Amit Goes Blogging

T he Mother by Maxim Gorky was my first novel. I think I read it during Class VII vacations. I remember very little of what I read then: A meek mother who committed herself for the cause espoused by her only son. The son and his other factory worker friends were fighting injustice. My sympathies were completely with the mother and son. In the end, the mother is waylaid. Her anguished portrait in which she is seen distributing pamphlets in a crowd was my final impression from the book. When I read the book again this week, I knew a little more. The story has the Russian revolution of 1905 as its backdrop. The workers' lot had remained unchanged generation after generation. The workers broke under the burden of labour and gross exploitation. In the evenings, they would get drunk at the tavern and get into a brawl with one another. Women were in much more pitiable condition, living in the constant terror of being beaten up by their husbands. Alongside the economic conditions tha

T o retell tales to the point of summing up the mythology of a civilisation is no mean feat. Edith Hamilton does complete justice to the subject which is evident in the way she puts together the disjoint tales, drawing upon the work of dramatists of later ages to straighten out a tale crudely rendered at the hands of the authors gone before. But, what struck me were the parallels that stand out so clearly between Indian and Greek mythic tales. Although the characterisation is distinct, the turnkey events bear startling similarities. Achilles’ heels are as vulnerable as Krishna’s. A lover going down to Hades to reclaim the life of the beloved is a Greek version of Savitri and Satyvan. But, unlike the Greek gods, the Indian gods are more rational. The Indian god Indra is notorious for his promiscuity, but there is no philanderer like Zeus. A Greek god doesn't give two hoots about his godly demeanour when favouring his subject or venting his anger on a hero who has wronged him un

This novella portrays the struggle of an old fisherman, who has had a grim luck lasting 84 days before he makes a prize catch of a giant marlin. The struggle to land the fish spans three days and two nights. I was glad that the old man survived the ordeal; otherwise, the cover picture of a dark sea broken in storm portends sadness for the reader. But, the protagonist's living triumph does not make me a fan of the book. It did not appeal to me the way it has besotted the imagination of some of the raving reviewers. A colleague swore by its appeal on Thursday last; I couldn’t get started that evening. Friday evening set me on the course. Saturday night I laid the book to rest. Lesson learnt: To factor in my wife’s opinion about a book. I bought her this novella considering the short flights she took at reading. The book bored her to death. She must be heartbroken herself for having given up too early. She amply made up for her stasis by reading up two other classics. Literary

I hope to stay my course---read the famous classics from the Greeks until the late twentieth century. I have a decent collection of literary classics. But, looking at my dazzling collection, I am at my wit’s end---where to begin! Will I end up being a mere book collector? Forget majoring in literature, won't I even have the satisfaction of calling myself an informal student of literature? Will the money that could have bought immediate joys to my loved ones leave me with only a hope of future joy? I have browsed the net for inspiration and direction, careful not to ignore the two even if they can be found buried in the comment threads and finger-tiring scrolls. I have browsed through the best books voted by Times, Modern Library, and umpteen other blog posts on good reads to prepare myself for that leap. But, I am still nursing my irritation. Just yesterday I went on another buying spree and ended up with six additions to my collection. Now, I have decided to stop after two, or

Source : Originally posted at Cybage DoXperts, a Cybage Documentation team blog, on January 20, 2012. It is very cold in the evenings. Men sporting three unbuttoned holes on the shirt are in hibernation. On my way home, I take the road less travelled. On one side of the road, there’s open space till good distance and vegetation on the other. Riding home in the nipping cold, my body stiffens and assumes a cozy curvature from which it has to be disturbed when it gets a little too peculiar. Mostly, it’s the head which sinks into my neck and needs to be pulled up. Or, I overhang from my seat to one side and later, push my bulk back to the centre when some curious riders throw awkward glances at it. Leaving that road behind, I feel I am almost at the gate of my apartment. I forget the dread of the chill in the evening when I curl up like a dog in my duvet in the morning. But, unlike a dog whose ears go up at the slightest noise, mine are pretty hardened to any sound then. Even the unfri

