Mr. Big - To Be With You

Whatever might be the case, I know it's neither the time nor the place... but just remembered an old number.... and can't help but sing aloud....

I'm the one who wants to be with you
Deep inside I hope you'll feel it too
Waited on a line of greens and blues
Just to be the next to be with you



"A mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."

Yet love it is that keeps one going...

The Right thing to do.....

You know... if you are any bit the righteous (!!) guy... then you would have definitely come across this phrase many a times in life... if you are the kinda guy who specialises in giving advices to people then you are all the more guilty of using this phrase... its like a guiding beacon... "The Right thing to do..."

It's like smoking, comes with a warning below.... "The roads gonna be monstrously tough" but you anyways end up smoking. If it is the right thing to do then why do the roads have to be tough, why hasnt some noble soul walked up that road and done something to it?
It's the same everywhere, any story and you will have the Hero saying, "I know the roads gonna be tough, but I have to do it, coz its the right thing to do" Yeah right, as if the writers would have it any other way or for that matter the money making brains behind the whole deal. I can almost see the bioscope zooming towards DDLJ, the mother sending her daughter along with the Hero, the son-in-law she knows that would keep her daughter happy. And for that happiness she is willing to risk everything, the ire of her husband, and tells the kids to run away; and thus enters SRK with his soapy lines about the right road and the wrong road and all that jazz. About true happiness (this I shall write more about soon, have been wanting to)...

Anyways, I have begun to hate the movies... you know whatever you say, howmuchever you might mean it, its just a dialog that has already featured in some god forsaken movie. The emotions, the truth with which one might have said it and meant it is just lost because some silly protagonist has already said it somewhere... and what does one get in return... "yeh tho bus dialog maarne waali baat hai" and you wake up to the harsh reality that all that you just said was blown away like dust within moments... aaah, am again wandering away..

The right thing to do... I am supposed to be doing the right thing right now. But what is the right thing? Who decides the right thing? Can't be the people around you. The more you think about it, the more you realise that it must be that inner voice that gives you these nagging thoughts, those directions at the wrong times although on many other occasions at the right time to do something. What's it that they call it, your "Conscience" !!!
Hate it too, although your conscience is the one thing that's closest to you more than anyone or anything else. But then again, how exactly does one differentiate from the different things that the inner voice tells you to do. Coz after all its you who's doing the talking through your conscience. So what do you do when what's right as per you, but at the same time is the right thing to do. Which then is the one to be followed. Many a times there is no reason to thought, however many a times there isn't much thought given to reason.

So many questions arise when one tries to listen to their conscience, so many things that one is supposed to take care of... What does my conscience say? Is it fair? Could it hurt anyone - including me? How would I feel if somebody did it to me? Deep down how do I feel about it? How am I gonna feel about myself later if I do it?
Answering these questions in itself are so tough, sometimes you don't want to answer any of them, coz the truth might hurt you or someone else, you just don't want to face the facts, denial - to simply put it.

What does one do at such circumstances? What is the mind supposed to do? What is the heart supposed to do? How is the right thing to be done?

After all.... You're my Wonderwall

Singing aloud.... the silly heart keeps on singing....to anyone who might wanna hear it... but... there's no one listening... its just you...

B'Coz Maybe...
You'r gonna be the one that saves me...
And After all..
You're my Wonderwall...

I said maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You're my wonderwall
You're my wonderwall
You're my wonderwall

Height of encroachment

You gotta see this....




And then u have people crying about how people are encroaching.... may be someone should suggest sending the "Mr. Mow down illegal buildings" to bangkok... of course in now way am I suggesting that what he did was bad... but looking at the conditions here, I think they need him badly ;-)

In the Jungle... the mighty jungle....

A song that I had always associated with the series "Friends"..... an amazing sing-along.... can almost see Joey taking the high tone... :)

Not sure from which movie this is...but my guess would be Madagascar.... its nice... nothing too great to write about... however at the same time not something you should miss out on.... its like one of those things that you wouldnt keep going back to but would still like to have it with you....

A lifetime's story itself in it... Well here you go... hope you enjoy it...

Thiruda Thiruda - Konjum Nilavu

Here's a song from the movie Thiruda Thiruda (Tamil), dubbed in Hindi as Chor Chor (Duuuh!!)... and as per Wikipedia.. in English Thief Thief... (Aaaarrrggghhhh)

The film revolves around two thieves, Kadir and Azhagu (Anand and Prashanth), and their friend Rajathi (Heera Rajgopal) who're on the run from police who believe they're behind a huge robbery. While the three characters are on the run, chased by the police, they come across a mysterious woman, and their quest for Rs. 1000 crores - stolen money on its way into the hands of a ruthless gangster - begins. During their journey, they face many trials, and encounter many characters, however, ulltimately their success depends on trust, friendship and love.

Anyways, this is the song called "Chandralekha" or also known as "Konjum Nilavu"

Hope you'll enjoy it.... I know I Did :)

Roads Blocked due to low rainfall....

Huh??

Is that the first reaction to the title... well despair not comrades... its my sick attempt (again!) at humour...

The Gods have been very stingy with their downpour of scores... was expecting a storm but instead got a draught.... :(

Anyways.... I shall save the slow drubbing death that I am giving you all reading through this.... My Gmat sucked.. if I could stress any better.... it sucked so bad... oh well..I'll let that train of thought pass on...

Thus, the verdicts out... All the roads towards ISB have been blocked until further notice... and to be honest, I have no idea whether there ever would be a notice saying otherwise... was so close...but ended up being so far :(

More on the Bajaj....

During my school days, there was this joke that used to the rounds... just came back to my mind... so thought of noting it down lest I remember it again after another decade... ;-)

I might be mixing it up a bit as I am not too sure of the storyline.... its been long but if my memory serves me right... here goes...

There were 4 two wheelers parked at a rail bogie (?)... A Kinetic Honda, Hero Honda, LML Vespa and A Bajaj Chetak. Due to some riot people were vandalising all things that they could see...
One Guy sees these vehicles parked and begins breaking the glasses and starts crunching metal one by one starting with the Kinetic...moving on the Hero Honda then to the LML Vespa... and finally comes to the Bajaj.
Due to some reason, he ponders for a moment looking at the Bajaj, sighs and leaves without touching it....
Any Ideas why??
.
.
.
Please don't come up with sad liners as if he was attached to Bajaj, or that the scooter was his or something lame enough like that....
.
.
This one is lamer than all that... its supposed to be a PJ remember?

Coz the stepney of the scooter read.... "You Just Can't Beat a Bajaj"
Ha ha ha ha

P.S Errors and omissions exempted. Different variants of the joke would most prob be available from different mouths

Hamara Bajaj...

Being a staunch supporter of Bajaj (Had a trusted Bajaj scooter that was gifted to me by my dear late grandfather.... here's to reminiscing the Hamara Bajaj campaign....



Buland Bharat ki.. Buland Tasveer... Hamara Bajaj... Hamara Bajaj

Respect your National Anthem....

Haven't seen this one on TV or in a theatre (of course it's been ages since I have been to one...but that aside)... gave the goosepimples to me... but well anything patriotic does tht to me....

Trust me this is worth a watch.... The old man & the kids.... we need to stand up... stand up not to someone else... but to ones own self... coz that's where we fail to stand... to stand up to ourselves...

Where the Hell is Matt???

Where the Hell is Matt... a very nice video... you ought to see this one... tis abt this guy matt who travels around the world, from the most hideous of locations to the most exotic of locations and records himself doing....well... this... just go ahead and watch it... am suer u will not regret it....



Have been searching for this video for quiet sometime... was first introduced to this by my friend Mobz.... another crazy guy... but well... U liked it dint u... wud love to be a part of it... ;-)

For more videos or information about Matt you can visit.. WhereTheHellIsMatt

Confucius

.....Confucius is thy middle name.....


And I say this to no one else but me !!!

And please don't misunderstand me... I don't say this under the misconception of being nowhere close to a philosopher.... but simply because...

I seem to prove the saying... "If you cant convince them...confuse them"

As stupid as I could be... !!!!

Innit Funny mate????

Found it to be pretty funny... dunno how many of u might get it.... hate the fake accent that he attempts.... in fact started getting irritated with his voice...but hell it sure is a good laugh... atleast the closure brought me to splits.... :)

My Best Friends Wedding....

Saw the movie (again)... a movie that I have always liked...hmmm... I wonder why...
Julia Roberts looks as ravishing as ever... and who can miss that smile of hers... can only think of one person that kinda emulates her...

Its funny the way things are... sometimes I wonder to whom is it that I relate more with... but well at the end of the day... (or the movie per se) it was but a reminder of sorts... :)

To My Friends....

This is for my friends who are going through a rough patch right now and unfortunately I am not there with them to help sort out things... this is for all friends here, there and everywhere... for all those who understand what friendship is...



Hang on guys... "one for all and all for one"

Another all time favourite.... Guna

This is another all time favourite of mine... The song "Kanmani Anbodu" from the movie "Guna"

They say that music knows no language... and I agree... music is beyond any language...
however in this one... the language... the lyrics is music to the ears in its own... one while listening to music enjoys it even though the meaning might not be clear... but when one understands what the song means.. whats being conveyed... when the two are coupled together... its a whole new dimension... one begins to understand the devotion... the essence of the song... the music...



