There came a sudden Sunday, which gave me another turn in my life. No, it is not for the better, it is for worse. The books are sold to a vendor because Mr. Rao suddenly found that they are useless. A rich couple adopted Shruti. Suman is transferred to an asylum. In just a single day, I find myself even lonelier and life is drearier. There is nothing for me to do, the whole day. Except for the short learning time, when we are supposed to learn the basic science and maths, I spend countless hours sitting by the window, doing nothing, just watching people on the road.
Now, my favorite time is in the mornings and the evenings. There is a school just opposite to our orphanage and in the morning, the entire place is humming and buzzing around with the laughter and chatter of children. How much I long to go to such a regular school. But I never dare to ask Mr. Rao about it. I knew he will sneer about it and then the matter will lead to nowhere.
How sweet it looks when all the children are being escorted by their parents to the school. The fathers and mothers give a gentle kiss to the children before letting them go into the school. In the evenings, the children run into the open arms of their parents who then shower them with kisses. The child then starts recounting its day in the school.
Seeing all this again and again daily, longed me to get parents at any cost. I really have no idea what to do. It was the orphanage’s policy not to keep children once they become ten years old. They are to be shifted to another bigger orphanage which is reputed to be worse than the present one. Till date, nobody has ever been shifted to that place from our one as everybody has been adopted before the age of ten. I, however, posed a threat to this rule and tradition. Because of my crutches, obviously, I was unable to attract parents to take me home. Mr. Rao has already started mocking fun at me calling me record breaking scion as my tenth birthday is fast approaching, just a few weeks later.
There are only a few more precious Sundays left out for me and I try to make the most of them. I try with all my will and might to get someone to take me home. I appear to be quite friendly to them. I want people to say – “A little crippled, so what? Nobody is perfect in this world. Let us take him.” But never did I hear this from anybody. Hope remained hope, moving distant until I began to realize for the first time that perhaps I was hoping for the impossible.
It is the last Sunday before my tenth birthday. I will be shifted to the bigger orphanage in less than a week, in case I don’t find my home today. I become desperate, anxious and tense all at the same time. How can I do something, which I have failed to do all these long years? How do I make the parents realize that there is nothing seriously wrong with the physically handicapped children? How do I make them perceive that a little boldness and a small sacrifice on their part will help give a new life to a young soul?
Sunday evening and I am at absolute peace and bliss. Raju does not come to torment me. Why, you may ask? Like most other stories, does my story also have a happy ending? Perhaps I have got a kindhearted couple who have promised me to get rid of my woes. My dear readers, this is not just a story. It is a life, the life of a poor and wretched boy who is for real and is in flesh.
As I stand on my crutches in the queue waiting for the parents to some and inspect us, I realize it is a sort of ‘do or die’ situation. There are five or six couples today. None of them ventured to look at my tearful face once they saw crutches at my feet. I don’t know what came over me but when the last couple passes by, I just lunge forward and clasp their feet. I shout at the top of my voice.
Sir, please. Madam, please. Kindly take me home with you. It is not a son you are getting. You may look at me as your servant. You need not spend a single pie on my education or leg. I promise I won’t be a burden to you. I will do all the chores of your house.
There are tears in my eyes and this time, I make no effort to wipe them off. I want to show them for the first time in my life. I want to show them how desperately earnest I am. I keep on pleading until the rough hand of Mr. Rao is on me. He shoves me away to a corner and apologizes to the couple. The ‘kind hearted’ people forgive me and move on.
So this Sunday is also not much different from all the other Sundays of my life. But why did not Raju come in the evening to torment me? The answer is, he has been ‘selected’ by the same couple with whom I had pleaded and taken home with them. I frankly do not know how to react now. To be happy that at least he got into a home or to be sad that even the hot-headed Raju had succeeded where I have failed? I have mixed feelings and I frankly don’t know. Try how much I may, I find it difficult to be selflessly happy.
I have seen hundreds of Sundays and thousands of couples in my life. Is there not a single kind soul in the world? Is there nobody to help a wretched boy? Is there no love or humanity? Perhaps the civilization is transiting backward and not forward, as it ought to.
When you read this, perhaps, I am not to be found in the orphanage. There won’t be any frantic searches for me. I have decided long ago, come no matter what may, I will not go to the bigger orphanage. As far as I remember my struggle started here and should end here. May the world not see a similar story in ages to come. May my story be the last of its kind… last of its wretched kind.
THE END
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Mein Kempf (My Struggle) - Part 1
Prelude
This is a story I wrote exactly ten years back. It was the time when I had proposed to one of my friends. I was very confident of a wonderful romantic phase but it did not really turn out as I would have liked it and I was 'broken to pieces'. There, I have told you the reason for the somber mood of the story.
PART 1
How many more days for Sunday? Still two more days, I guess… or is it three days? Let me think. Wait… when was the last chicken serving? Was it yesterday or the day before? I am too tired and exhausted to think any further. I feel a sudden impulse to shake awake the boy sleeping next to me and ask him. But I am very well aware of the consequences that would follow. So I decide against it and try to sleep, turning this way and that.
Sleep never comes easy to me even in the state of utmost turmoil and tiresomeness. I sometimes wonder how all those with me can sleep so instantly, blissfully ignoring all their issues. God is so unkind to me. He has granted me this small little boon either. The good old priest, who comes every Tuesday, tells us that God takes care of all his creations. But I am of the slightest belief that God is taking care of me and I am under His protection.
Sunday turns out to be three days later and it is no different from the numerous Sundays that have come and gone in my life. With hope galore, I look forward for the oncoming Sundays of my life.
Please let me introduce myself. I am a nine year old boy, the oldest in my orphanage. Names really don’t matter as they are seldom used at my place. I am small for my age, thinly built, always hungry and severely malnourished. I wear specs because my eyes have lost much of their natural abilities.
I have not yet described the most dreadful part of my personality. My left leg is absolutely useless. It cannot help me in any way. Rather, it is the biggest burden for me. I walk on crutches. Without them, I am simply a mass of flesh and bones lying around, helpless, wretched and immobile. That is, unless I decide to drag myself on the floor. To summarize, I live the useless life of a handicapped boy, physically and mentally tortured to the whims and fancies of the people around.
