Thank You, Orkut!

Those who use it regularly, swear by it. Those who don't, just can't stop finding faults with it. Thats Orkut for you. One line that suits perfectly for this site is "You either love it or hate it; but you can't just ignore it." The general opinion of the public (read parents & moral policing brigade) about Orkut is not good. Youngsters are forever hooked onto this networking site and while away their time by constanly chatting with friends or participating in community forums. This addiction weans them from studies and other activities. Therefore, the parents especially, feel that Orkut is dangerous. The recent events highlited in the media regarding some teenagers being victims of attrocious crimes at the hands of their "Orkut friends" has only re-inforced this notion.
But then, I tend to disagree. I have always found Orkut highly useful in may ways. I have got several rare-to-find songs from song sharing communities and read numerous interviews of Sachin Tendulkar in his fan club community which I, otherwise, would have probably missed. Not to mention the enormous way in which Orkut was beneficial for the knowledge that I shared and acquired in IIT-JEE aspirants' groups. And, then of course, I get to remain in touch with my old friends. Some of them have even shifted to other countries, but still, they are just one scrap away.
And I'll be forever indebted to Orkut for one thing more than others and that is I got to interact with my favourite star through this net-working site. (Well, I must admit that I am lucky because, generally, famous actors & film personalities don't interact with fans on social networking sites. But then, Satish Rajwade has always been an exception, or rather, I should say 'exceptional'; I have been, I am and will always be his biggest fan.) Interacting with him and his fellow-fans has given me friendships I am gonna treasure for life. That I get to talk with The Satish Rajwade is an honour in itself. To top it all, being 'his friend' is something for which I still pinch myself often to make sure I am not imagining all this. A couple of his other fans have become one of my best friends ever. Bonds were formed even without meeting one another. And they will be cherished for years to come.
For those numerous songs, videos, inteviews and pictures; for those questions and answers; for being able to retain those age-old friendships; and for those that were born, nurtured, evovled and cherished in this site (including that with my hero), I say, over and over again -
Thank You, Orkut...!

The wait for Vikrant is eternal...