As Always I present the lyrics as well for those who are interested... and send me a comment or something if you are interested in knowing the meaning or essence of the song... atleast I will try to explain my interpretation of it from however much I know the language....

kanmani anboadu kaadhalan naan ezhudhum kadidhamae
ponmani un veettil soukyamaa naan ingu soukyamae
unnai ennip paarkkaiyil kavidhai sottudhu
adhai ezhudha ninaikkaiyil varththai muttudhu

(kanmani)

undaana kaayam yaavum thannaalae aarip poagum
maayam enna ponmaanae ponmaanae
enna kaayam aana poadhum en maeni thaangik kollum
undhan maeni thaangaadhu sendhaenae
endhan kaadhal ennavenru sollaamal aenga aenga azhugai vandhadhu
endhan soagam unnaith thaakkum enrennumboadhu vandha azhugai ninradhu
manidhar unarndhu kolla idhu manidhak kaadhalalla
adhaiyum thaandip punidhamaanadhu

abiraamiyae thaalaattum saamiyae naandhaanae theriyumaa
sivagaamiyae sivanil neeyum paadhiyae adhuvum unakku puriyumaa
suba laali laali laali laali
abiraami laali laali laali

The music is composed by Maestro Illayaraja sung by the versatile KamalHaasan and S. Janaki

An All time favourite... Duet

This is an all time favourite of mine.... beautiful lyrics... really beautiful... loved it when I was and well even now... a very beautiful song..... really glad to have found it now... am searching for the hindi version for a a good friend... enjoy it in Tamil (original version) for now...



And the lyrics for those who are interested.... :)

En kadhale En kadhale,
Ennai enna seyyap pohiraai?
Naan ooviyan endru therindum nee,
Yen? Kannirandai ketkiraai?

Siluvaigal Sirahuhal,
Rendin enna tharap pohiraai?
Killuvathaikk killivittu,
Yen? thalli nindru paarkiraai?

Kadhale nee poo erindhaal
Endha malayum konjam kulayum,
Kadhale nee kal erindhaal
Endha kadalum konjam kalangum
Ini meelvadhaa illai veelvadhaa?
Uyir waalwadhaa illai powadhaa?
Amuthenpathaa wisham enbadhaa?
Illai amudha-wishamenbadhaa?

Kadhale un kaaladiyil
Naan wilundhu wilundhu tholudhen
Kangalai nee moodikkondaai
Naan kulungi kulungi aludhen
Idhu maatram�a thadumaatram�aa?
En nejile,pani moottama�a?
Nee tholiyaa? Illai edhiriyaa?
Endru thinamum poraattam�aaa?

En kadhale En kadhale,
Ennai enna seyyap pohiraai?
Naan ooviyan endru therindum nee,
En Kannirandai ketkiraai?

The music director is A.R.Rahman, the movie is "Duet"... don't know the name of the hindi version... maybe its the same... and the song in Tamil is sung by SPB

...Saawan Beeto Jaye Peharwa....

A Beautiful song.... touching.... nothing much to write home about... its pure music at its best... beautiful lyrics...



Here are the lyrics to the song:

Saawan Beeto Jaye Peharwa
Mann Mera Ghabraye
Aeso Gaye Pardes Piya Tum
Cheyn Humein Nahin Aye

Mora Saiyaan Moh Sey Bolay Na
Mein Laakh Jatan Kar Haari

Tu Jo Nahin to Aisay Piya hum
Jaisay Soona Aanganaa
Nain Tehaari Raah Neeharey
Nainnan Ko Tarsao Na

Pyar Tumhain Kitna Kartay Hain
Tum Yeh Samajh Nahin Pao gay
Jab Hum Na Hongay to Peharwa
Bolo Kya Tab Aao gay

Mora Saiyaan moh Sey Bolay Na
Laakh Jatan Kar Haar Rahi

Spin

Winner of 35 film festival awards worldwide - Brilliantly shot!

College Lecture Prank

.
Wonder how it would be if it happened somewhere here.... but well...its weirdly nice..

Road Trip....

Now this is what I would call a road trip... an amazing ride (no pun intended ;-) ) through the high seas, the winding roads, the setting sun, the rising winds... aaah what I wouldnt do to be there... of course the bike just motivates me that much more... :)



One Day... maybe not now... but one day...

No Longer Klueless....

It certainly is a satisfying moment when after racking your brains, one successfully completes the mind numbing experience of the n number of screens just to see at the end...

Won't you agree that 'Klueless' is a cacograph? (Type
it on MS Word to find out if you don't believe me). So now you have found
who that cacographer is!

Team KLUELESS2 of course!

And who cracked all these clues till now?. Now we know
who the real Holmes is

YOU of course!

Congratulations Holmes! You have found the solution to the case again.

Just send us your details, we are more than eager to
receive your comments. Please send us an email with a message containing "caprio waters rubik".

Congratulations to all the people who have cracked it to this level. And remember you are among 0.1% of the people who cracked Klueless2.

Klueless, One of the competitions thats part of The management festival of IIM Indore, IRIS.
I had completed the first edition of Klueless last year... had come to know of it really late... (Klueless2 had already been completed by people then...atleast thts wat I came to understand ) or rather it caught my interest kinda later on.... but was hooked on to it the moment I realized what it was... it was an enjoyable experience...

Went on to start Klueless2, got my boss hooked on to it as well... but then work got to me... (and to be honest I was also stumped with a particular level) which only helped in not continuing it further....

Picked it up again yesterday... and its been amazing.... have completed the first edition all over again and also finished the second edition.... pretty good feeling

Am now eagerly looking forward to being klueless all over again... their festival is about to start... and this time I hope to start well in time so that I can aim at the moolah that they would be offering... not that I might stand any chance of getting it... but hey... wats life without a few dreams... some shatter.... but hopefully some will come true as well :-)

A Guitar rendition

This is a rendition that I found on you tube....



What do you think?

Forrest.... Forrest Gump

The day finally arrived. Forrest Gump dies and goes to Heaven. He is at the Pearly Gates, met by St. Peter himself. However, the gates are closed, and Forrest approaches the gatekeeper.

St. Peter said, “Well, Forrest, it is certainly good to see you. We have heard a lot about you I must tell you, though, that the place is filling up fast, and we have been administering an entrance examination for everyone. The test is short, but you have to pass it before you can get into Heaven.”

Forrest responds, “It sure is good to be here, St. Peter, sir. But nobody ever told me about any entrance exam. I sure hope that the test ain’t too hard. Life was a big enough test as it was.”

St. Peter continued, “Yes, I know, Forrest, but the test is only three questions.

First: What two days of the week begin with the letter T?

Second: How many seconds are there in a year?

Third: What is God’s first name?”

Forrest leaves to think the questions over. He returns the next day and

sees St. Peter, who waves him up, and says, “Now that you have had a chance to think the questions over, tell me your answers”

Forrest replied, “Well, the first one — which two days in the week begins

with the letter “T”? Shucks, that one is easy. That would be Today and Tomorrow.”

The Saint’s eyes opened wide and he exclaimed, “Forrest, that is not what I was thinking, but you do have a point, and I guess I did not specify, so I will give you credit for that answer. How about the next one?” asked St. Peter.

“How many seconds in a year? Now that one is harder,” replied Forrest,but I thunk and thunk about that, and I guess the only answer can be twelve.”

Astounded, St. Peter said, “Twelve? Twelve? Forrest, how in Heaven’s name could you come up with twelve seconds in a year?”

Forrest replied, “Shucks, there’s got to be twelve: January 2nd, February 2nd, March 2nd… “

“Hold it,” interrupts St. Peter. “I see where you are going with this, and I see your point, though that was not quite what I had in mind….but I will have to give you credit for that one, too. Let us go on with the third and final question. Can you tell me God’s first name”?

“Sure,” Forrest replied, “it’s Andy.”

“Andy?” exclaimed an exasperated and frustrated St Peter.

“Ok, I can understand how you came up with your answers to my first two questions, but just how in the world did you come up with the name Andy as the first name of God?”

“Shucks, that was the easiest one of all,” Forrest replied. “I learnt it from the song,

“ANDY WALKS WITH ME, ANDY TALKS WITH ME, ANDY TELLS ME I AM HIS OWN.”

St. Peter opened the Pearly Gates, and said: “Run Forrest, run.”

Give me a sense of humor, Lord.
Give me the ability to understand a clean joke,
To get some humor out of life,
And to pass it on to other folks.

A Poem....

This was something that was read out to me by a good friend... Subranil Majumdar whom we fondly call...Subro dada; at the insistence of another good friend Andrea a few months back... so if you can... you too should get it read out to you by a bengali friend with the whole accent added to it... trust me... it sounds a lot funnier than wat it seems when you try to read it... even if u fake the accent ;)

I am lucky enough to run into it again... go ahead and enjoy

Supposedly by a Bengali School Teacher… (So you know why i insist on having it read out...)

Through the jongole I am went
On shooting Tiger I am bent

Boshtaard Tiger has eaten wife
No doubt I will avenge poor darling’s life

Too much quiet, snakes and leeches
But I not fear these sons of beeches

Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start
But noise is coming from damn fool’s heart

Taking care not to be fright
I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sight

Should Tiger come I will shoot and fall him down
Then like hero return to native town

Then through trees I am espying one cave
I am telling self - “Bannerjee be brave”

I am now proceeding with too much care
From far I smell this Tiger’s lair

My leg shaking, sweat coming, I start pray
I think I will shoot Tiger some other day

Turning round I am going to flee
But Tiger giving bloody roar spotting Bengalee

He bounding from cave like footballer Pele
I run shouting “Kali Ma tumi kothay gele “

Through the jongole I am running
With Tiger on my tail closer looming

I am a telling that never in life
I will take risk again for my damn fool wife !!!!!