Technical writing is still viewed as an emerging profession. And, technical writers are rare to come by, until you are one of them. IT industry is home to a majority of technical writers. But, even within IT, people are ignorant of the role played by their colleague who freely mixes with software engineers, test engineers, and is also a part of client calls. I am sure we have all handled enquiries about our profession in cafeteria, at smoking joints, in elevators, and in restrooms. And, if you seek the luxury of prelude and particulars, I would say you have a poor sense of timing. You have just the time that a few quick sips of tea, a few hurried puffs of smoke, an elevation from level 0 to level 5, or the impatient hands drying under a noisy blower can afford. Many a time, the take-away from such brief encounters leaves the questioner more puzzled. Which also makes documentation an evergreen option :) I have given up the anxiety to explain my job to others. The usefulness of my jo

It was a fascinating trip to Murud. My wife’s longstanding illness had prevented us from taking up the weekend offers that kept coming from my friends week after week. The trip that we ultimately made was a welcome relief for both of us. For her it was a change of atmosphere. For me, a change of spirits! But, before you put away reading this post as a travel journal, please be informed that I have no intention of writing one. Travelogues impart readers with information about places and, to some extent, also communicate the vibes that fill them. The traveller gathers it all while exploring not only the chief spectacles a place has to offer, but also its nooks and crannies. I went to Murud without making any efforts at visiting Janjeera fort, the landmark that gives credence to why one chooses Murud among the scores of beaches that lie on the western coast. Surprisingly, the other seven travellers, my wife included, showed an equally inadequate inclination to see the fort. Bad, isn't

His grandfather died! My friend could not attend the funeral. His father decided against it considering the loss of time and money it would incur. Father was rather snotty about his rank and office. He knew well that a son is pleased with inheritance rather than affection. In pursuance of this belief, father never wasted his love on his only son. Unfortunately, even mother’s behaviour was a little uncharacteristic. She was a mother by virtue of being wedded to the father of the boy. She never persuaded him for a second helping at the dinner table nor entreated him to stay at home a little longer during vacations. The cords of motherly love when under constant strain by a disciplinarian father can sometimes go weak. In her case, they snapped. Grandfather was the only family he knew. When he got the news of his death, he was inconsolable. His grief was writ large on his face. He used to share everything with his grandfather who always encouraged him like a friend. But now, he had no

That, which doesn't kill you, strengthens you. I endorse these words having spent 7 long years in academic confinement. Now, when I have done my time in that condemned institution, I regret the wrong choice I made in opting for engineering.  My memory takes me to the hostel-life. The first year was a fight for a place in the boisterous crowd of hard-baked sadist. I found myself a misfit in that cradle of wild beliefs. Staying peaceful was cowardice, exploiting others was finesse. Utilising time for anything apart from gossip was not tolerated. I still made it into the second year. I chose to stay alone and went headlong in pursuing my interests. For the first time I was all to myself with none to question me. I bought a tape-recorder; bought a good many cassettes; freely read non-academic books, which I couldn't under my father's regime. Gossip was a major time-killer. I developed a taste for it. I literally forgot the purpose of staying away from my people. The result: I

Recently, I had been to Noida. It was a long journey by train and also a journey through ideas that are triggered at the sight of sparse vegetation, shrinking water bodies, vast tracts of lands, burgeoning slums, teeming millions passing under the bridge. I ran through a chugging train of thoughts: the evolution of man, the future of mankind, the problems in society, the solutions thereto, and, then brought it all under a grand philosophical generalization (consolation) before giving up the whole effort and dozed off. In these intellectual moorings, I put on the airs of a social scientist. Of late, the scrutiny of  morality and dynamics of society, their utility and goal have kept me occupied. Swaggering in the pride of my intellectual acumen, I came face to face with a 14 year old kid of standard 9, and, it was a very humbling experience. My visit to my girlfriend was due for over 2 years and a half. The moment I found that the hot waters I had been in all these years had cooled