There are times when I despise having to stay in a hostel with no net connection in my room… There have been times when I’ve wanted to blog desperately but couldn’t do so… (You might say that I could have paid a visit to a nearby net café but time constraint in such over priced cyber cafes and blog-writing don’t gel in harmony for me at least!)
30th October, 2009 tops the list of such times…
A few minutes ago, I sat down resolutely to write this post; I finished the first paragraph and now I am unable to type any further…Not that I don’t know what to write; it’s just that I don’t know how to write it… I type something and then back-space it all… I mean, where the hell do I start from? A million events and their dates create a pandemonium in my head…!
30th Oct, 2008… he came slowly in that white shirt… filling the screen gradually with his presence… that mesmerizing voice called out; making goose bumps erupt all over… No wait! Rewind to 22nd Oct, 2008… that name flashed on the screen after ages… I had waited with blind faith for that moment; closing my eyes, refusing to see a substitute title during those months in between… Nostalgia clouds my eyes…
And in a flash the memories come rushing back… the police officer who dropped Shubhra home… did anyone suspect then that he would eventually become the most loved persona ever?... He went on to flay everyone with his wit, dedication and charm… those but-we-are-still-just-boys scenes with Abhi… the loyalty he showed towards his mentor… the honesty he maintained in his relationships…
Oh! How I wish I would not have recalled the day he recounted his life story to Dr. Samant or that 5th March phone conversation with Priya coz I knew these already moist eyes would leak like they are doing now; like they do always… but what can I do? His own tear-stained face swims before my eyes… I couldn’t hold those damn tears back while watching it the first time, I cannot hold them back now nor will I ever be able to… Each of the million hearts that watched him on these occasions is sure to have bled profusely watching him in despair…!
And those very million souls pleaded and prayed for his return when he disappeared all of a sudden in July! Don’t I remember myself refusing to believe that he had gone? Don’t I remember hoping and praying, that he returns, every single day when I closed my eyes during the title track? It was as if we could bring him back just by willing that he would…
And he did. Like a crescendo he emerged out of the dark... And she stood there; her eyes moistening with joy while trying to take in his presence in one glance; not daring to blink lest he disappears as if a hallucination… "Kuthe hota itke divas?" "Mala parat asa sodun tar janaar nahit na?" Those very questions, those very emotions beat a hundred times louder in our hearts… Whatever she said and expressed was as if our feelings were being personified… Nobody will deny that they too wanted the last question answered first… Was it God-willed that he could not answer the question at that time…?
27th Dec, 2008 – He handed a brown envelope to Chandu and walked away with his back turned into the darkness; never to return… They said that his bike was found in the valley, sans his body though… And there she was… crying… each of his memories engulfing her… But unlike 30th Oct, this time, I was not sure she echoed my feelings… No, this time around, her portrayal of grief felt somewhat diminished before what I was feeling… Coz somehow, I knew that he would never again return…
He was gone… forever…
Throughout my post so far, I’ve not once mention him by his name… Vikrant. Inspector Vikrant Bhosle. I was not talking about Satish Rajwade. Don’t confuse between the two. I was talking about my Vikrant, your Vikrant, our Vikrant…!
I am so sorry, Sir. You said never to mention that serial again… But, Sir, this not about the serial; this is about Vikrant. Though Vikrant was a character, he was not limited to the confines of that show. Coz he was never just ‘a character’. He was real… for us. He lived… for us. He breathed… for us. Whatever they might have showed, he is not dead… not for us, at least! As far as we are concerned, he lives on… in our psyche. And he always will… forever…
And that is why, Sir, in the last week, when you turned around, wearing that same uniform in Agnihotra, a hundred hearts rejoiced; those hearts which always wait, searching for him… And till it became clear that the name is Inspector Dushyant, there might not have been a single soul who will deny that they wanted his name to be Vikrant. As my friend Niha put it that day, "Even though I know that it is legally not permissible, how I wish his name be Vikrant Bhosle!"
All of us are very happy and extremely grateful to see you back on screen again, Sir! But at the same time, I feel a bit guilty. Coz, somehow, whether knowingly or unknowingly, we will always search for our Vikrant in Inspector Dushyant! I know it is unfair on our part. But we cannot help it. Whenever we come across the name ‘Vikrant’, or when we see a police inspector, with a pang, we think of our Vikrant. As I have said before, he will continue to live forever in our minds…
At every mention of that name, with every sight of that uniform, with every whisper of that voice, the heads will turn; the minds searching… searching for that comforting presence, that reassuring smile, that mesmerizing voice, that irresistible charm… We’ll never stop looking for him… The wait for Vikrant is eternal…

May I please have your autograph, Sir?