Animator vs. Animation 2

And Here comes the sequel... be sure to watch this too :)

AtomFilms.com: Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | Comedy Central

Director: Alan Becker | United States

The badass stick figure is back… and this time it's personal. In this episode, victim becomes victimizer as he breaks out of Flash and takes on mighty opponents like Firefox, the AOL IM guy and the Photoshop* icon.

Animator Vs. Animation

AtomFilms.com: Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | Comedy Central

Director: Alan Becker | United States

A simple stick figure created in Flash gets sick and tired of being tortured, so he fights back. Check out this John Woo-style fight scene that takes place entirely within a Flash program (which gets trashed in brilliant fashion).

And be sure to watch Animator vs. Animation 2, the Webby-winning sequel!

Aye Mere Pyare Watan.....

Somthing that i found on the internet, rather the link was mailed to me....
evoked emotions that i realise is always there inside us indians... probably all countrymen... love towards their motherland... we just show it rarely... not a good thing...
It should be something that we carry around on our sleeves.... bring it to the front at the drop of a hat whenever and wherever required without shying away...

Also loved the small kids singing it... although they were being egged by over zealous family members (probably...!!) but well still was kinda cute... :o)

Calling Life... Calling Life...

I'm borrowing a friends quote from her custom status message... It goes like this...

Life never seems to be the way we want it, but we live it the best way we can. There is no perfect life, but we can make perfect moments...

I have a lot of memories, moments that I am definitely going to cherish for having had them....perfect moments... but I guess I just shouldn't sit around and keep thinking of them (Duuuh! as someone would put it...) I am not helping things this way... not for them and not for me....

So well here I am to just say that for what its worth.... I value those moments more than anything... and for the sake of those moments...for the people who care for me.... for me... I am gonna walk on hopefully creating more such moments... moments that probably someone else would treasure just as I do them... and in the bargain... add on to my moments.... spread the joy eh...

Atleast I am going to make the effort of standing up and walk on...

To all those who are reading this [;-)] ... I am happy for you all.... stay happy... and remember I shall always be around... whenever you need me... just call out....

As someone once said.... "If there are a hundred steps between us, you just take the first step and I will take the remaining 99 to be there for you"

So Life here I come...(again!)

qbrf vg znggre???

ubj znal gvzrf unir v sryg yvxr uhegvat zlfrys.... ohg jung tbbq jbhyq gung qb... whfg zber cnva...vfag gurer rabhtu? vgf abg gur nqqvgvbany cnva gung v nz jbeevrq nobhg...qbag pner zhpu nobhg zlfrys nalzber...

v ungr jung v nz abj....gbqnl... v jnf zhpu orggre.... v yvxrq gur thlf v jnf gjb guerr zbaguf ntb.... ohg vg nyy punatrq.... jvgubhg n jneavat... penfuvat qbja rirelguvat v unq.... ohg jul...

ungr zlfrys...sbe jnug v nz... v jnfag guvf jnl....

What a day....

Two movies during the day.... and 10 straight episodes of 'Friends'....

Boy what a day it has been.... and throw in some bit of brooding....ok... make that a little bit more.... but what the heck was I thinking....

Aah wat the hell....will give it another shot tomorrow... ;-)

If it works out....good for me... else.... well i still have a lot of episodes left :o)

A few lines from a friend....

A good friend... someone who nowadays goes by the phrase...."Love is in the AIR" wrote this...some days ago.... I thought it to be beautiful.... nice...coz it spoke a lot...
made sense to me....dnt knw why... or may be i do... but who the hell cares....
sharing it with u all....

When I looked into ur eyes, the other day, all I cud see was the endless love you had/have for me....
When you held my hand all I felt was my heart triple in speed.
When you held me in you arms I lost all care in the world for the fact I knew i was safe with you.
When I kissed your lips the whole world just disappeared and it just became me and you.
I never knew that some one could feel tht way because of one person, but I guess you succeeded in making me feel like that because,
I WAS LOVED BY YOU AND I M WAITING TO BE LOVED AGAIN !!!!


What do you think? I think she needs to keep writing.... the more she writes the better it gets... :)
I could just relate to it...thts all ;)

And she sang....

And she sang... an Elton John number from the movie the Road to El Dorado....

Some day out of the blue
In a crowded street or a deserted square
I'll turn and I'll see you
As if our love were new
Some day we can start again, some day soon

Here comes the night
Here come the memories
Lost in your arms
Down in the foreign fields
Not so long ago
Seems like eternity
The sweet afternoons
Still capture me

Some day out of the blue
In a crowded street or a deserted square
I'll turn and I'll see you
As if our love were new
Some day we can start again, some day soon

I still believe
I still put faith in us
We had it all and watched it slip away
Where are we now
Not where we want to be
Those hot afternoons
Still follow me

Some day out of the blue
Maybe years from now
Or tomorrow night
I'll turn and I'll see you
As if we always knew
Some day we would live again, some day soon

I still believe
I still put faith in us

I still believe
I still put faith in us

I still believe
I still put faith in us

Here comes the night
Here come the memories
Lost in your arms
Down in the foreign fields
Not so long ago
Seems like eternity
The sweet afternoons
Still capture me

Some day out of the blue
Maybe years from now
Or tomorrow night
I'll turn and I'll see you
As if we always knew
Some day we would live again, some day soon

Some day out of the blue
In a crowded street or a deserted square
I'll turn and I'll see you
As if our love were new
Some day we can start again, some day soon

I still believe
I still put faith in us


And then just went along.... amongst the silence... the silence that has captured n kept me slave for all this while... wonder for how long I shall remain captive... for how long I would be muted....

New Blog....

Started a new blog.... just something to express more... cant do it here... wouldnt want the whole world to read abt the sorrows n joys in life...right? Atleast not for the time being...

sat n wrote down a letter...but aahh.. cant send it...can I?

The joy of being in love eh....heh... the ironies in life.... but its a beautiful life :)

Just some random ramblings about love... ;)

Sweet Memories....

Just going down memory lane.... those were good times.... still look forward to them in someway...but well only time will tell....



This was clicked when we went out with friends.... it was a nice time together....spent at saket's if i remember correctly....miss her... :)


This one was at home....

Sometimes I wonder what I did to go through all this pain.... but then again I stop and wonder what I had done to deserve her... for all the happiness that I had......while it lasted....so well.... time will tell as I said earlier....

Just might post more pictures....

Ha Ha Ha.....Get a load of this... :D

Your Seduction Style: Ideal Lover

You seduce people by tapping into their dreams and desires. And because of this sensitivity, you can be the ideal lover for anyone you seek. You are a shapeshifter - bringing romance, adventure, spirituality to relationships. It all depends on who your with, and what their vision of a perfect relationship is.

What Is Your Seduction Style?

Updates coming....

Well.... I shall soon get down to the updates....

of where i have reached from where i began.... the rise, the fall and the rising again... ;-)

Until then...

Adieu

Send Someone to Love Me

A Beautiful poem that i found.... again just a silly continuation from the previous post :)

Send someone to love me
I need to rest in arms
Keep me safe from harm
In pouring rain
Give me endless summer
Lord I fear the cold
Feel I'm getting old
Before my time
As my soul heals the shame
I will grow through this pain
Lord I'm doing all I can
To be a better man
Go easy on my conscience
'Cause it's not my fault
I know I've been taught
To take the blame
Rest assured my angels
Will catch my tears
Walk me out of here
I'm in pain
As my soul heals the shame
I will grow through this pain
Lord I'm doing all I can
To be a better man
Once you've found that lover
You're homeward bound
Love is all around
Love is all around
I know some have fallen
On stony ground
But Love is all around
Send someone to love me
I need to rest in arms
Keep me safe from harm
In pouring rain
Give me endless summer
Lord I fear the cold
Feel I'm getting old
Before my time
As my soul heals the shame
I will grow through this pain
Lord I'm doin' all I can
To be a better man

About Love....

This is a post that i found on a blog that i found of a student (Chitra) from the Class of 2008 in ISB...

Quote-

The difference between loving someone and being in love with them

Love, in general, is an oft used, oft abused word. I believe it was originally used to describe the bond one shared with family or god. But nowadays its used quite loosely- like "I love Tom Cruise", or " I love that car " ... hence it has become imperative that certain prefixes or suffixes be added to the word in order to convey its exact usage.

Romantic love- which is the most commonly used application of the word and contrary to popular belief , it is where it has a number of meanings. The difference we are referring to is not merely a measure of the depth of one’s feelings - it is on the other hand, a precise definition of what the feeling actually IS .........

When u love some1 u [or at least I] want to make them happy at any cost and keep them that way......... when u love some1 u direct all ur efforts to make their dreams come true.
When u love some1 u don’t care about what ur relationship with the person is, as long as u can love them. Love is pretty unselfish in this form and expects nothing in return...when u love some1 the only pleasure u derive is in giving.

When, on the other hand, u are in love with some1 they become ur ultimate ambition. The feeling in this case must necessarily be mutual- it is an explosive drive that leads to destruction- but sweet destruction. ur actions then serve no purpose but to further that desire , and there is no rationality governing them. The world starts and ends in ur relationship... when u are in love with some1 the "WE" is more imp than the "I". when u are in love with some1 u don’t need to contemplate as to what is good, bad or ugly.......
u are no longer in control of what u give or take... it just happens..

