The Special Day by Sanjay Madhavan

Till date, I have never been timely in meeting my girlfriend. It has lead to battles more collosal than certain civil wars and even a World War. But today was a special day. I could not afford to be late.

It would surely have wicked consequences. However, I woke up to find that I was about an hour late.
It wasn’t difficult visualizing the deadly image of my girl fuming at my punctuality. That resulted in me getting ready in super fast motion. If there was a competition between me and a road runner that day, I would have made mince meat and light work out of it.
I reached her place after hustling and bustling throught the traffic. I had a feeling that most men were late on that day, and were frantically rushing towards their girl’s place. But I was sure that my girl was going to forgive me. She wasn’t the one who would remain moody even after my apology.
I sat close to her, as she slept there peacefully. I was sure that she was mad at me. But her anger wouldn’t last long. She would understand that I was late, not by intention but by accident. For 10 long years, I have greeted her every single day, and on very few occassions have I mistakenly come early.
But today was very special. It is a day where I wanted to tell her how much I love her? How much I care for her? It was a day to express my unconditional love to her.
I took out the bouquet and placed it near her legs. I wanted to wake her up and hug her badly. But I didn’t want to disturb her and make her even more livid.
I just looked at her for 5 long minutes, stood up and moved away. I didn’t want to shed tears and wake her up. The last thing that I wanted is a drop of tear touching her legs.
I walked away, and after moving few metres away from her, glanced back and read the words engraved on her bed.





Jennifer Smith
1972-1999
RIP

I whispered to myself “Happy Valentine’s day sweetheart!. Take care. See you soon”. I would be back tomorrow. Hope I would not be late.

John's Aviation Blog: Aviation

John's Aviation Blog: Aviation

John's Aviation Blog: A Fighter Pilot's Life (Fiction)

John's Aviation Blog: A Fighter Pilot's Life (Fiction)

A Fighter Pilot's Life (Fiction)

By John Beck

He was just a boy of 10. It was 1933. He was sitting on a stone wall looking out at the wheat field of his family farm. All he knew up to this point in his life was living and working on the farm and he didn’t have a problem with that. His name was Tom. His full name was Thomas B. Fuller. The “B” stood for Bennett, his mother’s maiden name. Nobody called him Thomas except his mother and that was only when she wanted his attention or when he was in some kind of trouble, which wasn’t very often. He wasn’t called Tommy either, just Tom. Tom realized the country was in the depths of a depression but his family was getting by. The Fuller Family had lived on and ran this farm in Nebraska for over 80 years. Even though they would have been considered poor Tom didn’t think so. He had a family that loved him, had a roof over his head and clothes on his back. Since he lived on a farm, they had wheat, vegetables, cows, pigs, and chickens so he never wanted for food.

On that day sitting on the stone wall Tom heard a sound overhead, looked up and saw an airplane. He had never seen one before. He had heard about airplanes from Pete Smith when he went to town. Pete was known as ‘Ole Pete’ but Tom didn’t know why because Petedidn’t seem that old. Pete had served as a Fighter Pilot in WWI, butdidn’t like to talk about the war. When Tom would ask Pete what it was like to fly an airplane Pete’s eyes would light up. Pete would describe the joy and exhilaration of flying, and what is was like to be free from the bonds of earth. When Tom saw that airplane flying through the sky he started to run, following it, waving his arms wildly. The pilot dipped his wings acknowledging Tom. At that moment Tom vowed that someday he would be a pilot.