The prestigious IIT-JEE is conducted on the second Sunday of April every year. Yesterday, 12th April ’09 was my second attempt at the JEE (Oh! Don’t ask me about how the paper was; nightmares are best not revisited!). My earlier nightmare – I meant – my first JEE attempt was last year, on 13th April ’08. As I write this, I realize that exactly a year has passed since I had a chanced privilege of meeting one of my most favourite personalities in the world!
Satish Rajwade is one of the most acclaimed names of Marathi cinema today. A director par excellence, nay even more than excellent; a gem of an actor, an apt editor – Satish Rajwade has emerged; a brilliant filmmaker who makes the stalwarts proud. I become acquainted with this name through the TV show Asambhav. Every night at 8:30 PM (except for Sundays), ‘Digdarshak Satish Rajwade’ would arrive bringing with him a wave of thrills, an exclamation of awe and half an hour of pure, intelligent entertainment. I would be trapped in Asambhav’s surreal world; watching enchanted though the tilted camera frames, the somber yet contrast lighting, the clear expressions, the detailed yet subtle actions; this precision that constituted Satish Rajwade’s direction. And watching him enact Vikrant, I could have described bliss and ecstasy had words not fallen short!
Hang on – I can easily compete the Mahabharat if I continue writing about his work; I better get back to the main incidence – so, what was I saying? Oh yeah – It was the date of the great JEE 13th April, 2008! Two years worth of preparation tested during two papers of three hour duration each (This can be a little frustrating, I tell you. I mean you study like a dog for 2 to 3 years and they judge you based on your performance in only 2x3 hours; phew!) Anyway, the point is, we were finally free! (Though we had other entrance exams remaining, that evening was earned for relaxing and rejoicing!) I and my best friend Apoorvaa headed for her home in Vile Parle east straight from the exam centre. We dumped our bags and stationary on her sofa and immediately left for an evening stroll.
Now, Vile Parle east (or simply Parle, as it is more commonly called by its inhabitants) is a quaint little “village”. And I am saying so because, like a village, it is sleepy and has a minuscule population due to which it appears as if all Parlekars know each other and the probability of bumping into any known 'Parlekar' is very high. Anyone who has been brought up in Parla simply loves walking through its maze of lanes and by-lanes and I am no exception. So basically, I want to convey that I and Apoorvaa were enjoying a lazy, lengthy evening stroll when all of a sudden, Apoorvaa gave me a mighty push in the opposite direction and said “Jaa. Lavkar jaa.”
The human mind is the fastest computer in existence. In the next fraction of a second, my brain seeked answers to my best friend’s hitherto-unseen, strange action. It searched for probable explanations for anybody or anything she might have encountered which or whom I would like to see and found one most likely answer. Simultaneously, it registered the surroundings where we were standing, requested for a match and received one – on Prarthana Samaj Road, diagonally opposite to Satish Rajwade’s house.
“Kuthe disat aahet tula Satish Sir?” I asked Apoorvaa, looking around at the same time. In answer, she mutely pointed in the opposite direction. I turned to see a man walking along with a small boy a few steps away from me. Even with his back turned, there was no mistaking him. I, Satish Rajwade’s greatest fan, was seeing him in person for the first time!
Now it was my turn to make Apoorvaa almost lose her balance as I pulled her after me. “Chal. Lavkar chal.” I urged. Quietly, we trailed Satish Rajwade who was walking ahead with his kid son. “Damn! I forgot the autograph book in my bag in your house!” I exclaimed, slapping my hand on my forehead. Believe me or not, I used to always carry an autograph book with me with the sole hope that I might, just in case, get to meet Satish Rajwade anywhere in Parla. (There are only 3 people on this earth whose autographs I have longed for – Dr. Abdul Kalam, Sachin Tendulkar and Satish Rajwade). On that exam day too, I had perfectly remembered (more out of a habit) to take that autograph book along with me. But now, when my favourite film-maker was trotting a few paces ahead of me, it was most conveniently lying in my bag on Apoorvaa’s couch and I was cursing myself for it! “Its okay” I consoled myself, “If not the autograph, I can at least go and talk to him and tell him how much I admire him.” I had started scrapping Satish Sir on Orkut since the past month and half. I had written to him describing how much I idolized him. But meeting him in person and telling it would be another honour in itself.
As luck would have it, a few steps later, near the market, Satish Rajwade marched his son into a men’s salon. We waited on the opposite side of the road, debating. If he had gone to get a haircut for himself or his son, it would surely take minimum 10 minutes, if not more, we reasoned. It was time enough to buy a new autograph book in the market. Thankfully, Parla’s most famous stationary shop, The Jawahar Book Depot, was not far away and we ran to it. After frantically rejecting a number of notepads, diaries, slam books and dull plain autograph books, I finally found a good design. I also bought a good pen and then we hurried back and again stood waiting.