In conclusion- loving some1 is voluntary service- but being in love with some1 is involuntary surrender

- UnQoute

Don't ask me why i post it here... i liked what 's written... kinda made me think..... to which one does mine belong... :)

Ah the silly musings of a guy in love....

Some Answers???

Well here goes some answers to the questions.... not even sure how accurate they are but well writing what i feel is right right now....

Why did i Quit?
Whats the next step?
Where am i and what am i doing ?

It has been on my mind tht my tenure was coming to an end in the company soon.... i had lost the zeal to work there.... having spent 6 years, it was like i knew the in and out of the company, every loophole tht could probably be there, it was ventured by me i guess... but well am sure there wud be a difference of opinion with some people when i go on to say tht there was not a challenge tht existed there.... it was beginning to become more or less of covering one's a** which i was not very keen on.... had for most of my tenure got away with doing things the way i want or getting things done by others the way i want.... without having to resort to the politics tht existed....was happy learning watever i was able to....which in my opinion has been a lot....so much tht i realise how much more there still is to learn...but yeah...things started to change...and well i wasnt comfortable nor happy with the way i was working.... i have always maintained tht the day u lose interest in coming to work....u should quit.... there's no point in continuing with something where u know ur interests dont lay.... in this i believe both professionally and personally :) Moving on... i was pretty sure tht it was just a matter of time before i put in my papers... slowly started planning my next move...considering the various options that i had in front of me.... visiting my sister in the US... moving to another lucrative offer...growth coupled with moolah...tempting as it sounds...dint interest me much (surprising...i knw!!!) and well then there was this thing abt getting back to studies.... i had always said that i wud do my MBA from a good college and not through correspondence...not tht i could afford the time away or due to anything else...but mainly to the fact tht i have missed out on a good educational experience...its always been the same thing...learning things by heart and puking them out on the papers during exam times.... always felt tht there was something missing...where is the part whereu understand something and put it down in ur words.... even if someone does...well it doesnt fetch u the same kind of results...simply bcoz it doesnt match with the textbooks....well it could be my way of looking at things too....prob it's my bad.... anyways am digressing from where i started..so well getting back to studies was another option and finally coming to kerala, taking care of some family matters and taking care of my granny who was at the moment being shuttled from here to there between my uncles....
Now i was to stick around with my job if i was expected to be going to the US.... but tht thought dint make me very happy... i was pretty much sure tht i wanted to quit as soon as possible... tried speaking with various people if there was any chance of getting the Visa while being unemployed or else atleast having an appointment letter for some other company.... but well it dint work out...and my mind steered away from the thought of going to the US... i mean i could do it anytime...whenever i decided to do so.... but at tht moment i felt wat was important was taking care of granny, getting back to studies.....take a sabattical, travel a bit, feel the pinch of the pocket....manage with limited means... learn to cook (dint want granny to cook obviously all the time!!) ....and also at the same time.... take up a place in kerala so that mom could come down and slowly relocate herself with her mom... well so one fine day decided tht it wud be my last day in the company.... and it happened to be Monday, July 9th the day i wrote the post abt my brief disappearance..... ironical... but well it all seemed to work out just fine.... quit in the early part of the day after having a word with my VP (Operations)

And now after being in delhi for the remainder of the month....packed my bags (and my bike by the way) and left for Kerala.... its been just over 4 days since i am here.....and from the time i have been here i have been visiting my uncles, did the last rites' pooja in the name of my granpa who passed away 2 years back, saw granny, laid down on her lap....just for a while...she isnt as strong as she used to be... told her that i would take up a place soon and mom too would join us and she would be able to stay with us.... took off from ther after that and met my other uncle... and from there i again pushed off towards my base (Kottayam)..... and all this i did on my trusted steed with all my relatives wondering what a crazy a** i am to be doing all this on my bike...in the rain....through the bad roads...the roads abt which i had no clue.... but well they should slowly begin to understand me.... hopefully atleast ;)
From there i have now come to visit my cousin in thrissur (by train this time) with whom i shall drive back to kottayam in his car.... visiting them...sitting on the bed and writing all this...for i dont knw wat reason....
Well this has been pretty long.... havent probably answered everything but will soon try n finish up....
Until then its Au Revoir :)

A new begining to what???

Hmmm.... well i left the last post a bit abruptly and wanting for information i guess...

actually i was writing tht post sitting on the train.... yeah yeah.... am just trying to flaunt tht i was able to get online even while on the move....thanks to technology....with the well built laptops and GPRS courtesy Sunil Mittal's Airtel ;-) Of course not to forget lalloo prasad yadav himself...coz without him there prob wouldnt have been a plug point in the train...and without a plug point i wouldnt have been able to remain online for a long time.... :D

coming back....

why did i quit?
Whats the next step?
Where am i and what am i doing ?

A new begining of sorts??

Well Well Well.... almost a month since my last post...but wat a day to write all that...
well to cut to the chase.... i resigned from my work on tht day.... Quit....just like tht...decided tht i had had enough....been 6 years since i was there...went from one level to another....

Decided to follow the heart as always....

A Brief Disappearance???

My last post...25th march 2007??? Not Happy...not happy at all..... this was not what i had intended on doing.... but well....harsh reality....not been updating it one bit.... could give various reasons for the same....was not doing anything abt walking on the road.... was lost in my own dream world where everything was rocking good...and then suddenly thunder n lightning struck ;) most of the things came crashing down...now on the path of slowly regaining a hold on my life all over again...

Well well well....now lets see where do i stand...despite the fact that i havent started doing anything abt treading on the road to ISB....one thing i have been consistent with is keeping myself updated with all the blogs related to ISB....end of the first term in the current batch.....realisations of most of the people abt their experiences.... their expectations before they had joined and the ROI (as they have begun using a lot) from ISB !! Its been a pleasure reading all abt this....a regaling (??) experience... each n every post has been written so well...makes one feel as if you were there seeing it all with your own eyes n experiencing it.... it has helped me in seeing n trying to find an answer to what it is that i really want....
it has also brought up another new found question in my mind....."Am I ready for ISB?" "Is that where i should be?? "
Despite the thought that each and every one of those experiences described in the all the blogs get me to say "yes" the fact that those are the moments that i am looking forward to.... i am forced to sit down and have a re-think.... something similar to probably what Rajat (Mishra) from the current batch went through and finally decided to join IIM,A
He had the support and encouragement of his batchmates,professors n everyone else.... right now i have to do this bit of thinking myself.... not very sure where to turn for help other than my family for their opinion but then how much would they be really be able to help???

Another of life's small little tests.... (mid term probably???)
Until next time....Au Revoir :-)

This is one that i liked a lot.... one on the indian school of business....add the music along with it and it really makes u almost feel like u wanna be there or rather brings back memories of u being there.... a very well prepared video....


God am i looking forward to being there....

Here comes another one from IIT Kanpur...


A very good video made by IIT Kanpur students.

Its been long....

Its been a long time since i have written something here....21 days to the dot... what was the reason for my absence...well thats another post to explain.... in the meanwhile here are some nice videos that i found on youtube... hope u like them...


Yaarana@iitk is a Video which potrays friendship, its made by the Students of Design Programme, IIT Kanpur. After the popularity of their first video Dinbhar, all over the country , Yaarana is another attempt by the IIT Design students to win people's Hearts. The Music, Lyrics, and the Concept are all original. All the creative as well as the technical work involved has been done by the Students themselves. (mail:adil@iitk.ac.in or leisuresoul@gmail.com)

Under the Charminar....