Tom’s schooling was uneventful; his math skills could have been a little stronger. He was also a little on the shy side, not a social butterfly, but he was friendly. When he graduated from high school in 1941 he knew that his family didn’t have the money to send him to college but that didn’t matter to Tom. Then on that fateful day, in December when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the whole world and Tom’s life changed. The next day Tom went to town and signed up for the Army. After his basic training Tom was sent to San Antonio, Texas to start his training in the U.S. Army Air Corps. The trainingwasn’t easy. But his instructor told him he was one of the best stick-and-rudder men he had ever seen. Tom was sent to Europe. He flew the P-51 Mustang. It was a fast, stunningly beautiful airplane and he loved flying it. Even though flying provided Tom with much happiness the job he was assigned to do would not be considered a happy one. He was fully aware that Nazi Germany was evil and the allies were fighting on the side of good. He would escort bombers, because the P-51 fighters were known as ‘little friends’. He would shoot at German Fighters to protect the bombers. With the four 50 caliber machine guns, the enemy’s airplanes would sustain very heavy damage. Tom was also tasked with strafing ground positions such as troop trains, aircraft hangars, trucks, tanks, and columns of enemy troops. When they say war is hell, it is true.

After the war Tom went back to the family farm. It was now 1948, Tom was 25, and he decided he would take advantage of the G.I. Bill and go to college. He liked History and decided to major in that. In a very short time history was to take a big part in Tom’s life again. The Korean Conflict started in 1950. Since Tom was a WWII Veteran and had already flown in combat he again found himself in an airplane, this time as an F-86 Sabre pilot. The U.S. Army Air Corps was now the United States Air Force. He flew over the Yalu River in Northwestern North Korea in an area known as MiG Alley. The ‘dogfights’ were a big part of being an F-86 Sabre fighter pilot. He would also strafe ground targets and provide Close Air Support. The war was over in 1953 and Tom went home. He had made a promise to himself that he would finish his college education and get a teaching degree in History. Tom found a job working at the hardware store in town and the owner let him live in the small apartment upstairs. Now he was settled down at home during peacetime with a job and attending college. After completing college he got a history teaching position at a local community college. So instead of participating in history as he had in WWII and the Korean Conflict he was teaching it to young people. That is where Tom met the most beautiful woman in the world – her name was Mary. Mary Ellen Palmer to be exact. They met on a cool autumn day in October of 1955 and they started dating. Before long they had a full-time relationship. They were very much in love. A couple of years went by and Tom and Mary decided to get married. They planned on getting married in 1958 on the 12th of June. Tom was 34 now and Mary was 33. They weren’t a rich couple and didn’t have a lot of material things but they were happy. It was now the 1960’s and it seemed that anything was possible. The country had a young president and human beings were beginning to explore space. Tom and Mary were now thinking of having children as Mary was now 36. They had a 5-1/2 pound baby boy on May 12th 1961 and his name was Charles Daniel Fuller. They called him Charlie.

As the years went buy Charlie grew older and Tom and Mary’s marriage kept growing stronger. It was now 1969 and Tom had become a Professor of History at the University and he was working on writing a book. The year 1969 was a year of wonder with man landing on the moon and it also was a year of trouble and strife with the war in Vietnam and the protests at home. In 1973 Tom turned 50 and his book “Homeward Journey” was published. It was a story about war veterans coming home. Tom himself had close friends from two wars that did not make it home. Tom and Mary now had a little more disposable income and decided to take a vacation to Tahiti. It was now 1978 and they had been married for 20-years so they felt they deserved the vacation. The next year, 1979, when Charlie turned 18, he joined the Air Force. He applied to Officers Candidate School (OCS) and was accepted. After he became a 2nd Lieutenant he applied for Flight School. It wasn’t easy getting accepted even with his father’s service. But he eventually got accepted. The Flight School took a little over a year and it was hard work. Tom was so proud of him when he received his pilot’s wings. Charlie learned how to fly an F-15 Eagle and was stationed at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. Then in August of 1990 he was deployed to Saudi Arabia for Operation Desert Shield. Tom thought that things had now come full circle.

THE PEOPLE I’VE BEEN IN TOUCH WITH TODAY…AND HOW 9/11/09 by Suzanne Sullivan

Facebook--Dorothy, my college roommate who lives in Brooklyn--whose daughter sang in a chorus at the 9/11 “event” this morning at ground zero. She and her young daughters were walking to school in lower Manhattan when the planes shot across the sky above their heads. They were in front of the firehouse which was a popular stop for the kids.  All the friendly firefighters perished that day.

