My first bike crash

I almost died on November 22nd this year.

My first bike crash! 

I was on the way back home, in a hurry only to get to the toaster and juicer. The traffic was as usual, bright loud and fascinating. I was fully concentrating on my driving. Only often was I distracted by simple thoughts, like "Oh imagine all the calculation the drivers put forth while driving, Oh the wiring of veins from the hands to brain, "the lanes, the infrastructure and poverty of the city", "the couple on that bike, the kid in that car". Full-on concentration, till I tried to over-take a rickshaw.

It was an easy bet. Or so I thought. I could swear there was plenty space to zoom forward and lane up before a car long away would come nearby.

Oh boy was I wrong! The car from the opposite lane, my bike and the rickshaw all sped at the same speed, simultaneously, like an impossible racing dream. My beautiful bad timing blanked me out when I was right on the divider line. 

Joey, the bike, hit both the car as well as the rick. No, I made Joey hit both the car and the rick. The car's mirror breaks away in slow motion and lands on the footpath - an onlooker says. I am thrown away from my seat, onto the 9 o clock road of ISRO Layout. I was spinning and rolling in glamorous rage on the cold, black tar while jaws dropped and silent frowns escaped faces. 

I open my eyes, ignoring of the pain my elbow and knees are craving attention for. I stand up and see that Joey is still accelerating hard, vroom-vrooming in some sort of weird excitement. People swam around me like Jessica Alba was teleported from LA to where I stood. Brushing away like a macho, I replied to all the "Are you ok? Get her to a hospital" with an "I'm fine I'm fine". 

I was so concerned and heartbroken for Joey. I felt like I betrayed his accelerator, ignored his instinct, two-timed with his brakes and cut open his wheels. I felt like a female canine. 

My cloud of emotion was slapped away by the furious rickshaw driver who stormed at me for the damage. The car driver came over and demanded my number to settle the damage compensation later. He bends down to note down Joey's registration number and comes back up with a smile. "Oh you are a Keralite? Me too. You little girl, poor thing, are you hurt? Please ride careful now on" and his gorgeous wife comes out of the car and repeats after him. The man was around 50 and I thanked god I didn't run into my dad's car. I decided I won't even tell him about this right then! He'd be hurt, helpless and furious. All at once. Phew!

As soon as I was about to get back to my emotional cloud with Joey, the day's villain sprouts up again! The rickshaw driver hands over a piece of my bike that broke away and fell into his vehicle! I wanted to go die. I had hurt Joey so much? Oh god.

I turned away and looked at the crowd. Did I see concern? Hardly. Did I see curiosity? Yes. Did I see sympathy? A little. Did I see anger? A little. Did I see jealousy over the modified look of Joey? Yeahbsolutely! 

The rickshaw man wanted me to take his vehicle to the garage and fix it. Come on, it had a scratch where the paint had chipped a little and there was a small dent on the body. Big deal.

I couldn't tag behind this, so I offered a 300 Indian rupee compensation to which he happily agreed.

I bid adieu the hefty man who helped me get up, a schoolgirl waiting to see me cry and the local men who translated my broken kannada to the rickshaw driver. I rode away, guilty.

As I crossed one street light after the other, the cold breeze rubbed the gashes the crash gave me. I hardly knew where all I was hurt, in all the mess. But now after  the tenth street lamp I passed by, guilt was no longer guilt. It had blossomed into something I never thought I will walk away from this incident with. This accident with? 

Yes and it was pride. 

I had just had my first bike crash! - the turning point in every rider's life. The first kiss with the road. The first encounter with fear. The first courage evoking adventure. 

And I was riding away from it with bleeding wounds, which were the signs of glory already.

There was a subconscious me whispering You are crazy paro, but I didn't have time for the regular world me. I was back home, parked the bike, kissed it an apology and walked to the doctor, beautifully bruised all over.

I got my wounds? No, gashes? Alright honestly they were just cuts - I got my cuts dressed. The sting urged me to scream my lungs out, but the sweet spoken doctor's smile didn't allow me the immaturity.  I bought the prescribed medicines after much second thought. I mean, who has medicines after a crash? Such an awesome crash.

I got a smoked dark chocolate on the way back home.

Butterfly Holidays

"Butterfly Holidays" is an IATO recognized, Govt. of India Ministry of Tourism approved Tour Company.

Ms. Anita Sekhar started it up in 1993 and as the Director, included Mr. P V Natarajan as the Working Partner in 1998.

Operations have been in swing ever since, till she handed it over to Ms. Parvathi Natarajan on 24th October 2012.

The company has been handling inbound tours to India till now, but as I take over, Butterfly Holidays will do outbound as well, focusing the US, Australia and Malaysia.

                                                                  ~Wings for your dreams~

Shwe's Birthday

I met this girl 3 months back in the lobby of the NDTV IndiaCan campus and said hey. We seemed poles apart, talked a little and then I disappeared to Kerala with Chickenpox. 

I came back after 2 weeks and then we bonded like crazy. God knows how or why. Today is her birthday and I made sure I wished her first at midnight, keeping her on call since 20 minutes prior! And then I sang to her the birthday song, regretted my absence, the fresh bumps and the cake! 

