aditya kumar's weblog

Back in 1994, in New Delhi, my imagination was stirred by a Hollywood movie that I would later go on to watch 5 more times. Jurassic Park was the first Hollywood movie I watched that I completely understood. Maybe it was so because my first viewing of the movie was in Hindi. Besides, I had never managed to watch a complete Hollywood movie before.

Besides introducing a 13 year old boy to the science of cloning, it also introduced me to the rich experience of a Steven Spielberg movie and Computer Generated Imagery but the most profound and long lasting was the effect that Michael Crichton had on me. He was the author of Jurassic Park and there was a world out there to be read.

I had just started reading “The Three Investigators” and my insights into the English language and it’s literature were few. What I was not afraid of was, to pick up stuff that at first glance made little sense for someone my age. Nor was I afraid of picking books that were big in size.

I made my parents buy Jurassic Park, the book. It was a costly purchase, I remember. But more importantly, it was the start of a tradition that would serve me well — to buy books that are later made into movies.

I made myself a promise that from then on I would read every Michael Crichton book. I went on to read The Terminal Man, The Lost World, Airframe, Timeline, State of Fear and Prey. I started reading Sphere but during the course of it I once woke up to a terrifying dream. I could not complete the book. The back cover of “The Terminal Man”, the second Crichton book that I read, informed me that the author’s last name, “Crichton” rhymed with “Frighten”.

As you can see, the effect of Jurassic Park, the movie and then the book, was quite strong.

It has to stop now.

Michael Crichton, October 23, 1942 – November 4, 2008. You will be remembered as a writer who captivated minds. You fired my imagination.

And You will be missed.

On the road, in Goa, found a few names of the same place.

Agacim, Agassim, Agasim, Agacaim

Two of them, on different walls of a Government building.

Hopefully, I will never need to post a letter to anyone there.

I realized I had hit a reader’s block after I read about it somewhere. I was not aware of it’s existence, let alone being in one.

I read for sometime before I go to bed. At least I used to. Its another thing that my daily routine has gone for a toss since the past 6 months. Then I had time but I was not able to focus on a book for long. I had just completed Shantaram and quite honestly, the last part dragged. I was looking forward to read something else. But it persisted — I could not concentrate while reading.

I’ll cut a long story short. The problem, as I found out after much thinking, was Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I had started reading it and did so with all my sincerity and thought I was doing a commendable job too. (I still think that.) But one has to admit, the first thirty pages of a book thousand pages long and written in the 19th century, won’t be, by any means, an exciting read in modern times.

It was kind of okay and things were fine while I was content at flipping 2 pages (of fine print, I must mention) per session. Problems happened when I started to seek other books to read for my daily kick of “modern literature”. So everytime I read “something else”, it was as if Tolstoy was right there, staring at me, reminding me of the 1000 pages of fine print and what lay before me. It was quite overwhelming. Had Aditya, the ever insightful and accurate reader, finally found a match?

Okay, that last line was tongue in cheek.

A phone call to a writer friend eventually helped matters. She told me that I should not think of reading Tolstoy for now. Tell you what — I had this thing in my head for long but was not being submissive about it to myself. So I said it aloud — “Its okay to have a book and not read it for years!.” The already unread books notwithstanding, I went to the bookstore and got myself a Bryson’s book. (“A Short History of Nearly Everything”, highly recommended.) Now, Bryson is easy reading and I should do well not to think of my new found urge to read as a war won but yes, for now, I do want to read.

Oh and how do you judge if you “want” enough? Simple. If while doing things that you normally do when you are not reading (and those must be lots) you find yourself thinking about the book; your thoughts flirting with the subject or the plot — then you should know that you are the reader every writer seeks.

So, while I zip through the pages written by a new found author I intend to read every book of, I must keep in mind that there are books like Garcia’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude” and Ghosh’s “The Imam and the Indian” in my bookshelf and there is much pleasure still to discover as I yearn to go to stories told by writers who have made literature such an essential part of me.

No Goodbyes to all that.

May it bring peace, happiness and love to your home and this world. Happy Deepawali.