Email--Chris, former co-worker and co-laid off friend--about her friend who won ten mil in a scratch off. Irony? He’s a gambling addict who lost his house and family. Wondering if he’ll get it back. To lose it again?

Facebook--Bobby—an old high school fling with whom I shared excellent sex, once on acid and satin sheets. We kept slipping onto the floor and climbing back up, laughing a “laced with speed” release for hours. I think he’s still incarcerated from some alcoholic-related felony but somehow has access to facebook. He’s an Aries narcissist and posts, “hey girl, i still look good and so do you. what’s the name of that bar across from the summit train station?”

Jdate--Someone by the name of “Etyn”. He’s Sephartic. I’m Irish. We’re both astrologers. He won’t tell me his sign so he must be Scorpio. He wants to “talk” tonight and gave me his number. Don’t know if I can handle this level of intimacy. I may be gradually shrinking from social contact in the traditional sense.  To wit…I’m now talking to myself.

LinkedIn--Isabelle PhD chemist and former ESL student from L’Oreal. Both of us have been laid off and connect thru LinkedIn. We’re flirting with actually getting together for lunch. Yikes. I suggested a “ladies who lunch” jaunt at the Short Hills mall. She’s French and has style. Can we sustain two hours? I’d like to think so.

Crackberry--My quasi-boyfriend of late, from 8th grade and now 30 years hence--I was his transitional other this time ‘round and he has no time for me now. He deleted me from bbm (blackberry messenger) since I could tell when he would read the message. My one regular text was answered briefly. “I’ll call you.” That was at 1. It’s now 9. He’s moved on till next his well dries up.

Phone—Jamie, another high school buddy back in my life thanks to facebook--reminded him to update his LinkedIn profile. He’s trying to set me up with a fellow car salesperson who used to be quite the player. Sounds dangerous. Count me in. Who should facebook who?

In-person-- Harry, my 17 yr old son—rapid eye to eye, quick face to face. Privy to his Friday night updates. His plans fell thru and I had none. We’re both home “together”, on different floors. He’s watching a paid per view horror flick which is less than thrilling; I’m about to put on Revolutionary Road.  A healthy dose of disfunction to complement mine.

Text--My ex-husband--asked him to help me dispose of an old mattress which hosted years of a child’s incontinence who’s now in college. Ex said, yes, but manana. How yes can feel like no.

Text—Jenny--a friend who’s 28 and doing her Saturn return, a Gemini with Libra rising, multi-tatooed and pierced, my angel tarot new age consort who disappears like vapor and then surfaces to talk about Mercury retrograde. Off to b n noble to “write”. Do I want to come? Since it’ll never happen, I say, “sure”.

Mind-reading--My dog, Maggie–share same space--She looks to me for connection. She reads my moods. I feed her, pet her, walk her. We’re good together. But it’s limited by the cross-species issue.

Silence--Want my quasi-guess-ex-boyfriend to call already. And for what? He’s gone, gone…

BBM--My 21 yr old daughter at school at UVM --Hey Mom. How are you? Hope you haven’t been back in touch with douchebag.
Oh mad, I’m lonely. But thanks for caring. You’re the best person I’ve been in touch with today. Queen of my cyber crowd. Love you. Night. “Talk” tomorrow.

A Question of Trust – By Dianne Green

    

Cigarette butts, tempting her to take a closer peek -

An ash tray in the kitchen by itself, spilling over.

Lucky Strikes had no filters; back then, they reeked,

Encased with lipstick stains - New York grandma’s leftovers.

 

Quietly, the 10-year-old drudged up two butts, ends smashed,

Straightened and placed them gently in her denim jeans.

Can’t be broken; must keep them safe; she patted her stash

And quietly pushed through the screen door, sight unseen,

 

Sprinting to the far corner of the house – the safest place to be.

Always had a book of matches, unused since they’d been found.

She grinned, “Let me light the match like they do on TV.”

Slowly sinking to the grass, she blocked out every sound.

 

The late afternoon soothing sun warmed her legs and arms.