Here, I pause to clear off a tear that has sprung up in spite of all my will power to prevent it. I always try to put on a brave face in spite of my infirmity. What should I be sad and sorry for? The priest told me a hundred times that being handicapped is nothing wrong in itself and is definitely not a crime. But, making fun of somebody’s shortcomings definitely is. Why, everybody has his / her demerits. Everybody including Shruti, stupid Shruti. Even though she is full seven years old, she is still unable to read even a single letter. Hot-headed Raju is so arrogant. Suman is so dull that he is treated as a mentally retarded duffer. Then, should I be sad and ashamed of myself for being a cripple when all these people are living happy and peaceful lives? Perhaps no. I have made a very valid point here, haven’t I?
Sundays are always bright and cheerful. It is always a day of celebration in our small place. On this day, prospective parents come looking for children they may adopt and take them home. All the children, there are around a thousand of us, get up early in the morning. There is really no reason for that but we are always very excited. We wash up and dress up in the best of our clothes and are ready for our “parents” when they come looking for us. There is always hope with excitement, tension and apprehension all mixed together. “Our parents” would ask our names, a few questions, perhaps to check our mental balance. In case somebody likes a child, he / she would be made to undergo a few diagnostics. The child is taken only if he / she is satisfying in all respects. The priest explained to me that no person would like to adopt a sick or mentally imbalanced child. He made sure that ‘physical handicaps’ is not a part of the specifications but in due course of time, I became mature enough to understand that.
Though I look forward for Sundays, I also dread them. There were times when I was quite small, I sincerely and seriously hoped that there would be a couple who would like me and take me home with them. I never minded the few doctor tests though I did not know whether I could clear them or not. But then, I began to realize that I had been foolish, very irrational in my thoughts. People would come and smile benevolently at me but I soon realized that once they realize that I am a cripple, there would never be a second look. How I wish I could walk and run like others. Then, I might have found a home by now.
I regularly try all possible tricks and tactics to attract parents towards me. Sometimes, I implore them with my eyes to take me. Sometimes, I pretend to be indifferent willing it to seem to them that it is their good fortune to own me and I am least bothered. Sometimes, I try to introduce myself and initiate the talking. Sometimes I smile, sometimes scorn, one time look at the man, and at others look at woman. But the result was always the same. My crutches always remained with me and betrayed my hopes.
In the evenings, I sit in a corner trying to fight my tears. Raju appears looking for me. He is the bully of the orphanage and I am his favourite past time. He taunts me with his remarks and makes me scream all the bad words I know. He then hits me hard across my face and leave. This has taken place for years and years and now, I kind of got used to it.
I am an avid reader. Though it is not my intention to boast, I will definitely say that I am interested to read anything and everything. I have read all the books that are here in the small attic. There are not many books, though. The Aesop’s fables, the Panchatantra and the Jataka tales are among my favourites. I have gone through the same books again and again many times. The children sleep by 9’o clock and I keep reading for at least two hours after that by the side of a candle. This, perhaps, is the reason for my poor eyesight and consequently, heavy spectacles.
Food time is always welcome in our small place. There is always very little to eat and whatever served is always poor in vitamins. I know the amount of proteins, carbohydrates that a healthy child should take and therefore, I know that the food we eat, never meets the requirements. No wonder, I am so thin, pale and weak. Once a week, chicken is served; but it is only a thin watery soup with no taste whatsoever. I have heard that there are grants from the government for all the orphanages, ours included. But a fat amount always finds a place in the pockets of our orphanage’s in-charge, a fat old man named Mr. Rao.
Many a time, I wonder who my real parents are. What my father did, how did my mother look like? Did they love me? Perhaps they did. No creature in this world hates its offspring. Why did they abandon me? Perhaps they had died of some terrible disease and some kind neighbour must have put me up in this place not wanting me to starve on the roads and die.
I had come to this orphanage when I was quite small. So small that I don’t remember anything of it. Many a time, I try to ask Mr. Rao about my parents. I know he possesses the details but he never obliges me. He scorns off rudely or sometimes angrily rebukes me saying that I am an illegitimate child of a worthless couple. My ears would go red with shame and anger but I am quite helpless. In the worst of the cases, he is impudent to say that my parents had thrown me down the road as soon as they realized that I would not be able to walk without crutches again in my life. I clench my fist and remain silent because I know what follows if I open my mouth.
Mr. Rao is very strict with all of us but I think he is particularly rough with me. One day, Raju taunted me so much that I lost my sense of reasoning. I became stupid enough to pester Mr. Rao to take me to a good doctor who could restore my leg to a proper condition. He sneered at me asking who would pay for the doctor… my father or my grandfather. I replied that the same fellow’s grandfather would pay who pockets all our grants. With that, he sprang on me, snatched my crutch and thrashed me soundly. Then he kept me locked in a room for the whole night without food or water. I thought I would die that night from hunger and exhaustion. God alone knows how I passed that night.
The good old priest who comes to preach us every week, talks about a lot of things. He teaches us that patience is the best gift one possesses and also teaches us how to pray. I try to be good and try to implement all that he teaches us in my daily life. I love the priest and his teachings. I attend to his classes with love and devotion unlike many others who say that his teachings are absolutely useless and impractical. The priest is a kind old man and he sometimes brings me small presents like goodies and candies. I think he has a soft corner for me, my crutches doing the magic again.
I am not alone in this world though. Books are my ‘bestest’ friends. I spend hours and hours with them. I am also good friends with Shruti and Suman. I recite all the interesting stories to Shruti. Suman is my best friend. I know he is incapable of reproducing things, so I confide my innermost feelings in him about Raju or Mr. Rao and others. Barring theses, I have no other friends and my life is mostly eventless.
There are plenty of times when I have serious tummy aches. Perhaps these originate from the deep pangs of hunger that I feel almost every time. Mr. Rao never takes care of us. This following incident happened only two days before. I was severely rebuked by Mr. Rao for disturbing his siesta with my stupid stomach aches. He said he was tired of me and hoped that my ache would kill me. Tears welled up in my eyes when he further told me to go and lie down in a place where the dogs can easily find me to tear me up once I am dead. This was too much for me to bear and I came back to my room taking care not to show my tears to anybody.
Raju taunted me saying whether Mr. Rao had called the city’s best doctor to cure me. I put on a brave face and said that Mr. Rao had given me a medicine and I was already feeling better. Hearing this, Raju retreated hastily. Obviously, he did not expect such a reply from me. I lied down when stupid Shruti came from nowhere. She helped me to lay half way till my waist on the bed and told me to hang down the rest of my body. This would help me to stretch my stomach and would ease the pain. She said she herself practiced this whenever her tummy would ache. Apparently she knew that Mr. Rao did not give me any medicine. God knows how long I lied down like that. I even fell asleep in the same posture.
