

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

३ मे १९०५

आता याच जगाचं उदाहरण घ्या!

या जगात घटना आणि त्याची कारणं यांची कधीकधी अदलाबदल होतेय असं जाणवेल - आणि कदाचित तसं जाणवणार होतंच याचा उलगडा जाणीव झाल्यावर होईल!

या जगात भूत आणि भविष्यकाळ एकमेकांवर अवलंबून आहेत.

(१)

रम्य नदिकिनारी, एका टुमदार बंगलीच्या गच्चीत एक व्यक्ती कठड्याला रेलून उभी आहे. नदिच्या प्रवाहाकडे खिन्नपणे पाहते आहे. कालप्रवाह या नदिच्या संथ पण एकाच दिशेने वाहणाऱ्या प्रवाहासारखा असता तर? यात कारण-परीणामांचे या जगातल्यासारखे भोवरे सापडले नसते. काहिही कारण नसताना जगाने त्या व्यक्तीकडे आज पाठ फिरवलेली आहे. त्याला आता कोणीही विचारत नाही - भेटायला येत नाही. इतकी सगळी वर्षे सगळ्यांमध्ये मिळून मिसळून राहणारी ही व्यक्ती - अहो जगन्मित्रच! काय झालं असावं? (किंवा काय होणार असावं?)

या क्षणापासून फक्त सात दिवसांत त्या व्यक्तीची वागणूक पार बदलून जाते - वेडसर झाक येते त्याच्या बोलण्यात - चीडचीड, राग - अजागळ कपडे - कोणीही मग त्याच्या वाटेला जात नाही.

यात भविष्य कुठलं आणि भूतकाळ कुठला?
कारण काय आणि परीणाम?

(२)
या दुसऱ्या एका गावात शस्त्रास्त्रांवर आता बंदी घालण्यात आली आहे- नुकतीच. विळे कोयतेसुद्धा परवानगीशिवाय विकता/विकत घेता येत नाहित. गावात येणाऱ्या-जाणाऱ्यांची ठिकठिकाणी झडती घेतली जाते आहे. पोलीसभरती दुपटीने वाढवण्यात आली आहे. काहितरी घडणार याची ही नांदी असावी का?

महिन्याभरातच त्या गावात अराजक माजतं. गुंडागर्दीला सुमार उरत नाही. जाळपोळ, लुटालूट - पार हद्द होते. जडजवाहिर- बाजारपेठा- सगळीकडे फक्त विनाश.

महिन्याभरापूर्वीचे 'नवे' शस्त्रास्त्रविरोधी कायदे-नियम हा या गुन्हेगारीवरचा उपाय होता? की त्याचं कारण?

(३)
एका विस्तीर्ण उद्यानात एक तरुणी हिरवळीवर बसली आहे. तशी ती दर रविवारी या उद्यानात येते; पण आजचा रविवार वेगळा आहे. गर्द लाल गुलाब, सुगंधी निशिगंध, धुंद कुंद - सगळं काही ती अचानक विसरते. क्षणात लाजेनं चूर चूर होऊन जाते. अत्यानंदानं स्वत:भोवती गिरकी घेते - अचानक!

थोड्याच दिवसांनंतर तिला तो राजबिंडा तरूण भेटतो.

या दोन घटना एकमेकांवर अवलंबून आहेत का?

(४)
या जगात वैद्नानिक अगदी बिचारे आहेत. त्यांची भाकितं ही फक्त दुजोरा ठरतात, जे सापडणार आहे याची. जुगारी माणसांसारखी ही शास्त्रद्न्य जमातदेखील हा शोधांचा जुगार अव्याहतपणे खेळत असते. या विचित्र जगात विद्न्यानाच्या मार्गाने सरळ जाणारा शास्त्रद्न्य वेडा ठरतो . ( की या सरळ जगात शास्त्रद्न्यच वाकड्या वाटेने जात असतो?) या 'विना'कारण जगात काहिही सांगता येत नाही!

(५)
या जगात कलाकार खरे राजे आहेत त्यांच्या जीवनाचे. त्यांच्या चित्रांतून, संगीतातून, लेखनातून सदैव कल्पनातीत गोष्टी पुढे येत असतात - आणि या जगात कल्पनातीत हेच वास्तव असल्यामुळे त्या या जगाशी एकरुप होऊन जातात.

--
या जगातले लोक एक गोष्ट शिकले आहेत- ती म्हणजे हा-आत्ताचा क्षण पुरेपूर जगायचा. जर भूतकाळाचा भविष्यावर जर काही परीणाम होणार असेल, आणि जर ते निश्चितच नसेल, तर भूतकाळात जगून काय फायदा? आणि जर वर्तमानाचं भविष्यावर फारसं नियंत्रण नसेल, तर भविष्यासाठी कशाला जगायचं? या जगात प्रत्येक क्षण हे एक बेट आहे. त्या बेटापुरतंच त्याचं महत्त्व आणि अस्तित्वसुद्धा.

या जगात उच्चारलेला प्रत्येक शब्द त्या क्षणापुरता आहे. प्रत्येक श्वास, फक्त त्या श्वासापुरता. प्रत्येक कटाक्ष त्या नजरेतल्या भावनांपुरता, त्याला न भूतकाळ आहे किंवा भविष्यकाळ.

प्रत्येक सूर फक्त त्या सूरापुरता...

प्रत्येक स्पर्श फक्त त्या स्पर्शापुरता...

प्रत्येक क्षण फक्त त्या क्षणापुरता...

