[Reader-list] Fwd: ifellow posting by rahul pandita

[Iram Ghufran]

posting by Rahul Pandita

> I am pasting below my first post: My parents named me Rahul. After 
> adding the surname, it becomes Rahul Pandita. I am a moody writer, 
> poet, blogger, self-styled public intellectual, former bilingual 
> Television journalist, trainee illustrator, Kashmiri, Indian, Brahmin 
> - in that order. I have worked for television channels like Aaj tak, 
> Zee News, Sahara Samay and reported from areas like Falluja, Batalik, 
> Maisuma, Galar, Ukhrul, Tamoh and Kochar ki Daang. I am a former NEMEP 
> fellow and the winner of e-author award for my Bildungsroman 'Chinar 
> In My Veins'. I am currently working on a novel, which I have named 
> 'Yimberzal', which will be based on events ranging from the 1947 
> tribesmen attack in Kashmir to (hopefully) the recent earthquake. As a 
> Sarai fellow, I will be working on a project titled - Byte Soldier: 
> The life and times of a metro TV reporter. I intend to prepare a mini 
> graphic novel, based on the project along with a whacky, creative 
> essay/story. The genesis of my idea can be traced to around four 
> thousand words, which I thought would be a part of one novel, which I 
> claimed to be working on, but later dumped the idea; at least for the 
> time being. Here is an excerpt: Just a fortnight ago, Som had left a 
> successful job of a television journalist. The never ending world of 
> deadlines had made him sick. And everyday it was the same story. 
> Another ceasefire in the northeast, another suicide attack in Kashmir, 
> another operation to flush out militants and yet another set of 
> accusations against a politician. It was a murky world out there – 
> thankless and spurious. Som just decided to call it a day, one fine 
> afternoon. He was in the office canteen, sipping coffee and looking 
> outside through the window frame. He had felt his shoulders with one 
> hand, pinching the flesh. Knots of lactic acid had accumulated under 
> the layers, which were a indication of how stressed out he was. In 
> fifteen minutes, he had to leave for an assignment. Some bloody 
> Pentagon official was scheduled to meet the top brass of the Indian 
> Army. The mobile phone jumped to life, vibrating like a fish without 
> water. He looked at the number flashing on the screen. It was his 
> Bureau Chief. Som thought of his paan masala-stained teeth and his wet 
> lips. He would be sitting on his throne, aiming his spit in the 
> dustbin kept under his table, with the hands-free of his mobile fitted 
> deep into his ear canal. Suresh Jee, everybody added that suffix after 
> his name and he made the reporters under him feel as if they were 
> chotus working in dhabas, destined to run for errands. At the sight of 
> Meena, a junior reporter, he would drool and if he had his way, he 
> would make her the editor-in-chief. For her, he was a slave, born to 
> serve her – suggest story ideas, arrange camera units and a vehicle 
> for her on priority, write her scripts and arrange an editor for her. 
> For others, he was the commander of the third reich. In the morning, 
> he would even make calls from his mobile to reporters, while sitting 
> on the pot. At times like these, his voice echoed through the phone, 
> as if he was calling from a well. When he called Som, he imagined him 
> with his dirty pyjamas lying at his feet, three newspapers in his lap 
> and he talking to Som about an assignment, and at the same time 
> pleased about how last night’s sat isabgol had done wonders to his 
> bowel movement. Suresh Jee was still making the phone dance. Som had 
> made his mind not to press the green button and take the call. He was 
> no longer willing to talk to someone who referred to pastry as cake. 
> He switched off his mobile. He just snapped every tie with his office, 
> leaving it behind, like a snake sheds his skin. At the gate, he felt 
> light. His shoulders twitched as if wings were sprouting from them. 
> There was no sinking feeling in the heart either. Siddartha must have 
> felt the same, when he left his kingdom to become Buddha, he thought. 
> But how did it boil down to Graphic Novel? Well, I have another story 
> to share. Since it would make the post longer, for those want to read 
> it, they may click on the following link to read my piece 'My Mother's 
> 22 Rooms' : 
> http://sanitysucks.blogspot.com/2005/12/my-mothers-22-rooms.html Well, 
> that is it for now, friends, guides and philosophers. I remain Rahul 
> Pandita
>
> Rahul Pandita www.sanitysucks.blogspot.com 
> <http://www.sanitysucks.blogspot.com> Mobile: 9818088664
>
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