I desperately want to find a home. I can no longer live in such a hellish place. It is getting more and more unbearable day by day and Mr. Rao more and more rude. The food is absolutely uneatable. The priest talks about the infinite love lying all around, the beautiful life we all possess and all the other lovely things in the world. But I began to feel that all of it is absurd and baseless. There is absolutely no love around me. Sure, I have a life and am living, if life just means staying alive and breathing. I guess life is much more than that. If all lives are same and life is all about living and breathing, then we do we use the term ‘dog’s life’?
To be continued...
This is a story I wrote exactly ten years back. It was the time when I had proposed to one of my friends. I was very confident of a wonderful romantic phase but it did not really turn out as I would have liked it and I was 'broken to pieces'. There, I have told you the reason for the somber mood of the story.
PART 1
How many more days for Sunday? Still two more days, I guess… or is it three days? Let me think. Wait… when was the last chicken serving? Was it yesterday or the day before? I am too tired and exhausted to think any further. I feel a sudden impulse to shake awake the boy sleeping next to me and ask him. But I am very well aware of the consequences that would follow. So I decide against it and try to sleep, turning this way and that.
Sleep never comes easy to me even in the state of utmost turmoil and tiresomeness. I sometimes wonder how all those with me can sleep so instantly, blissfully ignoring all their issues. God is so unkind to me. He has granted me this small little boon either. The good old priest, who comes every Tuesday, tells us that God takes care of all his creations. But I am of the slightest belief that God is taking care of me and I am under His protection.
Sunday turns out to be three days later and it is no different from the numerous Sundays that have come and gone in my life. With hope galore, I look forward for the oncoming Sundays of my life.
Please let me introduce myself. I am a nine year old boy, the oldest in my orphanage. Names really don’t matter as they are seldom used at my place. I am small for my age, thinly built, always hungry and severely malnourished. I wear specs because my eyes have lost much of their natural abilities.
I have not yet described the most dreadful part of my personality. My left leg is absolutely useless. It cannot help me in any way. Rather, it is the biggest burden for me. I walk on crutches. Without them, I am simply a mass of flesh and bones lying around, helpless, wretched and immobile. That is, unless I decide to drag myself on the floor. To summarize, I live the useless life of a handicapped boy, physically and mentally tortured to the whims and fancies of the people around.
Here, I pause to clear off a tear that has sprung up in spite of all my will power to prevent it. I always try to put on a brave face in spite of my infirmity. What should I be sad and sorry for? The priest told me a hundred times that being handicapped is nothing wrong in itself and is definitely not a crime. But, making fun of somebody’s shortcomings definitely is. Why, everybody has his / her demerits. Everybody including Shruti, stupid Shruti. Even though she is full seven years old, she is still unable to read even a single letter. Hot-headed Raju is so arrogant. Suman is so dull that he is treated as a mentally retarded duffer. Then, should I be sad and ashamed of myself for being a cripple when all these people are living happy and peaceful lives? Perhaps no. I have made a very valid point here, haven’t I?
Sundays are always bright and cheerful. It is always a day of celebration in our small place. On this day, prospective parents come looking for children they may adopt and take them home. All the children, there are around a thousand of us, get up early in the morning. There is really no reason for that but we are always very excited. We wash up and dress up in the best of our clothes and are ready for our “parents” when they come looking for us. There is always hope with excitement, tension and apprehension all mixed together. “Our parents” would ask our names, a few questions, perhaps to check our mental balance. In case somebody likes a child, he / she would be made to undergo a few diagnostics. The child is taken only if he / she is satisfying in all respects. The priest explained to me that no person would like to adopt a sick or mentally imbalanced child. He made sure that ‘physical handicaps’ is not a part of the specifications but in due course of time, I became mature enough to understand that.
Though I look forward for Sundays, I also dread them. There were times when I was quite small, I sincerely and seriously hoped that there would be a couple who would like me and take me home with them. I never minded the few doctor tests though I did not know whether I could clear them or not. But then, I began to realize that I had been foolish, very irrational in my thoughts. People would come and smile benevolently at me but I soon realized that once they realize that I am a cripple, there would never be a second look. How I wish I could walk and run like others. Then, I might have found a home by now.
I regularly try all possible tricks and tactics to attract parents towards me. Sometimes, I implore them with my eyes to take me. Sometimes, I pretend to be indifferent willing it to seem to them that it is their good fortune to own me and I am least bothered. Sometimes, I try to introduce myself and initiate the talking. Sometimes I smile, sometimes scorn, one time look at the man, and at others look at woman. But the result was always the same. My crutches always remained with me and betrayed my hopes.
In the evenings, I sit in a corner trying to fight my tears. Raju appears looking for me. He is the bully of the orphanage and I am his favourite past time. He taunts me with his remarks and makes me scream all the bad words I know. He then hits me hard across my face and leave. This has taken place for years and years and now, I kind of got used to it.
I am an avid reader. Though it is not my intention to boast, I will definitely say that I am interested to read anything and everything. I have read all the books that are here in the small attic. There are not many books, though. The Aesop’s fables, the Panchatantra and the Jataka tales are among my favourites. I have gone through the same books again and again many times. The children sleep by 9’o clock and I keep reading for at least two hours after that by the side of a candle. This, perhaps, is the reason for my poor eyesight and consequently, heavy spectacles.
Food time is always welcome in our small place. There is always very little to eat and whatever served is always poor in vitamins. I know the amount of proteins, carbohydrates that a healthy child should take and therefore, I know that the food we eat, never meets the requirements. No wonder, I am so thin, pale and weak. Once a week, chicken is served; but it is only a thin watery soup with no taste whatsoever. I have heard that there are grants from the government for all the orphanages, ours included. But a fat amount always finds a place in the pockets of our orphanage’s in-charge, a fat old man named Mr. Rao.
Many a time, I wonder who my real parents are. What my father did, how did my mother look like? Did they love me? Perhaps they did. No creature in this world hates its offspring. Why did they abandon me? Perhaps they had died of some terrible disease and some kind neighbour must have put me up in this place not wanting me to starve on the roads and die.