“Ey Apoorvaa, ti autograph book tu pudhe kar. Tula mahiti aahe ki mi patkan bolu nahi shaknaar.” I requested my friend. “Aga pan tujhi autograph book aahe, majhi nahi. Autograph tula havay. So tu maag.” She protested. (Apoorvaa is a Satish Rajwade admirer too, but not as much as me; she happens to be a big Shahrukh fan instead.) “Nahi. Apoorvaa, please agodar tu majhyasathi autograph maag. Mag mi bolen tyanchyashi.” And before I could decide on what I was going to say to the person whom I admire and respect so much, the door of the salon re-opened and Satish Rajwade came out with his young son (for all those interested - it was the son who had had a haircut.)
He crossed the road and I waited with bated breath as he approached.
“Umm.. Could we have your autograph please?” Apoorvaa held up the book while I peeped from behind her back.
“Yeah. Sure.” He obliged us, smiling.
Before he took the autograph book and the pen, he took care to make his son stand safely on the footpath while explaining to him "Hya 2 tai aahet na, tyanchyashi boluya. Tu ithe 2 minta ubha raha." I chanced a glance at the kid. I tell you, Ranveer Rajwade would be one of the sweetest and most innocent looking children I've ever seen.
"Naav kay?" Satish Rajwade asked Apoorvaa; instead of just signing his name like many others do, he wanted to personalize it by writing down his fan's name.
"Ruchi" I and Apoorvaa replied in chorus, with Apoorvaa glancing back and pointing towards me.
"Nahi. Ticha nahi. Tuza naav kay?" he asked Apoorvaa. Clearly, he felt that since Apoorvaa had offered the book, it must belong to her.
"Ti majhi autograph book aahe!" I said, almost indignantly.
"Oh okay, Ruchi." he smiled.
My indignant outburst and Satish Rajwade's humility made me shed my apprehensions. I took a step forward and spoke earnestly, "Sir, mi tumchi khup mothi fan aahe."
"Thank you.", he smiled back.
"Umm... Sir, tumcha Orkut var ek fan club aahe na?", I asked.
"Ho aahe." he replied, signing the book.
"Sir, to mi chalu kela aahe."
"Oh! Tu chalu kela aahes hoy!". I felt proud to see him flash his genuine, wide smile at this relevation.
"Ruchi, tu Parlyat rahates ka?", he asked me further. Now, I am not sure, but I am guessing that he remembered my scrap to him about 3 weeks before asking whether he was from Parle Tilak Vidyalaya school or Madhav Rao Bhagwat school since he was a Parlekar and this might have prompted him to ask this question. If it is indeed so, then really, hats off to him for remembering one tiny scrap from a one of his countless fans.
"Actually Sir, mi Parlyat nahi Andherit rahate. But you can say mi Parlyat jagte. Majhi shala, college, classes, friends, relatives - sagla Parlyat-ch aahe. Mi generally Parlyat-ch padik aste. Tyamule mi half-Parlekar aahe. Fakta ithe rahat nahi." I answered back timidly.
"Oh, alright!". Still smiling in a very genuine way, he handed the autograph book and the pen back to me.
"So Ruchi... it was really very nice meeting you", he added, shaking my hand!
"It was nothing short of a great honour meeting you, Sir." It was hard to keep away the happiness in my voice.
"Thank you so much, Ruchi. Be in touch."
"Yes, Sir. Thanks a lot!", I gushed as he caught hold of his son's tiny hand and walked away to his home.
I glanced at the autograph in my hand. He had written "To RUCHI" and had underneath signed his name. I was ecstatic on noting one obvious similarity in the way Sir and I signed our names. Both of us write the first letters of our names and surnames in Devnagri script followed by English alphabets.
I went home and recounted my experience to whoever who (whether or not they wanted to) would listen - to my parents, Apoorvaa's parents, my friends, my South Indian neighbour (even though she had not heard of Satish Rajwade), my Orkut friends, my cousins etc.!
Now, a year has passed since I first met Satish Sir. Back then, he did not know me. Over these months, he has come to recognise the name Ruchi More! The next time I meet him, I don't think I'll have to tell him that I am the owner of his fan club when I introduce myself! There was something different about meeting him in person. I mean, I might have been be impressed by the way he carries himself on screen but it was nothing compared to what I felt when he stood before me. There is an air of confidence and the essence of humility about him which struck me more than usual. Yes, I was a fan even before I met him. Yes, I admired him enough to open his fan club even before that evening. But somehow, this chance encounter with him made me admire him even more. I cannot put a finger to exactly what makes me say this; I cannot describe it. But somehow, that evening, my respect for him increased multifold. There would be nothing better that getting the honour of interacting with my inspiration at least once again in this lifetime!
That book with Satish Sir's autograph in it is one of my most treasured possessions! It's something which I am going to cherish for the lifetime. Till date, even the pen with which Sir had signed the book has been kept preciously along with the autograph!