The match flamed and lit the butt.  She puffed and coughed.

Suddenly she sat straight up and sucked in her breath with alarm.

There he was, at the other end of the house, jaw taut.

 

He walked toward her. Waiting for only a second, she stood up.

Her grandfather couldn’t catch her, for she ran like a gazelle.

She was scared; scared he would tell her folks how she screwed up.

But it was family night out; any issue of blame was soon dispelled.

 

Everyone wandered outside, hungry; the sun was evening warm.

Suddenly, she and he were left alone. A knot formed in her chest.

Got to leave, got to avoid hearing his scolding, or parent’s alarm.

He gently took her wrist, speaking firmly but softly, not distressed.

 

“Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me?” he said with concern.

She shook her head, murmured, “Yes,” but knew there’d be more.

But there was no more; not mom’s lecture or a lesson to be learned.

No payback; why, she mused?  It bothered only a day, not heart sore.

 

Time passed; her grandparents died. Age left its mark on her as well. 

Her mom was very ill; her pain assuaged recalling sweeter days.

The girlhood cigarette tale her mom hadn’t heard; it didn’t ring a bell.

Warmth flooded her senses; grandpa had not given her story away.

 

The memory remained just between them - the first to show her trust;

Ten years old and treated with respect – to her a man august.

 

                                                                                          