I had come to this orphanage when I was quite small. So small that I don’t remember anything of it. Many a time, I try to ask Mr. Rao about my parents. I know he possesses the details but he never obliges me. He scorns off rudely or sometimes angrily rebukes me saying that I am an illegitimate child of a worthless couple. My ears would go red with shame and anger but I am quite helpless. In the worst of the cases, he is impudent to say that my parents had thrown me down the road as soon as they realized that I would not be able to walk without crutches again in my life. I clench my fist and remain silent because I know what follows if I open my mouth.
Mr. Rao is very strict with all of us but I think he is particularly rough with me. One day, Raju taunted me so much that I lost my sense of reasoning. I became stupid enough to pester Mr. Rao to take me to a good doctor who could restore my leg to a proper condition. He sneered at me asking who would pay for the doctor… my father or my grandfather. I replied that the same fellow’s grandfather would pay who pockets all our grants. With that, he sprang on me, snatched my crutch and thrashed me soundly. Then he kept me locked in a room for the whole night without food or water. I thought I would die that night from hunger and exhaustion. God alone knows how I passed that night.
The good old priest who comes to preach us every week, talks about a lot of things. He teaches us that patience is the best gift one possesses and also teaches us how to pray. I try to be good and try to implement all that he teaches us in my daily life. I love the priest and his teachings. I attend to his classes with love and devotion unlike many others who say that his teachings are absolutely useless and impractical. The priest is a kind old man and he sometimes brings me small presents like goodies and candies. I think he has a soft corner for me, my crutches doing the magic again.
I am not alone in this world though. Books are my ‘bestest’ friends. I spend hours and hours with them. I am also good friends with Shruti and Suman. I recite all the interesting stories to Shruti. Suman is my best friend. I know he is incapable of reproducing things, so I confide my innermost feelings in him about Raju or Mr. Rao and others. Barring theses, I have no other friends and my life is mostly eventless.
There are plenty of times when I have serious tummy aches. Perhaps these originate from the deep pangs of hunger that I feel almost every time. Mr. Rao never takes care of us. This following incident happened only two days before. I was severely rebuked by Mr. Rao for disturbing his siesta with my stupid stomach aches. He said he was tired of me and hoped that my ache would kill me. Tears welled up in my eyes when he further told me to go and lie down in a place where the dogs can easily find me to tear me up once I am dead. This was too much for me to bear and I came back to my room taking care not to show my tears to anybody.
Raju taunted me saying whether Mr. Rao had called the city’s best doctor to cure me. I put on a brave face and said that Mr. Rao had given me a medicine and I was already feeling better. Hearing this, Raju retreated hastily. Obviously, he did not expect such a reply from me. I lied down when stupid Shruti came from nowhere. She helped me to lay half way till my waist on the bed and told me to hang down the rest of my body. This would help me to stretch my stomach and would ease the pain. She said she herself practiced this whenever her tummy would ache. Apparently she knew that Mr. Rao did not give me any medicine. God knows how long I lied down like that. I even fell asleep in the same posture.
I desperately want to find a home. I can no longer live in such a hellish place. It is getting more and more unbearable day by day and Mr. Rao more and more rude. The food is absolutely uneatable. The priest talks about the infinite love lying all around, the beautiful life we all possess and all the other lovely things in the world. But I began to feel that all of it is absurd and baseless. There is absolutely no love around me. Sure, I have a life and am living, if life just means staying alive and breathing. I guess life is much more than that. If all lives are same and life is all about living and breathing, then we do we use the term ‘dog’s life’?
To be continued...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Nuc Venture - A Perfect Venture - Part 2
First Day
After a short (and a little boring) talk by the organizers, people started checking into their pre allocated tents when Mr. Bechara Lal (name changed again to protect the identity of the individual) found that his tent was already occupied by some Australians (non – Nucleites). Mr. Lal was with his wife and 10 months’ kid and they had to wait under a tree for 2 hrs till they could finally settle. Nobody got to know what the actual problem was all about but the Lals had to face a considerable discomfort. Problems like this are bound to arise in situations like this but probably Nucleus needed to organize the show better and have a contingency plan in place.
Afternoon saw half of the campers with their boots, goggles and digicams set out towards a distantly visible mountain peak for trekking. Wait! Did I say trekking? Trekking involves mountain climbing, it required ropes, it needs considerable athleticism and above all it is adventurous and fun, isn’t it? Well, that is what around 80% of the people (who were first time campers like me) thought. But TREKKING turned out to be mundane, going half of the distance in a bus and the rest trudging along winding pathways. No doubt, the path was sloping up but we were not climbing, just walking. We were exhausted, legs ached and sweat dripped. Children were unable to keep up and their parents were unable to carry them. The show was a complete flop and everybody was bitter about it later. Aren’t there better things to do rather than walking for 3 km and back? Doesn’t Nucleus need to check this before? We had a little talk with the external trip organizer, Mr. Bala (original identity retained) about it. Aren’t there better areas around to trek? Yes, he said. Then why the hell did he choose this path? He said that the choice was not his. Nucleus had made all the decisions. We thought we would confront the Admin people about this later but later it was booze time and as you might have already guessed, the issue was closed – unresolved.
Second Day
The cream of the entire trip, the MAHA event, the time for which everyone had been talking from a couple of weeks – RAFTING. This was the best part of the entire trip for almost everybody. The day was ‘almost perfect’ but as the popular saying goes – ‘Perfections are never noticed, only imperfections are’. After a truly eventful and much enjoyed day, things were being wrapped up. We had finished rafting over 15 km stretch on the holy Ganges and the last thing of the day was a free jump into the water from a 20 ft rock. Most of us were non swimmers and the organizers were giving us all the necessary tips before the jump. Keep the body straight, don’t tilt sideways, and don’t fold the legs, try to take the plunge in a straight line. It all seemed ridiculously simple and common sense on the rock but off the rock, every piece of advice melted down instantly. We curled into a ball or stretched our hands and the impact with the water down was always painful. The most unfortunate of all was probably Leo, the lion king (this incidentally is the e mail id of that guy). Leo had folded his legs and the impact with the water gave him a severe effect in the lower part of his abdomen. Poor Leo was not even able to walk properly in the rest of the trip. In the night, his tent mates went to the Admin people for some medicinal and professional help and SURPRISE – Nucleus had not thought of this earlier. So there was no medicine. When pressed, the Admin guy in charge gave a Paraceutemol tablet (250 mg), a drug used for normal body aches, with a very sound advice – tell him to sleep. Oh, we had not thought of it. Thanks a million for such a brilliant idea.