It is NEVER my mom's fault

She has, for as long back as I can remember, shouted at me on every alternate day of my life to organize my wardrobe. One fine morning I discover that her wardrobe has become a bit untidy. Yippee! Now’s my chance to payback. “Mom”, I shout, “Your wardrobe’s messy. Clean it at once”, I say with a good imitation of hers. “Shut up”, she shouts right back. “I go to work every morning. I come back and prepare food. I keep running behind you guys all the time. It is completely justified if it gets disorganized once in a blue moon. On the other hand, what work do YOU have? Nothing. And look at the state of YOUR cupboard. Resembles a garbage bin. Go clear it up RIGHT NOW.”

Sounds familiar? I could bet my entire left toe (I need the leg) that scenes of such kind repeat themselves in almost every household. I doubt that there’ll be anyone (at least anyone my age) who’ll disagree when I say that mothers have this unique ability of never accepting their mistakes (especially those faults which they keep shouting at us for) and instead they blame it others. No mother is an exception. Mine is a case study.

So here I am listing 3 exceedingly outrageous incidences when my mother outdid her own self in this witty game of denying and blaming that only moms know how to play.

1.)  Dated: 15.10.2010

Mom wanted to feed me 'Goud (sweet) Shira'. I told her to wait a moment till I could finish typing. But maternal instincts over-powering her, she took a large helping in a spoon and bent over to feed me. But before I could even open my mouth, she ended up spilling it all over my laptop. The excessively ghee-soaked shira not only managed to get in every nooks and crevices of my laptop's keyboard but also coated my laptop screen with oil.

BUT IT WAS NOT HER FAULT.

One look at my face, she knew I was too angry to even scream at her. To cover up her folly, she tripled her normal volume and informed me that I was stupid to sit with the laptop on the sofa! She went on and on about how laptops should never be used while sitting on a sofa.

Oh, yeah right. Where did I get the incorrect notion that laptops were invented so that one could carry them around as per comfort? How exceedingly stupid of me! Not Mom’s fault at all; all mine, all mine! D’uh !

2.)  Dated: 28.10.2010

My matchbox-sized MP3 player was kept on my bed. Mom came from office and unceremoniously dumped her purse, dupatta etc on my bed (as usual). When she went to pick it all up, she unknowingly caused my MP3 player to fall off the bed onto the floor.

BUT IT WAS NOT HER FAULT.

Bed, again, is no place to keep the player lying around. One small MP3 clusters the whole bed. Stupid me!

But the next one really does take the cake !

3.)  Dated: 29.10.2010

Mom broke the coffee bottle just after she had finished cleaning the refrigerator. She opened the door of the freezer compartment and (no witnesses as to how but) whoops-a-daisy; down fell the bottle!

BUT IT WAS NOT HER FAULT.

Our maid, Suvarna Mavshi, had cribbed about being over-worked while cleaning the fridge and it was her ill-feeling towards her work which had caused the bad luck!

Love you mom for these outrageous complaints which made me double up with laughter. Keep them coming with all your daily scoldings which have groomed me into what I am today !