THE QUISCENT QUEUE by Sanjay Madhavan

"wake up, you moron!!", mom was yelling at the highest decibel possible in a desperate and frantic effort to spring me out of the bed. Every mother in this beautiful world is an amazing alarm clock and as long as you have the former, you don’t need the latter. I was shielded by the ozone-like quilt but even that couldn’t prevent the vociferous nature of my mother’s voice from prevailing under the heavily cushioned layer.
To add to the frustration, the soporific warmth of my room was extremely seductive and tempted me just to spend little more time in the cozy bed. I have always felt that early morning sleep has been god’s cynical gift to mankind. It is that time of the day when dreams seem to be insipid, ambitions make you livid and desires are treated with disdain. All that u care for is a few minutes of sleep in appendage.
However, the day ahead was a special day indeed. An interview for a United States of America visa would have given some lads sleepless nights and loose bowel movements but I wasn’t one who would be shaken by the tremors that tension might offer. In fact, most people have been bewildered by my attitude towards life. In retrospect, I have always considered my "easy-going" attitude as my strength and it has often pulled me out of quicksand during various circumstances. Even this attitude of mine couldn’t stop me from ejecting myself from the bed. I ruffled my hair and had a quick glance at the mirror.
One really ponders over the fact that why humans look at the mirror every morning despite knowing that complexions can’t change and features don’t fabricate in a matter of hours. We can’t expect evolution at such a breathtaking pace. However, there are some days you might appear good and some days where you might not, I resolutely believe that it all depends on our perception. No wonder it is called "mirror image".
Regardless of a man’s IQ level, educational profile, family background , most people are "socrates" while ablution and "edison" while brushing teeth. Somehow, I shunned all those thoughts and was intent on getting ready. The last thing I wanted was to be late for the interview. In any case, I had the auto-journey for my "thought-engine" to work.
Getting dressed in a spic and span attire was a bohemian task as far as I was concerned. I have never given much focus on these issues which I considered futile and trivial. But,there was no room for any pragmatism on that particular day. It was essential to present myself in a suave and sophisticated manner,atleast for a few minutes. The US embassy have obviously forgotten the quote "appearances can be deceptive" and I was prepared to make hay while the sun shone.
So,I summoned all my strength and dressed myself in the best way possible.
As usual, my mom had prepared a heavy and cumbersome breakfast. The mere sight of the menu filled my stomach with satisfaction. She never seemed to comprehend the fact that I had breakfasts in abstemious fashion and simply loathed rich diets. I managed to stuff myself for my mom’s sake and bid adieu to her.
I must admit that I was a bit dodgy during my exit. There were butterflies in my stomach and made me extremely nervous. There is always an emptiness which deserts you during these days. It is like you have a sudden jolt of alzheimer’s.
I scampered across to the nearby auto-stand and managed to grab the attention of a few auto-guys. Unfortunately, I was caught in a tug of war between two guys who desperately wanted me as their first passenger of the day. Finally, one side emerged triumphant and I was glad to get started.
"Where did this all begin?" I asked myself.
I wasn’t referring to the journey to the US consulate, but the journey of my US dream.
It actually started during my high-school days when most of my cousins fled to the "land of opportunities" during the "it" boom. A life in US was an aspiration which kindled the fire in my belly. It was the sole cause of my stellar performance in my board examinations.
The United States of America is probably the only country where talents are recognized without shades of nepotism or bribery. You didn’t have to be the best, you just had to be committed to your job. I have always wondered what the hell were we doing when the US had built a nation with such diligence? The fact is that we were sleeping. One of the few answers that makes sense literally too. Whatever the reason, reality was that the US was the destination that almost every educated indian desired and I was no different.
The reason behind their angst for a life abroad was simple and inevitable. They wanted to be a NRI. No other three letters could give you so much pleasure(of course there is another word). I had always been enthralled by these set of people and wanted to emulate their feats abroad. The luxurious life sans tension and perspiration(climate is good there) was always lucrative for people living in a populous nation with dusty conditions and high level of inefficiency in the system. Pollution in the system exceeded air’s and none seem to bother too much about it. I must say that I too was a stereotyped indian citizen who doesn’t give a damn about the state of the nation.
More than anything else, I felt that the status that the NRI’s enjoy back home is something astonishing. Relatives perceived almost all NRI’s as a person working under bill gates,steve jobs and were totally ignorant of the "crap" you do. The matrimonial profile scales new peaks and parents enjoy a great self-esteem. During the cusp of the "it" boom, there was a slump in the migration but the rate picked up as students started pursuing their masters in a more serious and studious manner.
Getting an admission in an american university wasn’t exactly a cake walk , but it definitely was much easier than I thought. I was fortunate to score 1260 out of 1600 thanks to my affinity towards mathematics(or should I say math). I wasn’t eloquent in english but it was just enough to scrape through in a mediocre university.
"who cares whether it is mediocre,it is in US", this was my reply to friends who ridiculed the university. Deep inside,I knew I was consoling myself and it was a sheer act of escapism as I was rejected by other universities. A pass port with a stamped visa would just be the icing on the cake. Even as I uttered these words, the three wheeled vehicle halted with a jerk.
I was instantly transformed from the dream land consisting of a sea of booze,piles of cash and blessed with gorgeous girls to the sultry land of beggars, snake charmers and piles of cowdung.
"What is it", I inquired the driver . "traffic jam", the driver answered it a blunt and surprisingly in a rather cool manner. Traffic jams in chennai had dissolved completely into the system and people cared least for it. These times would be used for phone conversations, glaring at women and other activities. Every day had it’s own sagas and the traffic situation was nothing but a comedy of errors. Accidents, VIP journeys, riots all had their share in disrupting the harmony on the road.
I was curious to know the reason behind the latest imbroglio. I squeezed my way through the minimal spaces available between the vehicles jammed together. Even a lean frame of mine did not make my task easy. I made my way through to the main road only to see a group of people huddled together. I had an intuitive feeling that it was an accident. I courageously went closer and had a peek at the scene. What I was about to see shocked me to death.
A young man of about my age was clambering for life only to be watched by others. His face was completely shrouded with blood and even "gore" would be an understatement to describe it. It appeared that the person had multiple fractures and was fighting a lost battle. I observed that he was dressed in an outfit similar to mine. I discovered a file lying on the edge of the road which apparently noone had noticed . I tip-toed trying to avoid myself getting the attention of the policemen.
I flipped the file and caught a glimpse of a resume in it.
NAME- C.Vaidhyanathan
COLLEGE- XYZ ENGG COLLEGE