Organizing and managing an event is not just about arranging for the journey. It is also about being able to predict the possible and probable emergencies and planning for them. The issue with Leo was quite serious, so serious that Leo had taken 3 days leave after the trip and used medicines for a whole week. Not being prepared for such an emergency is sort of being a failure in managing the event.
That night saw people boozing and puking heavily as it was the last night of the trip. At about 2 AM, there were six of us on the edge of the Ganges sitting on the rocks smoking and shouting gibberish. One of us suddenly decided that he did not have enough swimming during the rafting and got into the water before anybody could realize what was happening. The current was quite strong there and this guy was a non swimmer plus quite drunk and by the time we all came to our senses, it seemed it was too late to do anything. Fortunately, there was a very good swimmer among us (who had till then forgotten that he was) and the rest is history. I understand that there is very little that Nucleus can do in situations of this sort but there is a river barely 100 mts from our tents, booze was there and it is pretty obvious that people are going to get drunk and then cool themselves at the edge of the river. True, we were warned hundreds of times; true, we are old enough to ought to take care of ourselves but again a human life was almost lost that night. What started as fun would have come to a sad and tragic end. To be prepared for the worst unpredicted situations is not a quality that every manager possesses.
Epilogue
Fortunately, there are not many episodes like this, so my piece of literature (thanks for letting me call this) ends before you get bored (if you are not already). There have been quite a many accident Nucleus had been exemplary in handling with and such incidents are out of scope here and hence not mentioned. Please understand that it is not like I had a horrendous time and now I am persuading Nucleus to do away with the idea of Nuc Venture. I too had loads of fun, had found half a dozen very good friends, smoked my first joint and felt very much like Richard Branson must have when he made his maiden trip into skies in a hot air balloon. Nuc Venture would even find a mention in my autobiography (I plan to write one some time). It is just that being a part of the Six Sigma group, I felt that it is part of my job to bring up defects in the process so that we achieve perfection the next time we attempt it.
Looking forward to the Nuc Venture next year.
Three cheers to the Nuc Venture.
Three cheers to Nucleus.
After a short (and a little boring) talk by the organizers, people started checking into their pre allocated tents when Mr. Bechara Lal (name changed again to protect the identity of the individual) found that his tent was already occupied by some Australians (non – Nucleites). Mr. Lal was with his wife and 10 months’ kid and they had to wait under a tree for 2 hrs till they could finally settle. Nobody got to know what the actual problem was all about but the Lals had to face a considerable discomfort. Problems like this are bound to arise in situations like this but probably Nucleus needed to organize the show better and have a contingency plan in place.
Afternoon saw half of the campers with their boots, goggles and digicams set out towards a distantly visible mountain peak for trekking. Wait! Did I say trekking? Trekking involves mountain climbing, it required ropes, it needs considerable athleticism and above all it is adventurous and fun, isn’t it? Well, that is what around 80% of the people (who were first time campers like me) thought. But TREKKING turned out to be mundane, going half of the distance in a bus and the rest trudging along winding pathways. No doubt, the path was sloping up but we were not climbing, just walking. We were exhausted, legs ached and sweat dripped. Children were unable to keep up and their parents were unable to carry them. The show was a complete flop and everybody was bitter about it later. Aren’t there better things to do rather than walking for 3 km and back? Doesn’t Nucleus need to check this before? We had a little talk with the external trip organizer, Mr. Bala (original identity retained) about it. Aren’t there better areas around to trek? Yes, he said. Then why the hell did he choose this path? He said that the choice was not his. Nucleus had made all the decisions. We thought we would confront the Admin people about this later but later it was booze time and as you might have already guessed, the issue was closed – unresolved.
Second Day
The cream of the entire trip, the MAHA event, the time for which everyone had been talking from a couple of weeks – RAFTING. This was the best part of the entire trip for almost everybody. The day was ‘almost perfect’ but as the popular saying goes – ‘Perfections are never noticed, only imperfections are’. After a truly eventful and much enjoyed day, things were being wrapped up. We had finished rafting over 15 km stretch on the holy Ganges and the last thing of the day was a free jump into the water from a 20 ft rock. Most of us were non swimmers and the organizers were giving us all the necessary tips before the jump. Keep the body straight, don’t tilt sideways, and don’t fold the legs, try to take the plunge in a straight line. It all seemed ridiculously simple and common sense on the rock but off the rock, every piece of advice melted down instantly. We curled into a ball or stretched our hands and the impact with the water down was always painful. The most unfortunate of all was probably Leo, the lion king (this incidentally is the e mail id of that guy). Leo had folded his legs and the impact with the water gave him a severe effect in the lower part of his abdomen. Poor Leo was not even able to walk properly in the rest of the trip. In the night, his tent mates went to the Admin people for some medicinal and professional help and SURPRISE – Nucleus had not thought of this earlier. So there was no medicine. When pressed, the Admin guy in charge gave a Paraceutemol tablet (250 mg), a drug used for normal body aches, with a very sound advice – tell him to sleep. Oh, we had not thought of it. Thanks a million for such a brilliant idea.
Organizing and managing an event is not just about arranging for the journey. It is also about being able to predict the possible and probable emergencies and planning for them. The issue with Leo was quite serious, so serious that Leo had taken 3 days leave after the trip and used medicines for a whole week. Not being prepared for such an emergency is sort of being a failure in managing the event.
That night saw people boozing and puking heavily as it was the last night of the trip. At about 2 AM, there were six of us on the edge of the Ganges sitting on the rocks smoking and shouting gibberish. One of us suddenly decided that he did not have enough swimming during the rafting and got into the water before anybody could realize what was happening. The current was quite strong there and this guy was a non swimmer plus quite drunk and by the time we all came to our senses, it seemed it was too late to do anything. Fortunately, there was a very good swimmer among us (who had till then forgotten that he was) and the rest is history. I understand that there is very little that Nucleus can do in situations of this sort but there is a river barely 100 mts from our tents, booze was there and it is pretty obvious that people are going to get drunk and then cool themselves at the edge of the river. True, we were warned hundreds of times; true, we are old enough to ought to take care of ourselves but again a human life was almost lost that night. What started as fun would have come to a sad and tragic end. To be prepared for the worst unpredicted situations is not a quality that every manager possesses.