All Is Not Well

There’s this classmate of mine who worked very hard for 2 years for IIT and scored brilliant marks in every mock exam but broke down completely on the D-day; he, who was considered a sure shot IIT-JEE top ranker, couldn't even qualify the exam. In fact, his shaken confidence affected him in all other exams that followed and he couldn't secure good marks in any. He then took a drop and will be appearing for all of those exams again this year. I hope he has maintained his cool this time to achieve what he deserves. However, another friend of mine could not handle this added pressure. He did not give the 2nd paper of IIT-JEE 2010 because he thought he hadn't performed well in the first. All this after he had got an 8000 something rank in IIT-JEE 2009 and then had taken a year drop and gone to Kota to study even more religiously. For the past couple of months, we’ve been reading about student suicides on almost daily basis. Is it surprising then that they coincide with the months of exams?
Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong over here. It would be easier to take a dialogue from ‘Taare Zameen Par’ or ‘3 Idiots’ and put the blame on the whole damn system. “Pura system-hi galat hai”, isn’t it? It’s very comfortable to sit there and say that. Have you ever wondered what might have been going on in that student’s mind before he committed suicide? How torturous were his feelings that thought death calmer and peaceful? How badly can a child be affected by pressure that he cannot even bring himself to appear for that very exam for which he had burned the midnight oil for years together? How much tension must he be carrying that it affected him to the point that he blanked out during the exam?
What is this tension, this pressure all about? I am sorry to say, but more often then not, majority of it comes from parents. They might not even be aware of it but their expectations are enough to frighten the child. It always remains at the back of his mind that my parents have given me so much, invested all their time and money, and now, if I don’t perform, they’ll be dejected like hell. ‘Cause, often, parents are more affect by their ward’s failure than he himself. And seeing his parent’s disappointment affects the child greater in turn. Sometimes, the expectations of their teachers also added to it. You don’t need to be an Einstien to know that it’s tougher to walk with lots of weights attached to you. Look, I am not ‘blaming’ parents or teachers. What I’m trying to say is that they should make sure that the child is burden free; only then can he run.
And again there is this thing called society and peer pressure. If he could score so much, why cant I or why cant my child? This race is enough to snuff out someone’s life, either literally or figuratively. Why do we need a suicide note to wake us up? Why can’t we see the depression sucking him in like a whirlpool? Forgive me for the ultra-clichéd Hindi film line but “ek depression mein jee raha student pal pal hazaroon maut marta hain.”
It isn’t right to solely blame the education system. As Prof. Viru Sahastrabuddhe rightly asks, “Agar ek student pressure nahi utha paya to tum humko dosh doge? Aage jaa ke life mein isse bhi jya pressure wale situations aayengi. Tab bhi kya tum dusron-ko hi dosh doge?” But it is imperative that the student be assured, with conviction, that these exams are not the end of life; that it really wont be a great deal if he fails. And the parents really need to believe in what they say because a child is sensitive enough to know what his parents actually think.
Very few movies like TZP and 3 Idiots have come up which deal with the issue of student psychology. And its time to wake up and take a leaf out of them and help your child. ‘Cause, looking at the depression all around me, all is not well, bhaiyya… certainly all is not well!

The Species Called 'Parlekar'

Note : The following post is in a mixture of Languages - English and Minglish (that is, Marathi written in English alphabets) because that is the language of the place about which this article is written.

Pu. La. Deshpande hyancha famous essay “tumhala kon vhaychay – mumbaikar punekar ki nagpurkar?” hyaat survatilach ek vaakya aahe - “Tashi Maharashtrat shekdo gaava aahet. Pan jyanchya pudhe kar jodave ashi fakta teen-ch khaas sthala – Pune, Nagpur aani Mumbai” Pan hyach barobar, Maharashtrat ajun ek gaav aahe je hya list madhe place of honour deserve karta aani te mhanje Parla. By “Parla” I meant Vile Parle east.