Since I have been spending 15 hour days (or nights) at office for the past month, it was, sort of, impending I post at an unearthly hour and that too from my office. It was sort of impending, that I write about my personal experiences lately — something that I usually do not like to but then again, my “intellectual curiosity” and everything else that makes me think (…think some more and then write) has lately been thrown out of the window. So here I am now, 2 AM, on my work desk at office, waiting for the cab to arrive while I listen to U2’s “Even better than the real thing” and write these, mostly and quite literally, senseless words.

Oh well, just when I had thought I will blabber on, my cab has saved you from the rhetoric.

This has been, again, impending.

…I am so deprived of it. I won’t have dinner tonight unless I get some company. I am so bored of having dinner alone. You can imagine…I am writing it here. Oh yes, this is so bloody personal!

The coach was not where it should have been. B1, B2, A1, A2. But not B3. Not a good thing. Specially when valuable time was spent (and lost, as it would turn out later) zeroing in on where one would expect B3 to be. And specially when buying water was overruled in the favor of the dinner parcel that I carried. Water, afterall, was something that was available anywhere. Five minutes to go and I had to turn back — all the way back that is. Amidst the maddening crowd at Bangalore City’s Platform 8, reaching the other end of the train within 5 minutes — well, that would require some running.

The moment I found B3, I sighed in relief. Once in, I kept my stuff and rushed back to the door. There was this chubby, (very) overweight, middle aged man standing on the door, talking to a slightly overweight, another middle aged man standing on the platform.

“I need water”, I said, hinting him to make way but the train moved instead. The man on the outside volunteered — he was not to be on the train. Chuck it, said his friend. “Achcha kaam karne de yaar, mauka mila hai”, came the reply.

“Water, even I don’t have that.”

“All the more reason for me to get some! I’ve been skipping my morning walk, but thats another thing! Let me try!”

Together we looked on. Another marathon at Platform number 8. A train pulling out of the station and a middle aged man, trying hard to overcome the machine to get a stranger and a friend, a bottle of water. We bid him our goodbyes as he lost out, eventually giving up. The look on his face — he was probably cursing himself for skipping his morning walk.

Though I have my doubts if that really made any difference.

Inside, we sat down. Turned out, his seat was across mine. I asked him how much time would it take to reach Londa from Hubli.

“2 hours and a little more”.

“And from Londa to Goa? 3 more, I guess?”

Problem was, one of my long time fantasies was turning to reality. You ever felt, at the last moment of it all, to discard the plans and doing something entirely new? Like, letting go the idea of going to place X, after you have boarded the train and wanting to go to place Y?

God help you if the place you had originally planned for doesn’t fall in the way of your new found adventure streak.

I boarded this train with a ticket to Hubli. I wanted to go to Londa — so I was to extend this ticket. I had to decide what to do at Londa after I board the train. From Londa, I could go to Dandeli, the place I have been planning to go for more than a week now or I could go to Dudhsagar falls. But now, I wanted to go to Goa.

You see, I had suddenly realized how homesick I had been.

Everyone who has ever asked me why I love traveling alone should get a hint now.

After a talk with this gentleman which lasted more than an hour and which merits its own post on this blog, he volunteered to get me some water. He eventually managed some, courtesy of one of the co-passengers that I hadn’t noticed until then. Some water but not enough to make me last the night.

Meanwhile, my indecisiveness was scaling new heights. I knew I had to go to Londa in the morning and I would need to catch a train for that from Hubli. I wasn’t sure of what would follow after that. Of one thing I was sure though — When in doubt, head home and you’ll never regret it. Never.

Thirst drew me to the coach attendant. It was past midnight. I don’t remember being so thirsty, ever. I asked him if he could help me. He stood up, went to the small compartment he kept stuff in and gave me a bottle of water. Asked me to keep it — he had his own, another one.

“Sure?”, I asked.”Sure”, he said.

It took a large, long burst of water before the first signals of a quenched thirst came from my mind. That moment, I gave a long, hard look at the bottle. “Packaged drinking water; The choice of Goa — Aditya”, it said. I read again, the last statement.

Would it be vice-versa, I asked myself.

You bet — something inside me answered back.