Feline Musings

 The Loss

 Image Source: http://pixdaus.com/single.php?id=181379

I sighed. I was unaware of how long I had been sitting there. A message had been dropped at home by a client who wanted me work on his new project, but I was too drained to start work anew. The creative juices had been sapped out, the strength depleted; a part of me it seemed had followed her to another world, across the astral plane. I would look at the stars at night and wistfully whisper her name, imagining she was one of the million stars, and I could coax her to come back to me. The glimpse of a shooting star in the dark horizon had filled me with hope, but as the stars disappeared into the fold of dawn, I knew my entreaties were futile.

He came to meet me on the insistence of a friend. He had initially believed that it was a manifestation of grief and hoped that I would soon recover. Everyone hoped I would recover, except for me. I didn’t want recovery, I wanted an escape. An escape into the arms of my beloved, who had so treacherously stolen me of the pleasure of holding her hand, and sharing the weirdest of my dreams and imagination. When I lost her, I stopped articulating my thoughts and my imagination was lost in the absence of rendition. Gloom was replaced by blankness, and loneliness engulfed me with strong talons when I was in a crowd. I was secluded from people and work but not from her memories. My room became my refuge – if Death had to find me, He wouldn’t have to look around much.

The Revelation

He looked uneasy standing in the doorway. It surprised me each time to see how he had still not got used to the constant curtain of gloom, despair and grievance, which hung around him by virtue of his profession. Maybe he was too sensitive to be a doctor, but here he was in the same capacity wanting to drive the ghosts away from me with a magic pill. I looked in his direction, and nearly told him that I was not haunted by ghosts of the past, but under the spell of love and longing. His eyes met mine and he cleared his throat.

“I hear you have not been keeping well.” He said, as he sat down.

“A man is not allowed his share of silence. If I am silent, does it mean I am unwell?” I retorted.

“You need some fresh air.” He prescribed, as he checked my pulse and blood pressure, and thrust a thermometer in my mouth.

I rolled up my eyes in exasperation but I did not resent the probing. Sometimes, it’s amusing to see another human being take the trouble of knowing you better, when you have lost yourself in the maze of your thoughts.

The doctor was murmuring something about taking a blood test for I had a fever. I was looking at the electric kettle in the corner of the room, oblivious to the arrangements that the doctor made to draw a sample of my blood. I had switched on the electric kettle minutes before, and a steady line of vapor rose in the air. As the syringe pricked a vein, I could almost feel the pain of the water as it smoldered and was transformed into steam. Transformation from one form to another was instantaneous but not without complex occurrences.

The steam became a mist, rose further up and spread across the room. I stood in the morning mist, unaware of my surroundings, when a vision quickly flitted before my eyes. The rustle of the leaves, sounded like the rustle of her gown, a strange tinkling seemed to be the sound from the tiny ornaments in her bracelet, while the call of the nesting birds beckoned me to follow her.

The rustling and the whispering were replaced by the shuffle of feet and a self-conscious monotone. I only heard the doctor say he was leaving but would be back tomorrow with the report. I got up to close the door behind him and switched off the kettle before the mist engulfed me again.

The Transformation

“The treatment you took two years back has failed. The infection has set in again, and your neglect has accentuated the festering. It’s irreversible. You have invited Death to your doorstep.” The doctor admonished me as the unopened envelope containing my blood reports, lay unattended on my lap.

I let his words sink in. A brief glow illuminated my face and my eyes glimmered with the light of a madman. I could have hugged the doctor but I displayed restraint. Some thoughts are best left to be caressed and relished in the realm of solitude. My lips expressed gratitude for his efforts; my heart uttered gratitude to the powers above, for cutting short my pained existence. I was filled with elation – the thought of union with my beloved predominated any other idea. What did the doctor say – “a couple of months, maybe a quarter of a year, not more than that.”

“How will this time pass,” I mulled. “Maybe I will take up the editing job that was offered to me. It wasn’t a long project anyway.” I decided.

The smell of the first showers intoxicated me. A gust of wind sprayed my face with icy rain drops, as I reached to close the window. I took a deep breath. The showers were heavy and had caught unaware many passers-by. A tiny puddle was created and a small child splashed in the water gleefully. I could almost feel the pleasure of the child, and in my mind I protested more vehemently than him when his mother pulled him away with a slap on the bottom. The child in me wanted to enjoy the rain and the mud. I felt light-hearted and child-like.