"Fibs," said Mir Moazam Hussain. "That's what everyone of your generation thinks I'm telling, at least when I talk about Hyderabad in the old days. Oh yes, you can't fool me. You all think I'm telling the most outrageous pack of fibs."
The old man settled himself back in his rocking chair and shook his head, half amused, half frustrated: "My grandchildren for instance. I can see the disbelief growing in their eyes as I talk. By the end - though of course they are much too polite to say so - I can see they are thinking that I must be either completely senile or completely mendacious. One of the two. For them the old world of Hyderabad is completely inconceivable: they can't imagine that such a world could exist."
“ But what exactly can't they believe?" I asked.
"Well the whole bang-shoot really: the Nizam and his nobles and their palaces and their zenanas and the entire what-have-you that went with old Hyderabad State. But it’s all true. Every word."
Mir Moazam raised his eyebrows: "The palace I grew up in, for example, had a staff of 927 people, including three doctors. There was even a whole regiment of women from Somalia, all in saris, imported all the way from Africa just to guard the zenana. But tell that to my grandchildren. They've seen how we live today, and they just think that I'm making it up. Especially when I start telling them about my grandfather."
"Your grandfather?"
"My grandfather, Fakrool Mulk. The name means 'Pride of the Realm'. He was - how shall I put it - a larger-than-life character."
"Tell me about him."
"You probably wouldn't believe it."
"Try me," I said.
"Well, where shall I start?" said Mir Moazam. He settled himself back in his chair and paused while he cast around for a suitable place to begin his tale.
"You see although my grandfather was Deputy Prime Minister in the Nizam's government, his real passion was building."
"Building?"
"Building. It was like a disease for him. He just had to build. Over the course of his life he built this great series of vast rambling palaces, one after the other. But he was never satisfied. As soon as he had finished one, he immediately began to build another. Sometimes he would just give an entire palace away. Once he heard that the Nizam had privately said that he envied him owning a palace looking on the Fateh Maidan, where all the tent pegging and polo matches took place. At the first opportunity he just gave the Asad Bagh to the Nizam, even though it was his principal residence and all nine of his children had been born there. But that was absolutely typical of him and his buildings. He never lived in half of them, yet even when he was 75 he was still at it. Of course he built up enormous debts in the process."
"Was he a trained an architect?"
"Well that was precisely the problem. No, he wasn't. But every evening he would go out for a walk, and with him he would take his walking stick and this great entourage of his staff which always included his secretary, his masons, his builders, a couple of his household poets and the paymaster general of his estates - some 30 or 40 people in all.
"Anyway on these walks, when the inspiration came, he would begin to draw in the sand with his walking stick: maybe one day it was a new college, or a new stable block, or possibly a new palace, or whatever it was, according to how the fancy took him. The draughtsmen he had brought with him would jot it down onto paper and then draw it up when they got back. The next day he would be shown the pictures after breakfast. He would say, 'No, enlarge that tower, and let's put two cupolas on top'. Or maybe: 'That's good, but it has to be triple the size." His buildings were always something of a hotchpotch, as he would change the style according to his mood. Some of his buildings have a classical ground floor, a tropical Gothic first storey and then change to art deco or even Scotch Baronial half way up.
"Finally the plan would be approved, and the masons would get to work, and - hey presto! - the Hyderabad skyline had a new palace - except that then he would go and visit it and say, 'This door is not wide enough. I can't possibly fit through this with the Resident's wife on my arm'. So the whole thing would be torn down and work would restart. Well into his seventies he was still adding new wings and towers and porticoes to his palaces, and despite his debts, none of his sons ever had the guts to argue with him."
"Did he have a favourite palace?"
"I don't know about a favourite, but the one he lived in for longest was Iram Manzil, just around the corner from here. It wasn't the largest of his palaces, but I think the reason he really loved it was the stuffed tiger."
"The stuffed tiger?"
"You see after building my grandfather's other great love was tiger shooting, and the season for tiger shooting was only a few months each year. So on the hill outside Iram Manzil he built this miniature railway track and on the track he placed a stuffed tiger on wheels. It would be let loose from the top of the hill and we would all line up and let fire with our double barrels: bang! bang! bang! all of us aiming at this wretched tiger as it careered down the hill shooting in and out of the rocks, down the gradient, getting faster and faster as it went down. By the time it reached the end of the track it was completely peppered: blown to bits, poor thing. So the men who were employed to look after the tiger would patch it up, and pull it back, and off we'd go again."
"I can see why your grandchildren might find all this a little... fantastic."
"But I think what they find most difficult to believe is not this sort of thing, but the simple business of my grandfather's eating habits."
"Eating habits?"
"Well, Fakrool Mulk liked his food."
"He ate a lot?"
"A lot."
"So," I ventured, "on any given day what might be on your grandfather's table?"
"I'll never forget Fakrool Mulk's dinners," said Mir Moazam. His face lit up at the memory:
"He would sit in the middle of this huge table, with the doctor, the butler and the assistant butler looking on, while his secretary read to him from the Hyderabad Bulletin. First the cook would bring a tankard of wonderfully thick, creamy chicken broth, then came the pomfret from Bombay - two pieces. He would finish that, then followed the whole chicken, so tender it would fall apart at the touch. Only when he had single-handedly demolished this great fowl - picked the flesh off every bone - would the next course be brought in: a selection of spectacular Mughlai dishes, eight curries or so, and a great plate of the finest ground Hyderabadi kebabs. They would just melt in the mouth: I've never tasted anything like them anywhere else. Of course there was always a mountain of best biryani, and several different kinds of bread: roomali roti [handkerchief bread] and naan and stuffed parathas, all served on the most beautiful monogrammed porcelain. When he had finished he used to pass the plate to me and I would transfer what was left over to my plate: in our tradition that was considered a great privilege and I would salaam profoundly as I did so. There was very strict protocol: we wouldn't sit until asked to, and wouldn't dream of talking until talked to."
"And that was the end of dinner?"
"No, no. There was still pudding. Pudding was the highlight of my grandfather's day! Oh yes: after the curries had been carried away, then came the sweets: two different kinds of English pudding - hot and cold - followed by a great big platter of Mughlai sweets, all of which were served with a great big bowl of clotted cream. Then he'd get up and go next door to drink soda water, and receive the gift that the Nizam would send him every day: it might be a box of mangoes or some ladoos or something like that. So he would call in the secretary he employed soley to write letters to the Nizam, and dictate a letter of thanks, at least half of which would simply be the usual list of highly exaggerated Persian titles. When that was finished he would take his hubble-bubble and puff away at that, until he was ready to go downstairs and play billiards, after which it was off to bed. When he was tucked up, a story teller would be brought in to an alcove covered with a curtain, and from there he would tell stories from the Shahnama about Sohrab and Rustam, or perhaps tales from the Mahabharat, or Deccani tales about the Deeds of the Qu'tb Shahi kings. Those old storytellers could talk for days without stopping. Only when they heard snoring from the other side of the curtain would they stop."
Mir Moazam looked up and again slowly shook his head: "Now of course everything has gone," he said, "and I suppose I'm part of a dying race. We're going pretty fast, and after us there will just be the same monotonous uniformity. All that will be left of that world is what is recorded in books and memoirs."
"But like my grandchildren," he added, looking me in the eyes, "you probably don't believe a word of this anyway. And why should you? The last traces of this entire world were destroyed and uprooted years before you were born."
But I did believe Mir Moazam, for I had long heard equally fantastical stories about the State of Hyderabad. Years ago, Iris Portal, an old friend of my grandmother, had told me a story I had never forgotten: how one day in the late 1930's she had been taken to see some of the Nizam's treasure which was hidden in a secret vault in one of the palaces. This was at a time when Iris's husband ran the staff of the Nizam's younger son, and Iris had befriended his wife, Princess Niloufer.
One day Niloufer had led Iris down some stairs, past a group of Bedouin Arab guards, and there at the bottom was a huge underground garage, full of lines of trucks and haulage lorries. The trucks were dusty and neglected, their tyres rotting and flat and sinking into the ground, but when the two ladies pulled back a tarpaulin, they found that the trucks were full of gems and precious stones and pearls and gold coins. The Nizam apparently lived in fear of either a revolution or an Indian takeover of his state, and had equipped the lorries so that, at short notice, he could get some of his wealth out of the country if the need came. But then he lost interest in his plan, and left the lorries to rot, quite incapable of driving anywhere, but still full of their consignment of jewels.
Other stories of Iris’ only confirmed this picture of Hyderabad as a sort of fantastical Indian Ruritania, where an unreconstructed feudal aristocracy preserved and incubated ridiculously rococo rules of etiquette, and where life revolved around fabulously intricate and elaborate orders of precedence.
The Nizam, said to be the richest man in the world, had no less than 11,000 servants; 38 dusted the chandeliers, others were employed only to grind walnuts. The Nizam also supervised his three official wives, his 42 concubines, and his brood of over 200 children.
"He was as mad as a coot and his [chief] wife was raving," Iris told me. "It was like living in France on the eve of the Revolution. All the power was in the hands of the Muslim nobility. They spent money like water and were terrible, irresponsible landlords, but they could be very charming and sophisticated as well. They would take us shooting - snipe and partridges - talking all the while about their trips to England or to Cannes and Paris, although in many ways Hyderabad was still living in the Moghul Middle Ages and the villages we would pass through were often desperately poor. You couldn't help feeling that the whole great baroque structure could come crashing down at any minute."