I was filled with dismay. I couldn’t believe my own eyes. I wanted to puke not out of disgust, but of sorrow. Vaidhyanathan was my classmate in my college days. He wasn’t the closest of my friends but we shared a great rapport . there are some people who might not be intimate to you, but there is always a special and soft corner for them. Vaidi was one of those guys.
I rushed to the spot in a phrenetic manner to check on his status. It was too late. He had succumbed to the multiple injuries he had incurred. It was an unbearable pain which emerged from my lower abdomen and went right upto to my upper chest. I couldn’t digest the fact that my friend was nothing but a corpse now. I wanted to cry out aloud but was conscious of other people’s presence.
Meanwhile, an ambulance came in late as usual and took the body(sorry, vaidi’s remains) away with the aid of a stretcher. Ambulances are more like mortuary vans in this nation. I quickly realized that I had to get back to the auto. I couldn’t even envisage the ignominious act of getting late, leave alone skipping it. After a fierce battle between conscience and me, I decided to get in to the auto and head for the consulate.
Back in the auto, I had another glint at vaidi’s resume which I held out in my hand. With every blink of my eye, vaidi’s image flashed across my mind. The times and moments that I cherished haunted me. A life had been snatched by god in a matter of few minutes. Vaidi was heading for an interview and probably ushering into a new life. A moment of negligence had annihilated thousands and thousands of joyful moments perpetually.
I had inquired a person about the tragedy before I had started my journey and learnt that vaidi was travelling in the footsteps of the bus. A small confusion resulted in him being sucked into the wheels. Footstep travel was a daredevil stunt in this part of the country that almost every youngster performed with blithe. It was the most often used puerile way for impressing girls. Even I tried my luck in it when I was younger but my poor athleticism let me down in many instances.
It was quite evident that vaidi’s purse wasn’t heavy enough for an auto fare and the bus didn’t have space enough for a pair of legs. But buses at peak hours seldom did. Accentuated bus frequencies could have prevented the disaster but it was all too late for any thing to be done. Obviously, the conductor of the bus wasn’t shrewd enough to anticipate the ominous scenes to occur.
The auto came to a screeching halt reminding me that I had reached my destination. I quickly got down to pay the auto-guy his fare. I was dumbfounded at the rate he charged. Auto fares in the city had inflated at a greater proportion than the nation’s rate of inflation which in itself was humongous . what the auto-walas didn’t realize that the appraisals of other civilians wasn’t bloating in the nearest of the rates. In fact, at this point, I was contemplating a career in auto.
I had a look at the queue that had lined up near the consulate. It was in it’s premature stages and was building slowly, but surely. I was heading the queue and was probably starting things off on that fine day(or was it a fine one). I was still bruised by the incidents that surrounded me on that day. Even as I was waiting for my chance to go for the security check, I caught notice of a man on the other side of the road. His clothes were tattered and torn and appeared like a man in deep poverty. The stranger, a middle aged man was squatting on his knees and was in a rather unusual posture. He held a coconut shell in his hand and kept it underneath his anus. What was to follow next blew my mind away. I was petrified at the sight that I witnessed.
The man actually, believe it or not was consuming his own excreta. I was in a state of utter disbelief. What made him do a desperate act of extreme human behaviour? I couldn’t empathize with the stranger, or for that matter even vaidi. I strongly feel that sympathy creeps in when there is no room for empathy. But how could I? Putting myself in the shoes of a youngster dying before getting his salary and a beggar forced to commit the most ignominious act of mankind was something beyond my power.
"Excuse me sir,this way please", a man lead me into the consulate prior to the interview. I had to go through a security check where fingerprints of mine were scanned. I was still in the hangover of the incidents that had marred my day. Deep within, I was withering away in extreme emotional pain.
"your documents ,sir", a man asked me in a polite and courteous manner. I almost felt that he had an american accent in his speech. In india, there has always been a case of misinterpretation of fluency and accent. Persons with fluent language sans stylish accent were preferred over affluent people with poor fluency.