Epilogue
Fortunately, there are not many episodes like this, so my piece of literature (thanks for letting me call this) ends before you get bored (if you are not already). There have been quite a many accident Nucleus had been exemplary in handling with and such incidents are out of scope here and hence not mentioned. Please understand that it is not like I had a horrendous time and now I am persuading Nucleus to do away with the idea of Nuc Venture. I too had loads of fun, had found half a dozen very good friends, smoked my first joint and felt very much like Richard Branson must have when he made his maiden trip into skies in a hot air balloon. Nuc Venture would even find a mention in my autobiography (I plan to write one some time). It is just that being a part of the Six Sigma group, I felt that it is part of my job to bring up defects in the process so that we achieve perfection the next time we attempt it.
Looking forward to the Nuc Venture next year.
Three cheers to the Nuc Venture.
Three cheers to Nucleus.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Nuc Venture - A Perfect Venture - Part 1
This is a piece I wrote when I was working in an organization called Nucleus Software, India as part of the Six Sigma department. We had these annual outings which were called Nuc Ventures. Our editor in chief wanted me to write something for our annual magazine on our ventures, but ultimately did not like the piece for obvious reasons.
Quality, Six Sigma, CMM, ISO – whatever we call it, it ultimately boils to one thing – Aiming for Perfection. In fact, the word ‘perfect’ is so often used in our day to day life that it has become redundant and lost the real essence. Even with a couple of errors, a person / process gets away termed as ‘perfect’. Even the renowned methodology of Six Sigma has a leeway of 3.4 defects per million opportunities. (For those of you who don’t know, I am in the Six Sigma IBU). I sincerely believe that there is nothing like being ‘almost perfect’ or ‘99% perfect’. It is either that we are perfect or not. Period. Perfection is the dream of many, tried by few and attained by one. We, being the proud employees of a CMM level 5 and a successful Six Sigma implementation company should continue to strive to be the privileged ones. Perfection in our processes, perfection in the execution of ideas, perfection in whatever we do. In this light, do we not need to aim for perfection even in our annual tour called Nuc Venture – perfection in terms of being without any untoward, unpleasant incident? Here, I make a humble attempt to point out a few incidents during our venture without which the entire exercise could have been termed as perfect – ‘The Perfect Venture’.
This would serve two purposes. One, improvising the present process and making it more pleasant and enjoyable the next year. Two, this should definitely make a good reading. I may be insane or a pessimist googling for greyer shades on a rosy canvas as you might probably be thinking now, but like I have said before, the irrationals have always brought and will continue to bring all the progress in the world.
Get…Set…Go
A March Thursday at 9:45 PM in the Nuc campus. There are around 100 people assembled, some chattering, some busy heaving heir luggage into the bus and some smoking (I was in this elite group) and everybody excited – damn excited! It was precisely at this time that some female (why is it always a female) walked to one of the organizers and said that there was no sitting space in any of the buses. A natural Sherlock Holmes, the organizer set out to investigate. After much checking, cross checking and re-cross checking, he let the cat out of the bag. People had reserved seats for their friends and their friends’ friends without bothering to check whether they have already settled down somewhere else blissfully unaware of the chaos they have created. There was one hot punk called Hrithik (name changed to protect anonymity) who had five seats reserved for him while he was cozily settled in somewhere else. There were a lot of changes and dislocations before everybody could be comfortable. A few bright minds put forth an idea that probably the organizers should have allotted seats to each and every voyager in the same way as they had divided Nucleus into five batches. That would have been more interesting and a smart piece of management. That might also have got a few unfortunate people like me a more interesting seat mate rather than a boring and snoring roomie.
In the bus
The fun started at sharp 2200 hrs IST as scheduled and there was a huge collective roar from everybody. Adreline was pumping high, heartbeat was above average for the most and the aimless shouting was soon succeeded by singing. The chartbusters came first, old item numbers came next and the junk in the last. People began to seek the assistance of a secondary device rather than the human throats. Mobile phones did not have the required decibel strength when suddenly Hrithik realized that he had remembered to pack a few CDs, just in case required. ‘Thank God’, ‘Sexy’, ‘Lovely’, everybody was relieved and happy. Then came the jolt, the harshest one of the entire trip. Dadaji (our bus driver who looked as if he was 500 years old) turned back, adjusted his cowboy style hat and said ‘This bus has got no stereo’. ‘Oh No’, ‘My God’, ‘Jesus’, confusion coupled with disappointment mixed with helplessness (have you got a name for this abstract noun?) was writ large on everybody’s face. People started getting restless and boisterous. I had a ghoulish time with my drooping room mate who would occasionally get up, wipe his mouth and ask – ‘where are we?’ Did he expect something like 24 11’ 3” North East on NH 26, 143 km North East to Noida? If only the bus had a stereo, if only we were intimated earlier to arrange for our own audio devices, if only we were more prepared, the reminder of the journey would have been much more pleasant.
“Rational People Adapt Themselves To The Imperfect World.
Irrational People Try To Make The World Perfect.
Therefore, All The Progress Of The World Depends On The Irrational People.”
Irrational People Try To Make The World Perfect.
Therefore, All The Progress Of The World Depends On The Irrational People.”
Quality, Six Sigma, CMM, ISO – whatever we call it, it ultimately boils to one thing – Aiming for Perfection. In fact, the word ‘perfect’ is so often used in our day to day life that it has become redundant and lost the real essence. Even with a couple of errors, a person / process gets away termed as ‘perfect’. Even the renowned methodology of Six Sigma has a leeway of 3.4 defects per million opportunities. (For those of you who don’t know, I am in the Six Sigma IBU). I sincerely believe that there is nothing like being ‘almost perfect’ or ‘99% perfect’. It is either that we are perfect or not. Period. Perfection is the dream of many, tried by few and attained by one. We, being the proud employees of a CMM level 5 and a successful Six Sigma implementation company should continue to strive to be the privileged ones. Perfection in our processes, perfection in the execution of ideas, perfection in whatever we do. In this light, do we not need to aim for perfection even in our annual tour called Nuc Venture – perfection in terms of being without any untoward, unpleasant incident? Here, I make a humble attempt to point out a few incidents during our venture without which the entire exercise could have been termed as perfect – ‘The Perfect Venture’.
This would serve two purposes. One, improvising the present process and making it more pleasant and enjoyable the next year. Two, this should definitely make a good reading. I may be insane or a pessimist googling for greyer shades on a rosy canvas as you might probably be thinking now, but like I have said before, the irrationals have always brought and will continue to bring all the progress in the world.