For all the fairy-tale Once-Upon-A-Time-There-Was-A-Princess-Who-Lived-In-A-Huge-Palace quality of these tales, I soon discovered that they were confirmed in every detail by the most sober history books. The Nizam, Major-Gen. Sir Osman Ali Khan, did indeed possess the largest fortune in the world: according to one contemporary estimate, it amounted to at least £100 million in gold and silver bullion and £400 million in jewels, many of which came from his own Golconda mines, source of the Koh-i-Noor and the legendary (though now lost) Great Mogul Diamond which, at 787 carats, is thought to have been the largest ever discovered.
The Nizam was also the senior most Prince in India, the only one to merit the title 'His Exalted Highness', and for most of the first half of the 20th century he ruled a state the size of Italy - 82,700 square miles of the Deccan plateau - as absolute monarch, answerable (in internal matters at least) to no-one but himself. Within this vast area, the Nizam could claim the allegiance of no less than fifteen million subjects. The senior Hyderabad aristocracy - known as the Paigah nobles - tended to be richer than the average Indian Maharajah, and each maintained their own court, their own extraordinary palaces, and their own three or four thousand strong private armies. Nor, despite all the dreadful inequalities of wealth, was Hyderabad a poor country: in its final year of existence, 1947-8, the state's income and expenditure rivaled Belgium and exceeded that of twenty member states of the United Nations.
Moreover, the Nizam appeared to be every bit as eccentric as Iris had indicated. While most of the Indian maharajahs used to dress in magnificent costumes and bedeck themselves with jewels the size of ostrich eggs, according to one British resident the Nizam resembled "a snuffly clerk too old to be sacked". All his life he wore the same dirty old fez, a dirty pair of pyjamas, and an ancient sherwani; towards the end the Nizam even took to knitting his own socks. In 1946, when the diwan of Hyderabad brought a distinguished Persian visitor to see the Nizam at the Azakhan Zehra, and said in Persian 'Een Shah-i-Dekhan ast,' (This is the King of the Deccan), the startled visitor could only comment, 'Panah-ba-khuda!' (God save us!) When he died in 1967 The Times described the Nizam as 'a shabby old man shuffling through his dream world' and described his hobbies as 'taking opium, writing Persian poetry and' - a wonderful detail - 'watching surgical operations'.
Yet for all this, under the Nizam, Hyderabad grew to be an important centre of the arts. After the fall of Lucknow to the British in 1856, Hyderabad remained the last great centre of Indo-Islamic culture and the flagship of Deccani civilisation with its long heritage of composite Qu'tb Shahi, Vijayanagaran, Moghul, Kakatiyan, Central Asian and Iranian influences. Its Osmania university was the first in India to teach in an indigenous Indian language, and it was way ahead of most other regions in India in the spread of education. In the early twentieth century it was the most important area for the growth of Urdu literature in the subcontinent, and the people of Hyderabad had evolved their own distinctive manners, habits, language, music, literature, food and dress. Moreover their capital was famous as a City of Palaces, able to rival in grandeur and magnificence anything in South Asia.
It is often hard to believe this as you drive through the city today. For while Hyderabad is still pretty prosperous - and certainly a far cry from the urban death rattle that is modern Lucknow - fifty years on it is a pretty unprepossessing place, ugly, polluted and undistinguished, all seventies office blocks and bustling new shopping centres: Darshan Automobiles and Dervish Home Needs, The Jai Hind Cycle Store and Posh Tailors: Ladies and Gents a Speciality. The trees have all been cut down and attempts at urban planning utterly abandoned. New buildings are mushrooming everywhere, often built over the old Indo-Islamic bazaars and the colonial town houses, so that only piles of old discarded pillars remain to hint at what once occupied the site of the new concrete jean emporium or pizza restaurant.
In the older bazaars, the great cusped gateways of the old Hyderabadi havelis still stand, but now lead nowhere, except to a half-built matrix of foundations and concrete piles. The palaces of the Paigah nobility have mostly been knocked down or else taken over by the government, and have been so badly kept up, or so unsympathetically converted into offices, that today they are virtually unrecognisable. At first sight there is nothing remotely charming or magical about Hyderabad today.
But look a little further and you soon discover that small pools of the old world do still survive, often out of bounds to the casual visitor. The Falaknuma Palace is one such place. A huge and magnificent complex of white classical palaces raised above the town on its own Acropolis, the Falaknuma was the principal residence of the sixth Nizam, the father of Osman Ali Khan. But today the complex is subject to a bitter legal dispute between the Taj group, who wish to turn the palaces into a hotel, and the last Nizam's grandson, now mainly resident on a sheep farm in Australia, who claims never to have sold the palace to anyone. While the buildings await the decision of the courts, the entire palace complex lies empty and semi-ruinous, locked by court order, with every window and doorway sealed by red wax.
Wipe the windows and peer inside, and you see cobwebs the size of bedsheets hanging from the corners of the rooms. The skeletons of outsized Victorian sofas and armchairs lies dotted around the parquet floors, their chintz entirely eaten away by white ants, so that all that remains is the wooden frame, the springs and a little of the stuffing. Vast imperial desks, big enough to play billiards upon, lie on rotting red carpets covered with a peppering of huge holes as if they have been savaged by some terrible outsized moth. On one wall hangs a giant portrait of Queen Mary, on another a strange faded Victorian fantasy of Richard the Lionheart on the battlements at Acre. Beyond are long, gloomy corridors, leading to unseen inner courtyards and zenana wings: mile upon mile of empty classical arcades and melancholy bow fronts, now quite empty but for a pair of lonely chowkidars shuffling around with their lathis and whistles. Outside stretch acres of scrub flats, once presumably soft green lawns, dotted here and there with kitsch statues of naked cupids, waterless fountains, giant silver Victorian oil lamps and paint-flaking flagpoles leaning at crazy angles.
That this fairy-tale extravagance has always been part of the culture of Hyderabad is demonstrated by the mediaeval Qu'tb Shahi tombs, a short distance to the east of the Falaknuma. They are wonderfully ebullient and foppish monuments dating from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, with domes swelling out of all proportion to the base, each like a watermelon attempting to balance on a fig. Above the domes rises the craggy citadel of Golconda, source of the ceaseless stream of diamonds that ensured that Hyderabad's rulers would never ever be poor. Inside the walls you pass a succession of harems and bathing pools, pavilions and pleasure gardens - a world that seems to have jumped straight out of the pages of Arabian Nights. When the French jeweller Jean Baptiste Tavernier visited Golconda 1642 he found a society every bit as decadent as this architecture might suggest and he wrote that the town possessed more than 20,000 registered courtesans, who had to take it in turns to dance for the King every Friday.
This oddly romantic and courtly atmosphere infected even the sober British when they arrived in Hyderabad at the end of the eighteenth century. For the city is the location of one of the most affecting Anglo-Indian love stories to emerge from the three hundred-year interaction of the two peoples. The old British residency, now the University College for Women, is an imposing Palladian villa, which shelters in a massive fortified garden in the south of the town. A pair of British lions lie paws extended below a huge pedimented and colonadad front, looking out over a wide expanse of eucalyptus, breadfruit and casuarina trees, every inch the East India company at its grandest and most formal. Yet surprises lurk in the undergrowth at the rear of the compound.
The complex was built by Lieutenant-Colonel James Achilles Kirkpatrick, Resident between 1797 and 1805, and an unusually imaginative and sympathetic figure, whose love and respect for the people of Hyderabad was symbolised by his adoption of Hyderabadi clothes and Hyderabadi ways of living. Shortly after arriving in Hyderabad, Kirkpatrick fell in love with Khair-un-Nissa ('Excellent among Women'), a great niece of the diwan of Hyderabad, whom he married in 1800 according to Muslim law. This caused great alarm in London as it was thought - probably correctly - that Kirkpatrick had become a Muslim, an impression that was reinforced by the report of Mounstuart Elphinstone, who wrote that Kirkpatrick had become perhaps dangerously assimilated with his surroundings:
"Major Kirkpatrick is a good-looking man... but he wears [Indian] moustachios; his hair is cropped short, and his fingers are dyed with henna, although in most other respects he is like an Englishman... [At the durbar of the Nizam] he goes in great state. He has several elephants, and a state palankeen, led horses, flags, long poles and tassels, &c., and is attended by two companies of infantry and a troop of cavalry... Major Kirkpatrick behaved like a native, but with great propriety."
I found a battered token of Kirkpatrick's love for his wife surviving today in the garden at the back of the Residency. As Khair-un-Nissa remained all her life in strict purdah, living in a separate bibi ghar at the end of Kirkpatrick's garden, she was unable to walk around the side of her husband's great creation to admire its wonderful portico. So eventually the Resident hit upon a solution and built a scaled-down plaster model of his new palace for her so that she could examine in detail what she would never allow herself to see with her own eyes. The model survived intact until the 1980's when a tree fell on it, smashing the right wing. The remains of the left wing and central block lie now under a piece of corrugated iron, near the ruins of the Mughal bibi ghar, buried deep beneath a jungle of vines and creepers, in an area still known as the Begum's Garden.
As in Delhi and Lucknow, the extravagantly aristocratic culture of Hyderabad filtered down to the streets. "The people of other cities say we are a little lazy," said a shopkeeper in the bazaar, "that we all behave as if we are little Nizams: that we work slowly, eat slowly, wake up slowly, and do everything slowly. Many shopkeepers in Hyderabad don't open their shutters until 11 a.m. We like to take life gently, to take lots of holidays and only to work when we have no money in our pockets."
Another legacy of the nobility to filter down to the streets is a fondness for witchcraft and sorcery. In the Lad Bazaar, a short distance from the Char Minar I found a shop which sold nothing but charms and talismen: "In the Nizam's time the Hyderabad princes were always hiring a murshad [sorcerer or holy man] to make spells on their enemies," said Ali Mohammed, who ran the shop. "Now Hyderabad is famous for its magic. Everyone is making too many spells. So they must come here to get protection."
Ali showed me his stock: silver ta'wiz blessed by famous sufis, special kinds of attar that deflected the Evil Eye, nails worried into the shape of a cobra to protect from snake bites. On one side of the shop were piled huge bundles of thorns: "Its name is babul. Put it at the entrance of a your gate along with a lime and a green chili and it will take on any bad magic that someone may cast on you."
"Do you really believe such curses work?" I asked.