I love this girl so much today, that I feel like it's my own birthday. We are so much a part of each others' lives and yet don't tag ourselves best friends or soul sisters. 

The century's too cliche for us ;) 

Happy Birthday Shwe!!

(Written and published online, on 24th October 2012) 

 -Parvathi Natarajan

In memory of Arun's Grandpa

He was MY GRANDPA.

The only man I have ever given a bouquet of flowers. Yellow roses.
The only man I have fallen in love with just for his charm.
The most handsome 80 year old who can make you laugh, think and respect; all at once.
I don't even know why such a terrible day I am acknowledging on this stupid site, but I don't know what else to do.
Achoo is on the way home. I couldn't go along for obvious reasons.
I am back here alone and devastated. I can feel my temporal veins yearning to explode.
And then again, he is in the astral plane now. I can talk to him anytime I want and fall in love again.

But who is going to convince his most loved grandson this? Achoo, my heartfelt, soul bleeding condolences.

One last bouquet of yellow roses for Apoopan.
This time, not to say Get Well Soon.
But to say You Will Live Through Us.
Forever.

We love you. It is a privilege we shared the century with you.

Ignore

Let the sun shine through

Let the breeze whine loud.

Let the house mourn empty

And let minds stay on shroud.

Let food trek to dumps

Let hungry stomachs cry.

Let the rich and spoilt thrive

And let agony spread out dry.

Let happiness be a thing of the past

Let contempt lead the day.

Let darkness conquer hearts

And let ego replace what’s gay.

No one cares about love for you or me

And no one out there even knows.

That ignorance poisons earth altogether

And that’s where all lives crudely pause.

No.

I love you? You? 

Love forgives injustice.

It accepts deteste and malice.

I can’t get down to being so nice

To someone for who I am just a dice.

Rather just tear out the disguise

And tell him I need better to suffice.

I don't want to live any more lies.

Or spend on him for coke and fries.

When he ain't worth the sacrifice

Why stick on to live like rotting mice.

Sometimes I hate you more than fire does ice.

Yet I hide the tears that escape the eyes.

Because deep inside I love you like birds do the skies.
And that will always remain. Be mine. Don’t put me a price. 

One for you!

A 5th grader’s rhyme.

The 5^th grader me.

She is my ray of sunshine

With her nearby, I’m always fine.

Her grace is one of a lit lamp

So warm, it makes my heart damp.

She walks and talks in such elegance

Her smile is rose flower fragrance.

She taught me truth, love, compassion.

She is my life’s celebration

You know who she is? Oh don't guess, don't bother

She is my mother.

Preface

My life has been the funniest, scariest ride i’ve heard of. The amount of love that went into it, the amount of trash, the amount of god and the amount of smiles have been tremendous.

Parvati, right here telling her life lessons. And this time, I promise not to be dramatic or mess up!

• Sometimes, despite my best efforts, life has given me lemons. I didn’t choose to wear a sour face. Instead I made lemonade.
•  Happiness is a state of mind. And like all things, it took me practice. I used to devote 5 minutes a day smiling. Just smiling. And after a while it came naturally.
• I have had a love. This guy who swept me away. I always have only one thing to tell my Huibu – You don 't have a clue what it is like to be next to you <3
• Every issue is a coin. It has 3 sides. The Heads, The Tails, The side that runs its circumference. A decision after checking all three will be its most appropriate.

 This is just a preface to my novel. So long till it’s done.

Achan.

Little dewdrops lazy on leaves.

Mist from the treetop slowly sieves.

Under the peach tree there was a spot

Where we spent mornings cool and hot.

He would come and drop me each day.

The STCS school bus never would overstay.

He always spoke in tales to amaze me.

Creativity at fingertips; O what a dad was he!

Seldom did I believe when mom said he rocks.

Till his intelligence gave me the shocks.

His talk, the walk and looks are priceless.

He even scolds in style leaving me speechless.

Whoever created the Raymond punch line

Is sure to have done it for him, the pristine.

My father, the die hard perfectionist. Always so fine.

I won’t forget to thank God he made you mine.

The Hated Acquaintance.

There are good people. There are bad. And then there are ones who momentarily turn evil and tease children out of mere boredom. My father’s friend from the third category, once came upto me and said “So I heard you write. Creative stuff. What do you write?” “No preset theme, just about anything” “Oh that’s over confident of you. If you can write about anything, write me a poem on mosquitoes!”

“Uncle, I indeed didn’t mean I can write about anything. I only meant I do write about random things. Anyway, do you have a pen? Give me quarter an hour if you do.”

None’s familiar with the flapping wings

That mark their destiny of torture.

None’s seen their closely striped bellies

That are filled with our essence of existence.

None’s worked close with those sadist minds

That constantly calculate bloody intentions.

But most of us know the momentarily powerful sting

That can easily distract us from anything.

While a torrent of pain sketches ugly frowns on faces,

They are only aware of their dutiful sucking.

Humans tend to murder them extempore,

And if missed, deeper than all pain is regret.

All have experienced their unwelcome presence,

And these lean mean beasts are in singular named,
The Mosquito.