Describing the Parlekar species of humans is a mammoth task in itself. It would be easier to understand them if you have some idea of their elder cousins – the Punekars; because Parla is Mumbai’s mini-Pune. Their very own newsletter called ‘Aamhi Parlekar’ states the following –

“Friends, Surfers and Parlekars,

Vile Parle, a suburb of some of the most progressive societies in western India. But to some it is still a small village in the heart of Mumbai, just Parle! Home to industrialists, litterateurs, social reformers and artistes; a classy-funky mix, like no other on the map of modern Mumbai. Parlekars share an exciting relationship that bridges commerce and culture, technology and tradition. 'Aamhi Parlekar' or to put it in the millennium jargon - We Parleites!, the community newsletter, has been aiming at binding every household for growth beyond language, caste and socio-economic background. We have emmerged as a powerful media for social interaction and constructive communication. Understanding the need of society, we encourage all Parlekars to stand together by a good cause.”

Parlyaatlya lokanna aapan Parlekar asnyacha “jaajvalya abhimaan” asto; samanya Mumbaikarachya bhaashet – maaz. Maaz paishyacha nahi, bara ka! Parlyaat bharpur shrimanti aahe he khara but they’ll never show it off. All over the country, your status mat be equalled to the number of cars you own but in case of Parlekars, it depends on your child’s academic or extra-curricular performances. An average Parlekar parent has more knowledge about the lessons in their child’s school textbook than many school teachers. Again, there is also a special case of Parlekar parent wherein the mother, along with keeping a tab on their own child’s progress, has a diary maintaining the examination marks of their ward’s classmates too!

Parla ek “gaav” aahe asa mhanayla harkat nahi; kaaran parylachya kontyahi eka toka-pasun diameter chya dusyra tokala minimum fare madhe pochta yeta (including the super-fast meters of some rickshaws)! Speaking of rickshaws, let me introduce you to the Parlekar rickshaw-walas. There are an eternally laid back species whose only aim in life is to drive as fewer passengers as possible and to show as arrogant face expressions as possible to those passengers who dare ask them to cross the threshold of Parla, even to adjacent places like Andheri and Santa Cruz! They are born to serve and cater to the needs of the ever lazy Parlekars who need a rick just to communicate from Subhash road to Hanuman Road! Heaven help all of them! Tumhi Pu.La.Deshpande hyanchya “Asaami Asaami” madhla ‘Parlyachi Mavshi’ vaachla aselach. Non-Parlekars cha parlyaat pahilyandi asaach gondhal hota. ‘Coz Parla is a maze of infinite lanes and by-lanes. But if you’ve been brought up in Parla, then there are very few Parlekars who do not fancy an evening stroll along these roads.

It is commonly joked that all roads in Parla be covered with zebra-crossing stripes coz, according to Parlekars, the roads are the sole birth-right of pedestrians and that they are obliging vehicle owners by allowing them to use the roads. Parlyaat footpath varun chalna, rastyachya kadene vagaire chalna he mhanje agdi ghaanpana cha lakshan; rasta ha gadyaan-sathi banavlela nasun tyachya barobbar madhun agdi gappaa maarat maarat chalnya sathi banavlela aahe asa Parlekarancha thaam matt aahe. Car-owners are required to honk and wait till the group of ladies standing bang in middle of the road, holding their extremely important gossip conversations, notice the horns and then oblige the driver a great deal by moving aside. (Those ladies wont forget to give the vehicle owner scathing looks and the less blessed drivers are even able to hear things like “kay mele rastyachya agdi madhun gaadya chalavtat!) An RTO test might give you the licence to drive but one is considered to have truly learnt the art of driving when you’ve successfully navigated the Parla Market road!

Parla is well-known for its cultural society. It has its own “Parle Mohatsav” and the famous Tilak Mandir hosts the “Grahak Peth”, “Khadya Melava”, “Majestic Gappa” etc; events that make a Parlekar proud. Another thing which makes Parlekars hold their heads high is its strong education system. Parla boasts of the very famous Parle Tilak Vidyalaya (PTV); a school known all over for producing scholars and great people like Pu.La.Deshpande. The Parlekar kids are eternally divided into 2 categories – PTVians and non-PTVians. Non-PTVians then generally are the MBHS crowd. The school badge states that MBHS stands for Madhavrao Bhagwat High School. But there are other forms which are more commonly used for them by PTVians, for example - Manda Buddhi High School. If you wish to know more about the Parlekar students and their further division into PTV and MBHS crowd, it would help if you’re a viewer of the famous Marathi daily soap – Asambhav. Adinath Shastri would be a true MBHS guy who personifies the idiom “empty vessels make more noise”. While Priya Shastri is, without a doubt, a PTVian; bhayankar aagauu aani nako titka superiority complex.

