• Handed in my thesis in December 2009, passed viva in March 2010, handed in final thesis in May 2010 to complete the PhD work.
• Have now officially completed my “Doctor of Philosophy” degree in “Environment and Politics”, and am planning to don on the fancy dress in July.
• Have got a proper job now, as a Research Associate, albeit only on a short-term contract. Still feels good

Didn’t make a long list, did it? But there definitely is a lot to reflect upon, may be one of these weekends will force me to soon. Daily grind on the weekdays!

While others might think if they should hang themselves by their ceiling fan at times of desperation, he is always worried about the ceiling fan dropping on to him while he sleeps on his queen-sized bed below it. So obviously he doesn’t contemplate hanging himself by the fan, for he knows it wouldn’t take his weight and he would just make a fool of himself. He doesn’t know why the room hasn’t got just a single bed in it, which he could have moved to a corner away from the fan but it wasn’t his house, nor was it his decision to furnish it.

The fan has to be kept running all night else he wouldn’t be able to sleep, one thing he can sleep with is the low humming noise of the fan, everything else would have woken him up, but not his fan; as if its humming is his lullaby. But still he is probably subconsciously aware even in his sleep that the fan might drop on to him spinning its blades at mid-level rotation. And its no wonder that he pushes everything on to the side directly below the fan and lies himself on the other edge. If he was sleeping like this during his childhood, he would definitely have fallen over from the bed, but he is an adult now and his body is probably used to being on the edge – edge of the bed to start with, but also edge of the relations and relationships, edge of the society, edge of the country, edge of this world even.

Indeed he always wanted to situate himself on the edge where he could jump over from if need be. It often occurs to him on the mid-flight how it would be to jump over from the plane some 35000 feet above. He imagines crashes and emergencies, the exits opening and the plane going down, and all of this doesn’t worry him a bit. He knows he can’t swim, but still thinks he can float. He cannot fly but he thinks he could survive the free fall. All the things that he cannot do, he thinks he can “manage”, and this confidence (or over-confidence rather) has been his boon as well as his curse.

He alienates his friends but also can’t live without them, he struggles to maintain relations and relationships but also rejoices in them, he can’t stand treacheries but weaves them himself, he is a contradiction of all contradictions, yet can appear perfect in everything and to everyone. And no, after all this neither he thinks he can play god nor does he believe in one existing. He is thankful to his creators but also resents their gratefulness to “god” that apparently created him. He resents their belief in something that he doesn’t believe in, and resents at their lack of self-appreciation, for he believes they did a pretty good job in his creation.

His life under his ceiling fan revolves in its own rotation, probably at the mid-level speed as does his fan. He neither wants it to rotate faster nor slower. All it matters to him is that it keeps rotating. But even that doesn’t always matter. He always thought he could live a century, but also thinks he would be happy to die a quarter. He neither loves his life, not hates it. He just lets it rotate in its own pace under his ceiling fan rotating at a mid-pace…

Dead in the Water - David Gray

People stand in line
People stand in line
People stand in line
A premonition of
The killers angel eyes
An Armageddon sky
tell it like it is
It’s like the old man says
We’re dead in the water now
Dead in the water

They come from miles around
They come from miles around
They come from miles around
In avarice and love
To suckle on the blood
Of some forgotten god
Sell it like it is
It’s like the old man says
We’re dead in the water now
We’re dead in the water now
Dead in the water

A simple act of faith
A simple act of faith
A simple act of faith
A celebration of
The colour and the creed
The cancer and its seed
Crackles on the mic
Call it what you like
We’re dead in the water now
We’re dead in the water now
Dead in the water

I came home early, office was too distracting. Did some work, did some thinking, had dinner. On way out to visit a dai, I struck a conversation with one of my housemates, a fine fellow from Zimbabwe, who started his phd the same year as me and who has already finished his phd for almost a year, and who has now been offered a full-time teaching position at a university down south. He talked about his wishes to return home. So much things to do back home he says – set up a farm, some 20,000 herd of cattle, a dairy production facility, an abattoir, and some teaching, some research, back in my own country. Seeing his enthusiasm and listening to his dreams inspired me like nothing had for months and months.

Now, I must get back to my paper. Finish the revisions, start on the next one, OR at least I could finish some of the readings that I need to include in the revised version of my paper. Some more readings indeed, never ending readings it seems…but, I’m inspired…for anything to get me out of here soon! I’m inspired tonight!

My impression of him stayed the same all through the time I knew him, a hard-working, no-nonsense man who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, and who told you right at your face what he thought of something. It was that straightforward with him, as far as I saw him from afar, always. I remember a man who was strong even in his 70s to work on the land – hoeing, planting, weeding and what not. He would carry basket-full of grass to feed his cows even at that age. Even surprising was the fact that he had virtually built two separate lives – that of a priest in Pashupathinath, on top of a household man in the village. I remember going to visit him in his room in one of the long residential houses surrounding the Ram Mandir on the eastern bank of Bagmati. All the families (his sons and daughters’ families) would gather at his place there a few times each year during shraddh – of his parents and grandparents. I loved those occasions as a kid, mainly because I could wander all around Pashupatinath, run up and down those paved steps, play marbles on those stone-paved courtyards, and observe visitors of all kinds and colours. I would often walk alone to the other side of the complex, to the Guyeshwori temple area, and sit there lost within my own tiny world (which I would leave for some other day). As a kid, those occasions would be like some excursions away from the village, and knowingly or unknowingly, my grandfather provided that for me, and I was very thankful to him then as I am now.

I also remember the day I went to see him at the hospital with my parents after he had an accident – some stupid motorbike rider had hit him while he was walking on a pavement (walkway) near Gaushala I think – in that area anyway. He was in Bir Hospital. I hated hospitals but my mum and dad insisted I go with them, no choice. So I went along, saw him in his bed, one of his legs all plastered and hung straight by the strap from the ceiling. That day I thought my grandfather would not be able to walk properly for the rest of his life. How wrong I was! After six months or so, he was walking as if nothing had happened, working in his fields and being/doing exactly what he used to before that accident. In many ways he defied logic. At that age – he was 67 when he had that accident I think – he could be so strong even after such a serious accident.

The last time I saw him, it was towards the end of 2006 when I was home for a week or so. I was at a conference in Delhi and decided to make a short trip home before returning back. I heard then that my grandfather was becoming more and more forgetful and unpredictable – he had dementia. He wouldn’t recognise many of his own children and grandchildren. Before I could visit him in his house, he arrived at ours, and stayed for a while and talked. I was just pleased that he had actually recognised me. I asked him if he would like me to take a few pictures of him, which I did – a few snaps of just him (see photo above), and then him with my father. I always loved listening about the life he had when young, and the incidents he had been into. Although that day he didn’t dwell on his past, I was just glad he was there and he had not forgotten me!

I still remember the days when he did dwell on the past. I remember him telling us about his time as a bramhin cook in some Rana household. He would tell us fondly that he had rejected a move to another royal household, instead returning to the village to farm. Then about trying to set up a huge farm in the Terai, which he had decided to abandon after getting tired of insects, snakes and what not! His return back to the village and increasing landholding there through hard-earned cash purchases of lands. He had indeed done well to give each of his six sons pieces of lands enough to build houses and to have some crops too! I always admired his fairness, for he also gave each of his two daughters a plot of land each, a rarity in the society he was part of.

And that was basically who he was and how he had lived his life – he made up is own mind, worked hard, talked straight, and was fair to everybody. And that was my grandfather, who is no more.