---
उपसंहार :
Allan Lightman च्या Einstein's Dreams मधल्या ३ मे १९०५ च्या स्वप्नाचा हा अनुवाद आहे. अनेक दिवसांपासून मी एखाद्या स्वप्नाचे भाषांतर करावं असा विचार करत होतो. आज सकाळी सहज पुस्तक चाळता-चाळता या "स्वप्नावर नजर" पडली. आणि लिहून टाकलं. त्यानंतर शीर्षक देण्यासाठी पुन्हा पहिले पान पाहिले तर "३ मे १९०५". काही गोष्टींचे स्पष्टिकरण देता येत नाही. आजची तारीख आहे ३ मे २००५! आणि योगायोग पहा - कारण आणि परीणाम यांची गफलत झालेल्या काळाचं हे स्वप्न आहे.

प्रत्येक गोष्टीला कारण नसतं हेच खरं!
"I do not consider either writing or reading novels one of the necessities of life. Millions of people in China, at least, exist intelligently and happily without reading themand certainly without writing them, and I have the greatest admiration and respect for such persons and even at times the greatest of envy.

For I must confess that I happen to be a somewhat peculiar person, not at all to be taken as typical of human beings in general, and certainly not desirable as an average, because the truth is I cannot be happy without writing novels, quite irrespective of whether they are read or not. I am , I regret to say, one of those unfortunate creatures who cannot function completely unless he is writing, has written or is about to write, a novel...

Never, if you can possibly help it, write a novel. It makes one obnoxious to one's family and to one's friends. One sits about for many weeks, months, even years, in the worst case in a state of stupefaction. Even when from sheer exasperation and exhaustion one lays down one's pen, the wicked work goes on in one's brain. The people there will go on living and talking and thinking until one longs, like Alice in Wonderland, to cry out, "You are only a pack of cards after all!" and so brush them away and wake from the dream to find only leaves gently falling upon one's face; wake again to real life and people.

For the man or woman possessed by these dream people can never be very happy person. He lives a thousand lives besides his own, suffers a thousand agonies as really as though they were what is called actual, and he dies again and again. He is doomed to be possessed by spirits until he cannot tell what is himself, what are his real soul and mind. He is exhausted bodiliy and spiritually by creatures alive and working through his being, using one of his one body, his one mind, to express their separate selves, so that his one poor frame must be the means of all those living energies. It is no wonder that much of his time he sits bemused, silent and spent.

If you would be yourself, therefore, free and unpossessed, never begin to be a novelist."

-- Pearl S Buck

Sunday, May 01, 2005

It's only books and books that all I have...

I was planning to make a list of books read in this semester. Here it goes :

  1. Of Human Bondage : A W Somerset Maugham classic. Glimpses of W S M's own life, a little bit of autobiographical tale of a young and the multicoloured threads of bonds between him and people in his life.
  2. Cakes and Ale : Another W S M classic. A water-coloured portrait of Rosie, W S M's favourite character. Moving. Really.
  3. The Moon and Sixpence : Landscapes of London, Paris, Marseilles and Tahiti, involving a touching story of Charles Strickland (based on the painter Paul Gauguin). This book confirmed W S M as my favourite author.
  4. Peony : Pearl S Buck. A love story. Of devotion and parting. As fresh as the flowers of Peony.
  5. The Hidden Flower: Another Pearl S Buck gem! The love and sorrow of an American-Japnese couple. Nobody can write better love stories than Pearl S Buck I am convinced.
  6. The Fountainhead : Ayn Rand. ( ) {I utterly fail to think of words to describe this one}
  7. The Da Vinci Code : Dan Brown. The bestseller. Very well written, fast paced and a true page turner.
  8. My Son's Father : Dom Moraes. I had read an article in the Hindu after this Indian poet's demise. This is the first part of his auto-biographical writings.
  9. Gone Away : Dom Moraes. The second part. The author returns to India from England, and is in search of adventure. The most memorable excerpts are about his interviewing Nehru, and his journey in the mountains of Himalaya.
  10. Einstein's Dreams : Allan Lightman. Einstein dreams about the nature of time, and the result is most intriguing. A must read, if you haven't read it yet!
  11. The Happy Prince and other stories : Oscar Wilde classic. Fairy tales.
  12. October the First is too late : Fred Hoyle. I have already written at length about this one.
  13. प्रश्न आणि प्रश्न : अनिल अवचट.
  14. दास डोंगरी राहतो : गो. नी. दांडेकर. समर्थ रामदासांची कहाणी, गोनीदांच्या रसाळ भाषेत.

I guess this list will keep growing as the time unfolds!

"Referring to myself"

"Part of human nature is to be introspective, to probe. Part of our "verbal behaviour" deliberately, often palyfully explores the boundaries between conceptual levels of systems. All of this has its root in the struggle to survive, in the fact that our brains have become so flexible that much of their time is spent in dealing with their own activities, consciously or unconsciously. It is simply a consequence of representational power - as Kurt Godel showed - that systems of increasing complexity become increasingly self-referential" - Douglas R Hofstadter, in "Metamagical Themas"

Maybe, I am providing more evidence to this fact, by writing more and more that concerns myself!

गुलमोहर

IISc तले सगळे गुलमोहर अगदी ठरवून एकाच वेळी मोहरले आहेत. डोळ्याचं पारणं फेडणाऱ्या लाल रंगाच्या या काही छटा :






खरं तर या झाडाला 'गुल'मोहर का म्हणतात हे एक कोडेच आहे. याला 'फुल'मोहर-"full"मोहर म्हणणं संयुक्तिक ठरेल!