Somebody had sent me flowers – pink roses. I touched the petals, and they felt baby soft. Or was a baby’s skin soft like a rose petal, I thought. In my mind’s eye I almost touched a baby swaddled in pink cloth. I sighed at the miracle of life; I was almost amazed by the thought of life. A movement caught my eye. A tiny insect was scrambling within the folds of a pink rose. Each time it tried to get to the further end of the petal, from where it could escape, it slid down into the deeper recesses. I felt sorry for the little insect. I felt compelled to assist it in its escape. Without even my realizing it, the call of Death and obliteration were becoming alien to me.

My editing chair creaked as I looked at the speckles in the corner of the still. I had to remove them and I stared leisurely into the computer screen. I was enjoying this task and was putting deep thought into each frame. I will replace the speckles of dust with silver flakes as if the ground she walks upon becomes precious with each step that she takes. I liked the idea; I closed my eyes and relished the thought. I bent down the scooped the silver flakes, and felt the sand run down the gaps in my closed palm. I suddenly, panicked. Time was running out on me, like the silver sand! I looked up at the girl in the frame. She was looking at me with a question in her eyes. “I want to live.” I told her. She smiled at me and moved on, leaving a deep trail in the sands of time.

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I am glad that I did not read the three dystopian novels – 1984, Brave New World and Fahrenheit 451 – as a young adult, because the intent and content of these books would have been wasted on me. I recently read Fahrenheit 451 and was amazed at the prophetic vision of Ray Bradbury. I could not only appreciate the novel in the context of our world today but also in the perspective of global history, which I was not so fully aware of in my early years of education and reading. Through this blog post, I not only want to revive the awe that I felt on reading the vision of Ray Bradbury, but also want to exhort readers to study this (and the other two dystopian novels) in the light of today’s world of proliferate digital media.

Fahrenheit 451 published in 1953 is set in a future when the written word is forbidden. “Fireman” Guy Montag, enjoys his duties as a professional book-burner. He never questions his profession, until he is introduced to the wonderful treasure of books, of sharing, of talking and listening by a young girl, who tells him of a time when books were legal and people did not live in fear. Montag begins stealing books marked for destruction and meets a professor who agrees to educate him. When his pilfering is discovered, he runs for his life, only to seek refuge in a community of individuals who memorize entire books so they will endure until society once again is willing to read.

Ever since I read this book, which was two weeks back, I could relate Bradbury’s vision to the things and activities around me and I was astonished by the emerging parallelism and similarity. For instance, the other evening, NDTV was airing a debate on banning of books. Sitting in front of the TV, I instantly recalled Fahrenheit 451 with its central theme of censorship, and I was compelled to reopen the book, and read the following lines, in which Captain Beatty explains the premise of book-burning – “Don’t step on the toes of the dog lovers, the cat lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchant, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy.”

The entire book is filled discussions that are coming true in our modern world. Ever thought about social media induced self-reclusiveness and television-addiction; Ray Bradbury envisioned it in these two lines: “Let you alone! That’s all very well, but how can I leave myself alone? We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?”

What about modern curriculum and grade-based expensive education, with students cramming up text books and competing for the highest percentile, but not able to appreciate the value of good writers and books; Ray Bradbury prophesized that this world will soon see Intellectuals as an insane minority – “With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word `intellectual,’ of course, became the swear word it deserved to be.”

Overwhelmed by knowledge at your fingertips, rushing to Wikipedia to gather trivia, sapping up “breaking news” by the minute, foot tapping to chart-busters that are heard today, gone tomorrow, addicted to soap operas and “reality” television and flimsy fashion; Ray Bradbury clearly perceived it all as if he was walking amidst us today – “Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so damned full of ‘facts’ they feel stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change. Don’t give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy.”

Bradbury also took a satirical but true view of modern political society. He envisioned the fallacy of political promises and social utopia – “We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against.”

The book is an intelligent parody on state-run monopoly, and manipulation, foolishly covered and relayed by the media, and the modern man’s quest for fun and entertainment at the expense of other people’s pain and folly. It is the ultimate reflection of a material world where lack of knowledge and pursuit of entertainment leads to subservience to the vile and the irrational. Like Huxley’s Brave New World, Ray Bradbury has imagined a world were gratification reigns supreme and human beings live in self-assured indulgence.