But Parlekars are a species to be respected. If you remember, a couple of years back, there had been a lot of news in the papers about the SSC board exams wherein full marks were awarded to all students for a particular question in the maths paper. It had so happened that one set out of the 4 sets for the maths paper was a bit difficult than the rest. It were none other than the Parlekar parents who had marched up to the education minister and compelled the board to award full marks to everyone to avoid injustice. Infact, even in case of the recent 90:10 SSC quota debate which is grabbing headlines, it is the Parlekars’ fight to make sure that SSC students do not suffer. Sooner or later, you’ll respect these people. Aaho, senior citizenschi duparchi zopmod hote mhanun chakka vimaanacha route badlun ghetla Parlekaranni mhanje bagha! Great aahet te; kimbahuna dusra kahi shabdach nahiye!

The term “Parlekars” is not just confined to Homo sapiens alone. There are also species of Parlekar dogs, Parlekar cows and Parlekar crows amongst others. Parlekar dogs bark at anyone and anything altogether. Like all other dogs, they bark when they see a cat, or when they see a man running, and when they loose their heads, they chase cars like many other dogs do too. But, as a Parlekar speciality, they’ll bark when they see someone walking peacefully just to watch the fun when he gets scared, or they’ll bark to wake every other dog in locality and create a racket drawing people up their walls, and they’ll bark when they’re bored in the afternoon, and they’ll bark just to show that they can bark!

Parla hi jaga khup niarali aahe; te jag veglach aahe. Yes, they are a lot who are so excessively proud that they’ve their own cable channel called “Parlekar channel”. But again, they are those who’ll make sure that their future generations profit and they’ll take steps in that direction. Parlekaranna maaz aahe he khara, pan kuthetari to maaz justified aahe. Through this essay, I’ve tried to give you a primary introduction to the species called Parlekars pan Parlyacha anubhav ghetlyashivay Parlekaranchi dhamaal purnapane kalnaar nahi. But at the end of it, I can say only one thing- tumhi jar Parlyaat rahnaare asaal tar Parlekar honya-sarkhi majja nahi he Parlyaat jaglyavarach kalu shakel!

The Race

This a poem that I came across in my younger brother's standard Xth textbook. It's a rhyme from which I derieve great inspiration.

THE RACE
attributed to Dr. D.H. "Dee" Groberg

Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure’s face,

My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.

A children’s race, young boys, young men; how I remember well,

Excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race

Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.

Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son,

And each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire,

To win, to be the hero there, was each young boy’s desire.

One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,

Was running in the lead and thought “My dad will be so proud.”

But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,

The little boy who thought he’d win, lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace,

And midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.

As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn’t win it now.

Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.

But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,

Which to the boy so clearly said, “Get up and win that race!”

He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,

And ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,

His mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.

He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.

“I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.”

But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face

With a steady look that said again, “Get up and win that race!”

So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last.

“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to run real fast!”

Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten...

But trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.

Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye.

“There’s no sense running anymore! Three strikes I’m out! Why try?

I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought. “I’ll live with my disgrace.”

But then he thought about his dad, who soon he’d have to face.

“Get up,” an echo sounded low, “you haven’t lost at all,

For all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

Get up!” the echo urged him on, “Get up and take your place!

You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!”

So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit,

And he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit.

So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,

Still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.

Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.

Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place,

Head high and proud and happy -- no falling, no disgrace.

But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place,

The crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud,

You would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.

And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.”

“To me, you won,” his father said. “You rose each time you fell.”

And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face,

The memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.

For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all.

And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face,

Another voice within me says, “Get up and win that race!”