Get…Set…Go
A March Thursday at 9:45 PM in the Nuc campus. There are around 100 people assembled, some chattering, some busy heaving heir luggage into the bus and some smoking (I was in this elite group) and everybody excited – damn excited! It was precisely at this time that some female (why is it always a female) walked to one of the organizers and said that there was no sitting space in any of the buses. A natural Sherlock Holmes, the organizer set out to investigate. After much checking, cross checking and re-cross checking, he let the cat out of the bag. People had reserved seats for their friends and their friends’ friends without bothering to check whether they have already settled down somewhere else blissfully unaware of the chaos they have created. There was one hot punk called Hrithik (name changed to protect anonymity) who had five seats reserved for him while he was cozily settled in somewhere else. There were a lot of changes and dislocations before everybody could be comfortable. A few bright minds put forth an idea that probably the organizers should have allotted seats to each and every voyager in the same way as they had divided Nucleus into five batches. That would have been more interesting and a smart piece of management. That might also have got a few unfortunate people like me a more interesting seat mate rather than a boring and snoring roomie.
In the bus
The fun started at sharp 2200 hrs IST as scheduled and there was a huge collective roar from everybody. Adreline was pumping high, heartbeat was above average for the most and the aimless shouting was soon succeeded by singing. The chartbusters came first, old item numbers came next and the junk in the last. People began to seek the assistance of a secondary device rather than the human throats. Mobile phones did not have the required decibel strength when suddenly Hrithik realized that he had remembered to pack a few CDs, just in case required. ‘Thank God’, ‘Sexy’, ‘Lovely’, everybody was relieved and happy. Then came the jolt, the harshest one of the entire trip. Dadaji (our bus driver who looked as if he was 500 years old) turned back, adjusted his cowboy style hat and said ‘This bus has got no stereo’. ‘Oh No’, ‘My God’, ‘Jesus’, confusion coupled with disappointment mixed with helplessness (have you got a name for this abstract noun?) was writ large on everybody’s face. People started getting restless and boisterous. I had a ghoulish time with my drooping room mate who would occasionally get up, wipe his mouth and ask – ‘where are we?’ Did he expect something like 24 11’ 3” North East on NH 26, 143 km North East to Noida? If only the bus had a stereo, if only we were intimated earlier to arrange for our own audio devices, if only we were more prepared, the reminder of the journey would have been much more pleasant.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
My Love, My Life - Part 2
We first met in the college canteen when I was in the second year of my engineering. She has just joined the college at that time. She had inadvertently said ‘Good Afternoon, Sir’ and I had nodded without looking at her. But there was something in her voice that had first attracted me. I abruptly turned and there she was. In a red salwar kameez, she looked lovely.
I think it was about a year later; she proposed. We were quite good friends at that time. We were sitting in a Barista with a cold coffee each, and her friends walked in. She had appeared shocked; apparently she did not want us to be spotted by them. But they anyway saw us and came to our table. Though inwardly beaming, I was surprised when she started talking about me as if we had been together for decades, in front of them. She had addressed me as ‘Honey’ and ‘Darling’. Later, when I demanded an explanation, she had said that she always liked me and it was then that she proposed. Only after a couple of more years, I came to know that the ‘chance’ meeting in Barista between us and her friends was pre-orchestrated.
She was always like that. Highly unpredictable. Her mood swings too, were very volatile. But I still loved her. Must say, with all my heart. She was a very ambitious girl. In fact, the most ambitious I have ever known. She always had exceptionally high hopes. Always planned to go higher and higher. Scale up new peaks. And she would never bask in her glories. By the time she had achieved a goal, there would be tens of others lined up. She always used to say, “Enjoying a success is sweet. But that brings complacency. Complacency destroys a human being. Instead of relishing the taste of success, we should work towards the next”.
We had detailed our life together for the next fifty years or so. During the first five years after college, our focus would be on our career alone. Climb higher and higher, faster and faster, up the corporate ladder, earning both money and experience. Then, get married and start an establishment of our own. We had gone into the smallest of the details, and came up with the blueprint for our entire lives. Then, how can this go wrong now? Was there a problem which threatened us so bad that all of it had to change so suddenly and drastically? And, if there was one, why did not she want to talk it over rather than deciding something on her own?
Life is a race, dear; she had always said. Emerging victorious is always about making choices. Make the right choice at the right time with the right set of people. This is what keeps a winner and a loser apart. So that was what I had been to her all the time. Just a choice, isn’t it? Am I just extrapolating and being paranoid? I don’t know. But this seemed to be making lot of sense at the moment.
Strangely, now, after a whole day, I am not angry. I am not disappointed. I am just disgusted. Disgusted with the people around, disgusted with their mad rush to be somebody / something in life, disgusted with the place called world. I no longer want to be a part of this world. I want to be a non-entity. I want to cease existing. Not a very courageous person physically, I am surfing the Internet for the least painful way of doing it. God willing, I would come into this world again as a more practical and lesser emotional individual. Amen!
THE END
I think it was about a year later; she proposed. We were quite good friends at that time. We were sitting in a Barista with a cold coffee each, and her friends walked in. She had appeared shocked; apparently she did not want us to be spotted by them. But they anyway saw us and came to our table. Though inwardly beaming, I was surprised when she started talking about me as if we had been together for decades, in front of them. She had addressed me as ‘Honey’ and ‘Darling’. Later, when I demanded an explanation, she had said that she always liked me and it was then that she proposed. Only after a couple of more years, I came to know that the ‘chance’ meeting in Barista between us and her friends was pre-orchestrated.
She was always like that. Highly unpredictable. Her mood swings too, were very volatile. But I still loved her. Must say, with all my heart. She was a very ambitious girl. In fact, the most ambitious I have ever known. She always had exceptionally high hopes. Always planned to go higher and higher. Scale up new peaks. And she would never bask in her glories. By the time she had achieved a goal, there would be tens of others lined up. She always used to say, “Enjoying a success is sweet. But that brings complacency. Complacency destroys a human being. Instead of relishing the taste of success, we should work towards the next”.
We had detailed our life together for the next fifty years or so. During the first five years after college, our focus would be on our career alone. Climb higher and higher, faster and faster, up the corporate ladder, earning both money and experience. Then, get married and start an establishment of our own. We had gone into the smallest of the details, and came up with the blueprint for our entire lives. Then, how can this go wrong now? Was there a problem which threatened us so bad that all of it had to change so suddenly and drastically? And, if there was one, why did not she want to talk it over rather than deciding something on her own?
