Crash

Last night, I had a dream.

In it two taxis were hurtling down a road. They must have been going at a 100 kilometres an hour. It was a crowded road, a sea of people. There was a sharp turn on the road. Screeching tyres. Both the taxis over-turned. About a 150 people ran towards the accident - some locals, some tourists. I was one of them - I distinctly remember feeling like a tourist. We opened the doors and we saw that there were 24 people between the 2 taxis. They were packed. They were the poorest of the poor - mainly women and babies. We pulled the survivors to safety. 2 women were dead. They were put into the trunk of a passing taxi and sent to the crematorium.

An hour later, I was in a group of 10 odd tourists who had gathered in a nearby restaurant to get some coffee and recover from the shock. Some people were drinking beer. We were feeling good about ourselves - the type of feeling good which accompanies getting your hands dirty to help the under-privileged. I remember someone saying, "I was reaching out to try and help them and the little fella was so ignorant as to what was happening that he was lashing back out at me." I felt sick but I did not say anything. Didn't want to crash the party. I said my goodbyes and walked away.

I woke up.

And I thought about world aid.

Survival of the Heartless

This year alone, I have spent about 700$ on concert tickets. About a 1,000$ on travel within the US. 300$ on alcohol.

I contributed a 100$ to tsunami relief.

When I am in India I see people on trains, on the sides of the road, begging for money. Sick people, little kids.

And sometimes I refuse to give them any. Because I was told not to when I was a kid. Why? I never bothered to ask.

I have heard about Africa's debt. I now know that the poorest countries in the world pay back more towards old debt than they get in aid.

It took Floyd coming together after 20 years for me to read about it.

A child dies every 3 seconds in Africa because of poverty. That is 30,000 kids - 10 IITs a day.

I have the nerve to feel sorry for myself.

I have spent all but 9 months of my life in India.

Poverty is alien to me.

It's all wrong.

And I write blog entries.

I had great friends, incredible family. Yet, this is me. Am I a bad person?

I think I am.

How can I go on existing like this? How am I so individualistic? In 2 weeks, I will forget that I had these thoughts.

I am an animal.

I hope some day I read this and change.

These English-mans are Cuckoo *

I have a confession to make.

Among the courses I did well at in IIT, the one I probably took the most pride in was a Humanities course - Reading Fiction.

Arguably the most interesting thing about this course was that about ten odd students from every batch used to fall hopelessly in love with the hapless professor. The story of those ten Romeos and their pathetic efforts to win her heart would make wonderful reading. But I was not one of them and today I am telling my story.

My story began in school.

When I was a kid, I had wanted to be an author or a journalist. My uncle, a professional writer, was my inspiration. In high school however, I realized that I was rather good at math and pretty soon there was a healthy IIT-JEE obsession growing. A 16-year old body, albeit over-weight, has room for only 1 obsession. And so it came to be that my writer obsession bit the dust.

Once I came to terms with my engineer existence, I went through a phase where I believed that the woman I would end up with would be an artsy type. In my head I had the Engineer geek with Litty woman thing going.

(Note - A previous posting refers to me wanting the woman I end up with to prove that every integer >=3 can be expressed as part of a Pythagorean triplet. Let me just say that all such pre-requisites have faded with time for a multitude of reasons. And given my quite remarkable lack of success in meeting a remotely interesting, single specimen of the opposite sex recently, I have also come around to the realization that beggars can’t be choosers.)

With time my obsession with Littiness started to fade away. I tried an “Indian Writing in English” course in my fourth year but 2 cloying, pseudo-artsy batch-mates of mine put me off permanently. Most of my Litty urges have been suppressed and I have settled for the more “respectable” alternatives of crosswords and scrabble. They provide me with an opportunity to satisfy my occasional Litty cravings while still not crossing over to the other side. ;)

However, there is one remnant of my artsy times which still lingers on. I am subscribed to the Wondering Minstrels – an incredibly good mailing list which sends me a poem a day. One day recently I got this poem.

"Cuckoo Song"

Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springth the wude nu
- Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu;
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu:
Ne swike thu naver nu;
Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!
-- Anon. (Middle English, 13th cent.)

Glossary:
Lhude = loud.
Awe= ewe.
Lhouth = loweth.
Sterteth = leaps.
Swike = cease.

I would think that a poem with a glossary would have constituted sufficient warning that this was a tad bit out of my league. However, a vestigial impulse surfaced and I decided to soldier on. After a tremendous struggle (Google, for once, came up with nothing) I managed to decipher it. If you are feeling adventurous please go back and give it a try. But consider yourself warned.

Eitherways, I translated it to the best of my ability for the sake of this post.

"Cuckoo Song"

Summer is a-coming in,
Loudly sings cuckoo!
Grows seed, blows meadow,
And springs the wood now
- Sing cuckoo!

Ewe bleats after lamb,
Lows after calf;
Bullock leaps, buck runs to the greenwood,
Merrily sings cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo, well sings thou, cuckoo:
Never cease your song now;
Sing cuckoo, now, sing cuckoo,
Sing cuckoo, sing cuckoo, now!

-- Anon. (Middle English translated, 21st cent.)

So after all that effort this is what I get.

Summer arrives, the wood springs, bullocks leap and other animals do similar random antics. Through all this, the cuckoo keeps singing well, merrily and without ceasing.

Take it from me - a little snobbery is a dangerous thing.

Afterword:

I had initially planned to end the posting there. However, the process of figuring out what the poem meant was for me almost like a logical puzzle across time – just one with no right answer. I had trains of thought like once upon a time, “Cuckoo” (Cuccu) used to rhyme with “now” (nu).

Or that “calve cu” might mean “calve cow” or “calf”. Google told me that “nu” was now. Hence, “cu” could mean “cow” which would fit rather well. This poem has not been translated on the internet to the best of my knowledge. I actually have a rather two-thumbs-up feeling that I might be the first person to have put it out there.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I am at the verge of actually understanding why people spend their lives studying subjects like language and history.

* My sincere apologies to Obelix for the title. I just couldn't resist it. :)