"Definitely," said Ali. "I have seen myself. We are four brothers in my family, but my father had an argument with my oldest brother and threw him out. After that my brother paid a murshad to put a curse on our house. The murshad wrote a curse and put it in a bottle which he hid in the tree in our courtyard. Soon after that everything fell apart. We became ill, the business became dull, we could not sleep. My father grew near to death. So we realised what was happening and hired a good murshad. He came to our house and after making many prayers he discovered the bottle and took it away. Immediately my father recovered."
"The murshad of Hyderabad are very powerful," said Ali. "They can kill a man with just a look - if they want to."
"Magic? Oh yes there was no shortage of magic," said Mir Moazam's wife, the Begum Meherunissa when I told her about my conversation in the bazaar later that afternoon. "What that shopkeeper said is quite true. In the time of the Nizam, there were many such stories. We all believed them."
"Can you remember any stories?" I asked.
"Of course," she said. "I remember very well the most powerful murshad in Hyderabad. I came to know him quite well. But of course he had a very tragic end."
"How did you meet him?"
"On summer evenings the womenfolk of my family would put on their chador and go out for a stroll in one of the Mughal gardens. One day after they had returned from a walk my aunt began to shiver and to behave very oddly. Moreover there was this strange smell of roses wherever she went. Luckily my grandfather realised what had happened and knew exactly what to do.
"He called a murshad who questioned my aunt closely. Quite suddenly she stared speaking with a man's voice, saying 'I am the djinn of the rose garden and I am in love with this woman.' The murshad performed an exorcism, and the djinn was sent off. After that the murshad became a regular visitor at the house."
"What did he look like?" I asked.
"Oh, he was a strange, dark-complexioned man, with a black waistcoat and white kurta-pyjamas. He never walked straight, but rocked from side to side. People said he was a qalander, a holy fool, and very close to God. Certainly he could work small miracles, some of which I saw myself."
"You saw him work miracles?"
"Many times. Or rather not him, so much as his djinn."
"He had his own djinn?"
"That's right. To master a djinn, and make him your servant, you must first fast for forty days. Very few succeed. But this man succeeded, and the djinn gave him the strong powers. The children of Hyderabad all knew him as Misri Wallah Pir [the Holy Man who Gives Sweets] and they would run after him and shout, 'Pir Sahib, give us sugar'. So he would bend down and pick up a handful of mud and throw it, and before it reached us, mid-way in the air it would turn to sugar! It did: I tasted it myself. It was delicious: clean and white with no sand or impurity or anything. My mother was very angry when I told her I had eaten some of Misri Wallah Pir's sugar, and said that it would become mud or a stone again in my stomach. But as far as I was aware it never did, or if it did, it never did me any harm."
"So you saw him turn mud into sugar more than once?"
"It was his favourite trick. We children would follow him around and spy on him. He was like a child talking and laughing to himself. Sometimes he would appear to be talking directly to a wall, but if you got close enough you could sometimes hear what sounded like the wall talking to him. I would sit beside him to see if the pir was making the noise himself, but it wasn't him. It was his djinn, Monokhal, replying to him. Sometimes he would read the Koran and the djinn would correct him when he made a mistake. At other times the pir would reach out his hand and from nowhere sweetmeats would come, which he would then feed to cows.
"Once we were on the verandah watching a lady in the street walking past with a great basket of fruit in her head. Pir Sahib was walking down the road in the opposite direction so I shouted to him, as a joke, 'Pir Sahib, get me some of that fruit.' And there and then that huge basket of fruit flew from the woman's head and came to rest at my feet! The fruit carrier was used to Pir Sahib's tricks and smiled and said, 'Pir Sahib, give it back', so after I had taken a banana, Pir Sahib did send the basket down again. The banana tasted sweeter than any other I have ever tasted.
"Once my friend asked Misri Wallah Pir for some biryani. Pir Sahib said 'I am a poor man, how can I afford biryani? But we pleaded with him and eventually he called his djinn, 'Idder ao Monokhal!' ['Come here Monokhal!']. And within seconds a delicious biryani appeared before us out of the thin air. Another time a sick man begged him for grapes. It was not the season, and there were no grapes in Hyderabad, but the djinn brought them all the same."
There was a pause and the begum looked up, I think to see if I was secretly laughing at her memories: "It's up to you whether you want to believe all this," she said simply. "But I witnessed it.
"You mentioned that the pir had a very tragic end," I said.
"His djinn left him and he lost all his powers," she replied. "He died in great poverty."
"What happened?"
"After Monokhal left him I never saw the pir again. But the story I heard was that one day a poor man had come to the pir and said that he had never seen a diamond. So Misri Wallah Pir called Monokhal and sent him off to fetch the necklace of the Queen of Mysore. The necklace arrived, and the pir gave it to the beggar to examine. But the man had blood on his hands and it got on the necklace, so Monokhal refused to take it back again. No djinn will carry anything that has been touched by blood. The pir was furious, because he didn't want to be accused of stealing the necklace, so he began to beat and to curse the djinn, who simply disappeared. It never came back.
"After that the pir took the necklace to a police station and told the constable what had happened. But of course he didn't believe a word the pir said, and when he asked the pir to prove that he had a djinn, he couldn't because Monokhal had gone. So the police beat him up and asked him how he had stolen the necklace, and what else he had taken. After he was released the pir became very sick, and his condition just got worse and worse. Eventually he died alone and penniless and was buried in an unmarked grave."
As we were talking Mir Moazam appeared from his study where he had been working while I chatted to the begum.
"You see what I mean?" he said to me when his wife had finished her story. "The world we grew up in was a different age. I'm not surprised no one believes any of it when we tell these stories. I sympathise. Looking back, it was a very strange world."
"Were you aware at the time that it was all about to be swept away?" I asked.
"Up to a point," said Mir Moazam. "Looking back now, Hyderabad during my childhood seems like it was going through a period of glorious sunset. But at the time of course, I thought it would all go on forever. It was only as I grew older that I realised that it couldn't last, that the sunset must be pretty close. You could feel it coming."
Mir Moazam sat down in the rocking chair beside his wife and rested his face on his palm before continuing: "You see, I was from the Paigah nobility," he said. "And so of course I felt a certain loyalty to that world. But I was not blind to the defects of the Nizam. At Madras University I had been exposed to fiery speeches by Gandhi, Nehru and the other Congress leaders, and I realised then that the Nizam's day had passed. He had come from a different age. What had been possible in his fathers’ time was no longer possible. After that I was in a real dilemma: I could see both sides of the picture.
"As the British prepared to leave, I think the Nizam should have negotiated seriously with Nehru. He might have got a viable deal: a treaty that would have allowed him to keep some form of real autonomy. That way a lot of bloodshed might have been avoided. In 1947 the place was already in chaos, with the [Muslim] Razakar movement attacking Hindus and Congress supporters, and Congress agent provocateurs burning down the railway station and looting the state treasury. But despite all this, the Nizam still couldn't see that he had been sustained in power by the British, and that now they were going he had reached the end of the line. But instead of negotiating, he decided to declare outright independence from India. It was utter madness. Legally he may have had the right to do so, but it was still quite mad."
Mir Moazam shook his head: "He was living in a fool's paradise," he said. "I knew that, of course. But when the crunch came I realised that my loyalty had to be to the Nizam. After all, my ancestors had given everything for the throne for two hundred years. I couldn't just abandon ship. I had to do my duty."
So far I had avoided the subject of the Indian army's 1948 invasion of Hyderabad State, then known as Operation Polo, and referred to today in nationalist historiography as 'the Police Action', as if all that had been involved was a few parking tickets and the odd restraining order. I had steered clear of the subject because I had been warned by mutual friends that the invasion had been an extremely difficult and painful period for Mir Moazam, who in the aftermath had been arrested and had spent several years in prison. But in the end it was Mir Moazam himself who brought the matter up.
"After university I had joined the Nizam's Civil Service and as fate would have it, on the 13th of September 1948, when the Indian army finally crossed the frontier into Hyderabad, I was the district officer in charge of the area facing the main Indian attack. We had no tanks, no planes and virtually no artillery. Nothing: just a pile of old .303 rifles. And with those we had been ordered to take on the might of the Indian army.
"The morning of the attack I was still shaving when I heard the first shells falling near my house. We had a few platoons, so we lined them up on the frontier, along the banks of the River Bori. They were facing a fully mechanised Indian army unit, with Sherman tanks, armoured cars and field guns, and before long the Indians began picking off our men like rabbits. Our first plan was to blow up the bridge, but it turned out the soldiers didn't have the correct equipment. As head of the district, I was sitting with the Brigadier in the staff car, trying to decide what to do, when the Indian Air Force started strafing us from the air. Our car windows exploded. I lay flat on my belly with bullets shooting over my head. In the end the Brigadier and I both took refuge under an arch of the bridge we had been supposed to blow up. Elsewhere much of the rest of the Hyderabad forces were surrounded while they were at parade. We were all caught with our pants down.
"The brigadier and I managed to escape, and after that we just retreated and retreated. The whole resistance was completely unrealistic. There was heavy aerial bombardment on all fronts: bombs falling everywhere. The next day I was in a jeep trying to get back to Hyderabad when the bus we were overtaking was blown up by another plane. I had to hide in the paddi. We managed to delay them a little by opening the sluices and flooding the roads, but that was our only success. When the Emperor Aurangzeb invaded Golconda [in 1687], the Hyderabad troops managed to keep the Moghuls at bay for seven or eight months. In our case we only held them up for four days. It was a total collapse."
What Mir Moazam said was confirmed by the casualty figures: on the Indian side seven killed and nine wounded, of which one died later; on the Hyderabadi side, an estimated 632 killed and at least fourteen wounded.
"How did the Indian army behave when it got to Hyderabad?" I asked.