Life is a race, dear; she had always said. Emerging victorious is always about making choices. Make the right choice at the right time with the right set of people. This is what keeps a winner and a loser apart. So that was what I had been to her all the time. Just a choice, isn’t it? Am I just extrapolating and being paranoid? I don’t know. But this seemed to be making lot of sense at the moment.
Strangely, now, after a whole day, I am not angry. I am not disappointed. I am just disgusted. Disgusted with the people around, disgusted with their mad rush to be somebody / something in life, disgusted with the place called world. I no longer want to be a part of this world. I want to be a non-entity. I want to cease existing. Not a very courageous person physically, I am surfing the Internet for the least painful way of doing it. God willing, I would come into this world again as a more practical and lesser emotional individual. Amen!
THE END
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Love, My Life - Part 1
Why am I not born deaf? I would not have heard the terrible news. Why am I not retarded? I would not have comprehended what is happening. Millions of people die of a heart failure every day. Oh please, sweet lord, the omnipotent one, can’t I just drop dead? Why am I being made to suffer like this? Can I carry on the arduous task of ending my own life? Why haven’t You given me the courage to do it? What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to react? Do I need to find solace with my friends? Will they laugh at my face? Or will they be kind and sympathetic? But what do I need sympathy for? Am I really in need of sympathy? Or is it just that I am over-reacting? There must surely be something about this, let me think. Did I ever get so upset in my 27 years of existence? When my grand father died 5 years ago, yes, I was upset. Truly and terribly upset. Had been quite close to him, he was a good old man. But I had her then, on my side, to look after me, to care for me and to see me get going again. Now that she herself has given me a jolt, whom should I go to? Whom should I confide in? Everything is so conflicting. My brain is refusing to take in the pressure of thinking. Yes, I have lost the sense of thinking clearly. Was I weeping? I don’t know. But my co-workers in the office had become silent. So silent that I was able to hear my thoughts. Or was I thinking aloud? Was I talking to myself? No way to tell. How could she do this to me? Wait. There must be something wrong. This cannot happen. I was in office for 14 hours at a stretch and this probably impaired my hearing. What actually did she say? What did we talk? Let me recollect.
She calls me when I am in the weekly meeting with my team. Reviewing the team’s performance over the past week, coming up with areas of improvement, patting the backs of the super achievers, a kind word or two to the rest – I must admit that I am a little busy. I cut the call and dial her number as soon as I can find time to squeeze in a smoke. With a lit cigarette in hand, I start the conversation with my trademark ‘Hi doll’. She starts with a ‘Sorry’ for not being in touch lately. I know she will say that. It has been more than two weeks since we talked and she has not responded to my innumerable calls and smses. I remember attributing this to her busy schedule and deciding to give her a little space and time instead of pestering her to talk with me.
A little blah blah, the usual stuff and she says that she has something important to talk about. I sort of shouted ‘WHAT’, in fact, loud enough to alarm my co-smokers. I also remember arguing a little childishly with her – “What is the matter? How can you do this to me? Does he earn more than me? Is he more handsome? Have we not clearly planned what we want to do this year, the next and the year after that? Focus on your career, you had said. You always had high hopes. You wanted us to be entrepreneurs. You said that we would be employers rather than being mere employees. Have I gone wrong somewhere sometime? Did I, anytime, give you a feeling of insecurity? Are you joking by the way? Trying to take pleasure from my discomfort?”
I throw a flurry of questions. An avalanche of unanswered ones. She does not say anything. Not a word. There is an absolute silence from her side – enigmatic and unbearable. I say HELLO thrice before hearing her voice again. She says,” I am sorry, but there is nothing to talk about. Can’t you see; I am married now? I am somebody else’s wife. Can you hear that? I thought it is better that I call you up and inform about my marriage rather than somebody else doing it. I really don’t need to justify myself nor should you go raving about it. We can always be good friends, like we were, once upon a time. Good bye.” An audible click and a million dreams shatter. Good friends. Was it all that we were to each other?
I am still not able to comprehend what is happening. I cannot help run all the good times we have had over the last five years. In the process, I also try to retrospect if something has always been wrong between us. Surely, I must have faulted somewhere. Else, she will definitely not do this to me. I hate giving her the benefit of doubt, but, I cannot help it.
She calls me when I am in the weekly meeting with my team. Reviewing the team’s performance over the past week, coming up with areas of improvement, patting the backs of the super achievers, a kind word or two to the rest – I must admit that I am a little busy. I cut the call and dial her number as soon as I can find time to squeeze in a smoke. With a lit cigarette in hand, I start the conversation with my trademark ‘Hi doll’. She starts with a ‘Sorry’ for not being in touch lately. I know she will say that. It has been more than two weeks since we talked and she has not responded to my innumerable calls and smses. I remember attributing this to her busy schedule and deciding to give her a little space and time instead of pestering her to talk with me.
A little blah blah, the usual stuff and she says that she has something important to talk about. I sort of shouted ‘WHAT’, in fact, loud enough to alarm my co-smokers. I also remember arguing a little childishly with her – “What is the matter? How can you do this to me? Does he earn more than me? Is he more handsome? Have we not clearly planned what we want to do this year, the next and the year after that? Focus on your career, you had said. You always had high hopes. You wanted us to be entrepreneurs. You said that we would be employers rather than being mere employees. Have I gone wrong somewhere sometime? Did I, anytime, give you a feeling of insecurity? Are you joking by the way? Trying to take pleasure from my discomfort?”
I throw a flurry of questions. An avalanche of unanswered ones. She does not say anything. Not a word. There is an absolute silence from her side – enigmatic and unbearable. I say HELLO thrice before hearing her voice again. She says,” I am sorry, but there is nothing to talk about. Can’t you see; I am married now? I am somebody else’s wife. Can you hear that? I thought it is better that I call you up and inform about my marriage rather than somebody else doing it. I really don’t need to justify myself nor should you go raving about it. We can always be good friends, like we were, once upon a time. Good bye.” An audible click and a million dreams shatter. Good friends. Was it all that we were to each other?
I am still not able to comprehend what is happening. I cannot help run all the good times we have had over the last five years. In the process, I also try to retrospect if something has always been wrong between us. Surely, I must have faulted somewhere. Else, she will definitely not do this to me. I hate giving her the benefit of doubt, but, I cannot help it.
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