Alone.

Somewhere in the dark

I see a broken mark.

The beauty of my soul

Growing extremely cold.

A tear in my smile

Staring out into the mile.

Blood pacing through my veins

As I walk across the lanes.

I see the world fade away.

No one wants to stay.

Yet it somehow feels better

To have around no other matter.

The Answer.

This one dates back to the cold January of 2007. One of the first pieces of literature that’s ever escaped my mind and been published on the school magazine.

Very long it’s been since we are here.
Certain definitions are breath, blood and brain.

Feelings are ignored and pain perceived.

Minds work endlessly to produce quite a lot.

Colours are mysteriously named and animals eaten.

Body is unscientifically controlled,, while often suffered.

Light spells awareness, sound spells vibration.

Fire consumes matter, mistakes consume happiness.

Love is never used in the most effective way.

Living within is a less known, ignored aspect.

Years are wasted upon improving habits and habitats.

These are not ways of living.

A life has to experience the lively life by living it true.

MyLifeMyMedia

(Attempt at a Press Note - a class assignment dated 28th September)

 “My Life My Media” to direct Your life In media.

Bangalore, 27^th September.

Is journalism your life's calling? Or do you even know that yet?

NDTV IndiaCan is here to help you make a decision on Saturday the 29^th September.

A prominent set of Media Professionals from across the country comes together for a panel discussion which will be an insight to the highest earning, highly adventurous industry – Media. The discussion hosted by Media Professional, Journalist, Indologist and Lead faculty at IndiaCan, Dr. Manish Mokshagundam will include the Managing Editor at NDTV Worldwide, Sanjay Agarwal, Journalist and imminent Theatre personality, Prakash Belavadi, Television and Radio Personality, Vasanthi Kariprakash, Programming Director at Radio Indigo, Kiran Shreedhar and the Program Producer and Anchor in Samaya TV, Sughosh S Nigale.

Venue: NDTV IndiaCan Centre, 'Lyrics', #184, 17^th Main, Banshankari IInd stage, Bangalore.

Time: 11am to 1.30 pm.

Contact: 080 26716394/92, 8880006281.

So whether you're already in journalism and wondering about what direction your career should take (besides down), or a misguided young go-getter looking to get into journalism, this is where you should be this Saturday. Everything you need to know about journalism and the media job market, before and after the jump.

 

I am Creative and I am not a Journalist?

Facts and figures do not compel readers, stories do. The new media-users want more than the information rich. They need story-skimpy new media outlets!

The terms journalism and reporting are often used interchangeably. Maybe the two just can't be separated in practice, but the rise of new media demands a distinction.

As newspapers, magazines, publications and newsletters creep on to the Web, the demand for reporters, who can keystroke simple sentences and strings of numbers, swell.

I'd define reporting as nuts-and-bolts, no-nonsense information-gathering and packaging. 

Reporting wants just the facts. Journalism entails investigation, explanation and a point of view.

Journalists are story-tellers, fascinated with the human experience, alert to the drama of conflict and struggle, infinitely curious about the motives and meanings behind events. Reporters use nouns and verbs as blunt utility instruments. 

Journalists indulge in figures of speech; they use words as symbols, to evoke empathy, pity or anger. Most of what appears in Indian Express and TOI is journalism. Most of Economic Times is reporting. 

Journalism inherently requires that stories be told in-depth. Many newspapers have cut out long articles, even before the Internet. They've followed the example set by television news. They've been hit by the rising price of printing, and the renewed spotlight on cost-cutting. They're convinced readers are pressed for time, impatient with detail, and conditioned to ingest the news in pellets.

Of course, the same readers are not so pressed for time that they can't watch the T20 and reruns of very bad movies. People who choose not to read are not cut off from the news. The movies, radio, and later television have deepened the public's acquaintance with the wider world - at least with its memorable horrors and tragedies. 

The bigger bulk of broadcast is reporting, in the sense that I used it earlier, rather than journalism. It is epitomized by the two-minute wire service radio bulletin on the hour, already a fast disappearing format. "Russian armies marched into China today from five directions." "President Banerjee was shot and killed today in Red Fort." Just the facts. 

Information isn't knowledge, and facts don't add up to wisdom.

Are we entering an age of universal access to massive amounts of raw, unbundled information, anyone can take or leave as much as they want? 

In electronic databases, the public has (at its disposal) an incredible reference facility. But it's not going to make journalism an obsolete skill. 

You can put "War and Peace" on a Web site, but who's going to read it all the way through? When people read for fun, they want to sit back in a relaxed posture, not all keyed up at the keyboard. Computers lend themselves well to the display financial tables or sports results, but they are far less comfortable for communicating narrative. 

Readers savor both the content and style of a good story, and print lets them move back and forth instantaneously from what they are reading to what they have read and are about to read. 

Mere reporting is fine for the monitor. Story-telling is the job of journalism - and of newspapers. 

So if there are people out there wondering what to do with their creativity being journalists/reporters, for they are told it is completely useless in the industry; here’s your answer. Use it. It’s the next best thing.

-Parvati Natarajan