"When an army invades any country - whether it’s Alexander the Great, Timur, Hitler or Mussolini - when it gets into a town, you know what the soldiery does. It's very difficult for the officers to control them. I can't tell you how many were raped or killed, but I saw the bodies everywhere. Old scores were paid off across the state."
I discovered later that it is in fact possible to make an informed estimate of the numbers killed in the aftermath of the 'police action'. For when reports of atrocities began to reach Delhi, Nehru 'in his private capacity', commissioned an unofficial report from a group of veteran Congressmen made up of two Hyderabadi Muslims who had prominently opposed the Nizam's rule and chaired by a Hindu, Pandit Sunderlal. The team made an extensive tour of the State and submitted their report to Nehru and Sardar Patel in January 1949. The report's findings were never made public, however, presumably because of its damning criticism of the conduct of the Indian army. It remained unpublished until a portion of it, smuggled out of India, recently appeared in America in an obscure volume of scholarly essays entitled Hyderabad: After the Fall.
The report, entitled On the Post-Operation Polo Massacres, Rape and Destruction or Seizure of Property in Hyderabad State, makes grim reading. In village after village across the state, it meticulously and unemotionally catalogued incidents of murder and mass rape, sometimes committed by troops, in other cases committed by local Hindu hooligans after the troops had disarmed the Muslim population. A short extract, chosen at random, gives the general flavour:
"Ganjoti Paygah, District Osmanabad:
There are 500 homes belonging to Muslims here. Two hundred Muslims were murdered by the goondas. The army had seized weapons from the Muslims. As the Muslims became defenceless, the goondas began the massacre. Muslim women were raped by the troops. Statement of Pasha Bi, resident of Ganjoti: the trouble in Ganjoti began after the army's arrival. All the young Muslim women here were raped. Five daughters of Osman sahib were raped and six daughters of the Qazi were raped. Ismail Sahib Sawdagar's daughter was raped in Saiba Chamar's home for a week. Soldiers from Umarga came every week and after all-night rape, young Muslim women were sent back to their homes in the morning. Mahtab Tamboli's daughters were divided among Hindus, one is in Burga Julaha's home... "
And so on, for page after page. In all, the report estimates that as many as 200,000 Hyderabadi Muslims were slaughtered in the aftermath of the 'Police Action': an astonishing figure which, if true, would turn the 'police action' into a bloodbath comparable to parts of the Punjab during Partition. Even if one regards the figure of 200,000 dead as an impossible exaggeration, it is still clear that the scale of the killing was horrific. Although publicly Nehru played down the disorder in Hyderabad, claiming to the Indian representative at the United Nations that following the Nizam's officials deserting their posts there had been some disorder in which Hindus had retaliated for their sufferings under the [Muslim] Razakars [militia], privately he was much more alarmed. This is indicated by a note Nehru sent to Sardar Patel's Ministry of States on the 26th of November 1948, saying that he had received reports of killings of Muslims so large in number 'as to stagger the imagination' and looting of Muslim property 'on a tremendous scale' - all of which would seem to confirm the general tone of Pandit Sunderlal's report.
I asked Mir Moazam what happened to him in the immediate aftermath of the conquest, while all this murderous anarchy was taking place around him:
"Most of the officers who were under suspicion by the new regime went to Pakistan," he replied. "Arrangements were made for me, as it was clear I was going to be arrested. But my father said, 'Face the firing squad. I will disinherit and disown you if you run away from your post.' So I stayed, and after a farcical trial full of paid witnesses, I was sentenced to death. I could see the noose from my cell."
Mir Moazam briefly cupped his head in hands. He hesitated, and silently rocked back and forth for a minute. Then he clasped his hands together and continued:
"Later that year the sentence was reduced to life imprisonment," he said quietly. "Three years after that, following an appeal in the High Court, I was honourably acquitted. Other officers were less lucky: many were framed, while others were forced to flee to Pakistan, though they dearly wished to stay in Hyderabad. Few retained jobs of any importance: they were weeded out. Some were removed, some were reduced in rank, others were put in jail. So after I was released, I decided to go to London. There English friends of mine eventually helped me get a job in UNESCO, and I spent much of the next 30 to 40 years in Paris."
"You must have seen quite a few changes on your return," I said.
"I hardly recognised the place," said Mir Moazam. "I arrived back with a friend who was head of a French
bank. All the way I had been telling him about the wonders of Hyderabad, and particularly about the City Palace complex. I told him about the Blue Palace, the Green Palace and, most lovely of all, the Pearl Palace. So as soon as we arrived we went over there. I found the chowkidar and got him to open the gates. Inside it was completely flat: they had totally levelled it. Nothing was there except a few goats. I'll never forget the humiliation as I turned to my friend to try and explain what had happened.
"But of course I soon discovered that it wasn't just the City Palace: almost all the great houses had gone. Even King Kothi [the Nizam's palace] had been bulldozed, or at least most of it. There was one wing left, converted into some sort of hospital."
"Were the palaces confiscated by the government?" I asked.
"No, not as such," said Mir Moazam. "But the aristocracy lost all their status and their income after the police action, so they just sold everything: land, houses, even the doors and windows. They knew nothing about business: selling their heritage was the only way they could make ends meet."
The old man shook his head in disbelief: "No one thought to protect anything," he said. "They just sold their history just to survive. Now there's virtually nothing left: just dusty high rise buildings everywhere. Outside Salar Jung's palace for instance was a garden easily comparable to the Jardin des Tuilleries. I'll never forget its shady walks and ancient trees, its soft green lawns and parterres bursting flowers. There was an octagonal fountain so large you could row about it in a skiff. Now it’s a filthy lorry park. So much was lost, unnecessarily, through sheer ignorance."
I asked Mir Moazam what had happened to his own family.
"Fakrool Mulk died soon after the Fall," he replied. "How could he adapt to the changes? Of course he couldn't. After that the family simply disintegrated. Some have gone to the Gulf and Bahrain, others to Pakistan. Now we are scattered to the winds and Iram Manzil [Fakrool Mulk's last palace] is a government office. It’s just around the corner from here, but it’s almost unrecognisable. You wouldn't believe how they have vandalised it. For me it stands as a symbol of all that has happened to this town."
"Could you show me?" I ventured.
"Why not?" said Mir Moazam. "I'd be happy to do so. "
The old man got to his feet, and called for his stick. Two minutes later we were heading through the new housing estates that everywhere seemed to be springing up around Hyderabad.
"When I was a boy all this was part of my grandfather's estate," said Mir Moazam. "In those days it was miles outside the town, five hundred acres of land, all beautifully maintained. Where those houses are: that was my grandfather's nine-hole golf course. The first hole is under the Oberoi Hotel. See those shacks? That was a polo field. And that mess over there? That was the palace orange groves. It's impossible to visualise now."
We turned down a gradient, and drew up outside a large office complex. On the gate was posted the stenciled notice:
GOVERNMENT OF INDIAOFFICE OF THE ENGINEER-IN-CHIEF
"This was it," said Mir Moazam, pointing ahead. "Unrecognisable."
I looked to where he was pointing. From among a cluster of shacks and lean-to's and concrete outhouses, clinging to the central building like barnacles on an oyster, you could see the outlines of what had once been a magnificent palace. But garages had been built in front of the central portico, obscuring the symmetry of the facade. The paint was peeling, and air conditioning units hung out of every arched window. An air of neglect hung over the whole complex, almost completely masking the grandeur of the original plan.
"You used to arrive through a gatehouse with two double storeyed towers," said Mir Moazam. "A bugler would blow as you passed. The bugler's name was Jospeh and he used to play the reveille first thing in the morning and sound the retreat each night at sunset. But they bulldozed the tower long ago. To one side, over there where that ugly garage is now, used to be the tennis courts, and beyond were the French Gardens, with their fountains playing. On the other side, at the bottom, there was a big lake. As you drew up in front of the palace, at a sign from the major domo, the band would play God Save the Nizam and God Save the King Emperor. Later, after a game of tennis, you used to have tea on that terrace, over where that temple is now."
We walked together around the complex, Mir Moazam pointing out where the zenana stood, before it was bulldozed, and where the Somalian zenana guards used to drill. Here was the pool they used to fill with coloured liquid to play holi, there the hall where Mohurram was celebrated and where the Christmas tree stood. Over there, where they had now blocked up the arches, used to be the banqueting hall. At the end of Ramadan, on the night of Eid, the room was full to bursting with everyone sitting on the floor, eating a great Mughlai dinner.
"I remember the Nizam coming here, and the Viceroy, and a whole succession of British Residents. Outside there would be gorgeously caparisoned elephants and horses with rich housings, palanquins and teams of palanquin bearers, four in hand coaches, and subsequently Rolls Royces and Daimlers. I remember the polo matches and the times we used to stand over there and try to shoot gold coins thrown in the air, or to pepper that old stuffed tiger on wheels. I remember the tennis matches and the trips to the Malakpet Races and the shikar trips into the jungle. It all seems very long ago now."
"So what of the future?" I said. "What do you think will survive of the old culture of Hyderabad?"
Mir Moazam shrugged his shoulders: "Very little," he said. "You can't keep out change. In fifty years an entire world has been levelled - utterly destroyed. The process is nearly finished. I think that everything that is special about Hyderabad will go. Day by day the old ways are disappearing. They are being replaced by a monotonous standardisation. What we had in Hyderabad was a very distinct Deccani culture, the product of a very particular mixture of peoples and influences. But much of the old elite went to Pakistan, and a flood of new people have come, bringing their own ways with them. What is left is on its last legs, and now there is nothing anyone can do about it.
The old man took my hand and led me back towards the road: "My children tell me you mustn't live in your memories. One must try to move with the times, and face the future rather than always dreaming about what has gone."
Mir Moazam turned to face me: "And they are right of course," he said. "That is why I never come back here. At every step there are fragments of history. And frankly it breaks my old heart to see it like this."