Indians abroad had a tendency of aping other accents and in the process, made a fool of themselves. They didn’t seem to realize that they were making caricatures out of it. No wonder, russell peters (a well known stand up comedian who is an indian himself) pulled 2 billion legs in his shows. No doubt, I laughed at his wise-cracks but I had a different feeling inside. In fact, I too had been a hypocrite in this issue.
The entire process was over and I was awaiting the call from the consulate for the interview. As a matter of fact, I had a call from nature at that time. I quickly answered it and came right back and seated myself in an aristocratic sofa present there. I was still cogitating about that stranger.
I have witnessed many a scenes of poverty but this was something that scared me out of my skin. Kwashiorkar suffering children with pot bellies , pregnant adolescent women skinnier than "kareena kapoor size zero look" begging were the regular ones that I had seen in the streets of my city where malls and multiplexes stood tall.
Almost every person was in the wrong impression that the country was heading in the right direction . the fact is that nations don’t develop in sophisticated malls and posh multiplexes, rather they develop in rural and agrarian societies where poverty and illiteracy were the ghosts that seemed to have eluded all exorcists. The socio-economic divide had exceeded the one between castes and religion. Poor man’s necessity had taken a back step to rich man’s luxury.
Vaidi’s death injected a sorrow in me that hitherto I have not experienced in my life. However, the man whom I saw on the road was a total stranger to me. But still, I had the same depression, I had the same feeling of puking not of disgust but of sorrow. Both vaidi and the stranger were victimized by the society.
The desperation behind vaidi and the poverty behind the stranger is something that they couldn’t overcome. Suddenly, my angst for US completely petered out in the most bizarre manner. My life had undergone a complete paradigm shift in a matter of few hours. Suddenly, I didn’t want to become an NRI.
I didn’t want to do menial jobs that fetched money which would put even executives in envy. I didn’t want to miss beloved friend’s weddings and important relative’s funerals. I didn’t want to come back home with "paper mate" pens and lousy chocolates to give away to friends and relatives who have made my life special. I didn’t want to roam around the city with "aqua-fina" bottles criticizing it without a single contribution to the system. Finally, I also didn’t want to speak a few tamil words in between american slangs.
The NRI’s aren’t cynical people. In fact, most of them are extremely talented. The commitments that they have on their shoulders have forced them in migrating. All they want is a life sans tension and perspiration(AC is available here). They have to understand that a luxurious life can be led here too. You just needed a little bit of perseverance and confidence.
The people residing in india havn’t been any kind to the nation either. I too for a large part of my life have been a part of these self-centred civilians who pursue happiness at any cost. I had abstained from voting(of course not for money), driven vehicles in spite of being drunk and havn’t done a single deed for my nation.
I wasn’t thinking of changing the nation. In fact, I would need a million lives for it. I wasn’t "the boss" who eradicated corruption or "the stranger" who terminated people in hill like milieu. However, I was prepared to change myself, probably the best way of changing the nation’s fate.
"MR. SURESH VAIDHYANATHAN", YOU ARE NEXT", the man pointed a finger at the interview room. I rose slowly. I stared at him ,almost motionless, my mind was far away from the consulate. Time was running out. I had to make up my mind.
Back in the auto, I was reliving the moments of that day which was the most eventful one (even now). Flopping in the interview wasn’t a big deal for a person poor in spoken english. I just had to make sure that I didn’t answer their questions in the nearest of contexts and they didn’t comprehend whatever I told them. It was the first instance in my life where I was proud of my blunder. It would remain a secret for a long time.( I had read somewhere that secrets are told to one person……. at a time.) I just was thinking of the people who were in the queue that had become a mutated serpent by the time I left the consulate. Of all deeds for the nation, I wanted to start off by doing one thing. I wanted to go near each person and yell at the highest decibel possible,"wake up, you moron".



( suresh vaidhyanathan got his MBA degree from a mediocre university(in india). He currently works in an investment banking firm(which by the way is not bankrupt). He is one of the well known philanthropists in the city. He is also appearing for the civil services examination… this is his fourth attempt. God knows how many IAS officers fly out the nation every day… in fact only the consulate knows…………)