WHAT?S IN A NAME
Mood:  special
Now Playing: Middle
“Sorry, could you say that again?” “You are Nikita/ Niharika, right?” It all starts with my name. No one ever gets it right at the first go. Not their mistake, I must say. Their perceptive skills fall short when it comes to fighting it out with my father’s ingenuity. I guess he was very fond of the name Nikhil and when he was blessed with me, he promptly christened me Nikhila. Almost every one, who met me for the first time was very fascinated with my name. I liked my name a lot, it had everyone hooked, and it was not a common name either! I was indeed in love with my name, until my primary school classmates decided to call me ‘nahi khila’. That spelt shock for me. Well, I braved the sarcastic remarks and stuck with my name. There is another of my father’s googlies; he nicknamed me ‘Anna’, because as a child I used to call an egg, anna instead of anda. Thanks to that, I now share my nickname with all the trigger happy villainous Annas of the Bollywood flicks. While in one of the Dravidian languages Anna means elder brother, in another it means a big stone. Which one am I, I would wonder. And when an elderly neighbour of ours always called me Anu, I chose not to correct him. After so much has been made of my names, one may bet that I have become fond of the ‘Change Of Name’ sections in the newspapers. Well, to tell you the truth, I have not. Reasons galore. I love the love with which my father named me and also because Nikhila means- born of the sky and all encompassing. I guess that says it all. ‘What’s in a name’, Shakespeare argued. A lot, may I say?

Let Natwar Prevail
Mood:  energetic
Now Playing: Editorial
Picture this- 83-year-old Paul Volcker chooses to wag his tongue and exhume the grave of the oil-for-food deals of 2001 and reveal the moolah that exchanged hands. Delve a little deeper and you may see the muck that lies beneath. Natwar Singh, in 2001, had allegedly sent his representatives to Iraq in an attempt to grease his hands with oil which was being sold at prices well below the international rate. Natwar’s name is being maligned on the pretext that he resold the oil and made exorbitant profits. In the year 2001, Natwar was not a portfolio holding minister and probably had no expectations of getting one. The Congress was in the opposition and allegedly did the same; bought oil and then sold it. One question looming large is why only Natwar is being made to play the central protagonist in the high voltage Volcker drama? Has his role been blown out of proportion to procrastinate the danger lurking behind the curtains? This sob-opera is not about a political figure’s downfall from majesty. It is a matter of the repertoire pulling down the curtains on the only actor on stage. If Natwar is guilty then the Congress has an equally soiled image. Where did the sense of camaraderie go when Natwar was asked to step down, rather pulled down from his throne? The fatal flaw in the whole affair has been the Congress’s attempt to save face and make Natwar the sacrificial goat. Oil seems to have proved thicker than loyalty, and the entire aisle has turned slippery. Natwar’s allegiance has always been with the Congress since the Nehruvian era. Towing the same line of justice, Nehru should have been asked to resign from his office in the year 1962, when India suffered an embarrassing defeat at the hands of China. No-one featuring on the Volcker report, across the world, has been asked to give up his office before the authenticity of the report is proved. Only India has chosen to play moral police and set the precedent for the world. Read a little between the lines and the issue of moral impropriety sees the light of the day. The heady romance between Natwar and the vote for Iran seems to be a very important agenda that has been jettisoned. His pro-Iran stand might have gone against him. The rift that had crept in the Congress on the issue of voting for or against Iran created a huge drift and Natwar was left all alone. We would certainly not have any problems with Natwar going out of his office if he is accompanied by Laloo Prasad Yadav and all the tainted ministers in the UPA government. And if that is not feasible, then let Natwar prevail as the portfolio minister, as Rajiv Gandhi continued as a Member of Parliament and Narsimha Rao as the prime minister after they had been named in the Bofors gun deal and JMM bribery case respectively.

The Act
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: The Act
Topic: My Articles
The act can be pleasing, painful, tiring, may involve strange voices and a lot of physical movements- as the two of discovered when we did it for the first time. “Push harder, a bit more,” I cried, though I could see he was trying his best. “Stop guiding me” he snapped back. Tears were about to roll out of the corner of my eyes. “Use your hands, I can not take it any longer. Do it fast.” I was being selfish in expecting him to be where I wanted him to be. “Aahh… finally you are there. So sir, how does it feel to be there?” asked I. he let off a sigh of relief. The passengers in the bus had been evidently amused by our conversation. The visible excitement of watching a lean girl heroically standing on the last step of the bus had faded as my friend managed to move inside and I advanced to the second step. The act of travelling in Delhi buses can be a harrowing experience. And if you happen to be a girl experience may vary from being eve-teased to being over-protected. The middle aged men have always managed to gain my attention and curiosity. I always find them sleeping away to glory right in t6he morning. Some of them appear to have taken an overdose of “Revital” leer at Aunty jis. Aunty jis bask in the glory of the attention they get. How the TDH types escape mention? These chivalrous young men who offer to undergo the agony of standing and vacate the seats the moment I stand by them. Then there are those as well who- they had seats- would have vacated them. The wannabes-as I call them- take it upon themselves, the task of protecting the girl. The drivers prefer to be called pilots. They, interestingly, have a muse, someone for whom the seaty next to the driver is always kept vacant. The muse wears the clothes of latest fashion, never pays for the ticket and laughs in a high pitch. The pilot- in awe of the muse- drives the bus in a way that would put the real pilots to shame. as for the passengers, there is the constant tolling of the bells.