Though, I personally feel that Fahrenheit 451 was inspired by the book burning by Nazis and the use of words for propaganda, Ray Bradbury has himself suggested that the book was not intended as a story about government censorship but about how television and deluge of information destroys interest in reading, particularly good literature. To quote from an article published in 2007 in LA Weekly, “Television gives you the dates of Napoleon, but not who he was,” Bradbury says, summarizing TV’s content with a single word that he spits out as an epithet: “factoids.” “Useless,” Bradbury says. “They stuff you with so much useless information, you feel full.” Bradbury sees television as “opiate of the masses”. It is also interesting to note that in an age when most American houses had “box” black-and-white televisions, Ray imagined the contemporary “walled” model that incessantly transmits family dramas.

Fahrenheit 451 is on the list of “banned books.” Like the opposition to Orwell’s 1984, the opposition to Fahrenheit 451 seems to grow as the depicted society grows too similar to our own. As the truth of Bradbury’s prophetic vision unfolds between us, we can only wonder how long “firemen” will continue to put down fires and not start them!

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Night was bored, lighting up the same landscape. She was getting fidgety and wanted to move on to another recess of the Earth. A warm tingling sensation was creeping in as the Sun slowly moved closer into the precinct where Night reveled. She decided it was time to traverse into another horizon far from the burning gaze of the Sun.

She got up in a rush, and some starry blue sequins fell from her ornamented black dress. This was part of a daily ritual and it did not perturb her. She would have enough time to change into another black or navy blue dress, while Twilight, adorned in a deep reddish gown, awaited her arrival at the gateway of another realm.

Night shook her head despondently and her Crescent Moon hairpin fell into the lap of sleeping Dawn. “How I wish I had a wardrobe as colorful as that of the twin sisters, Dawn and Twilight.” She winced, but then she remembered her wardrobe was exclusive, and the twins shared a wardrobe and could experiment with more colors than she could.

Awakened by the rustling of Night’s sequined dress, and the sudden fall of the Crescent Moon in her lap, Dawn yawned and slowly stretched. Drowsily, she emerged in a dark blue sarong, and a pretty pink chemise. The Sun was galloping closer, lighting up her auburn tresses. Dawn felt beads of pearly perspiration on her forehead as the Sun gently caressed her. She sighed and tied her hair back with Crescent Moon hairpin, and absent-mindedly wiped her forehead as the warmth engulfed her. The little droplets fell on the grass at the hem of her sarong and were embraced by the Earth, as Dew Drops.

A tiny Dew Drop slid down the sarong and fell on the outer petal of a fresh new Red Rose. Resting on the soft petal, the Dew Drop giggled. She imagined herself looking beautiful as the red colors glittered through her transparent skin. Touched by Red, the Dew Drop felt a twitch in her heart and briefly winced, “Maybe it was the day when Love would be ignited by the fiery colors of passion”. The Dew Drop fell into a reverie with light Morning Breeze fluttering around her.

Spring was breaking in the little garden where the Dew Drop had found its new haven. Innocent chatter was heard near the Red Rose bed. Two small children had come out to play in the garden. They laughed and ran about, and fiddled with the new bubble wands that their father had fashioned out of drinking straws. They stood on the grass near the Rose bed and mixed soap and water to make bubble solution. The Dew Drop looked on with interest as the children played.

The children dipped their bubble wands into the fresh soap solution and slowly brought the wands closer to their lips, gently blowing air into the loops. They breathed life into many Bubbles of different sizes that instantly escaped from the little wand loops. The Dew Drop gasped in surprise as many iridescent Bubbles filled the air above the Rose bed. The children got up excitedly and ran behind the Bubbles that had taken flight.

A big Bubble escaped the ruckus that the children created and hovered over the Red Rose bed, taken aback by the riot of Red on the ground below. A reflection of Red caught his eye and he was as struck by the gentle passion of the color, as Dew Drop had been previously effected. Oblivious to the fate of his other Bubble Brothers, the Bubble continued to float over the Rose bed, prodded by Unseen Forces.

The Dew Drop fluttered her eyelids when her gaze caught the beautiful Rainbow hues shining from the surface of the Bubble. She had never seen anything so handsome before and she quivered with a faint sense of delight. The movement caught Bubble’s eye, and he looked down at the little Dew Drop, and was transfixed, for a moment.

“How can a Bubble survive on the hard surface of a Rose petal?” he thought. Bubbles are meant to float and touching another surface spelled instant doom for them.

The Dew Drop consciously cleared her throat, accentuating her frail quiver, under the gaze of the Bubble. The Bubble realized he was gaping at the Dew Drop, and moved slightly away from the Rose bed.

The Dew Drop was disappointed, “Why is he floating away! Does he not like me?”

And then, as if hearing her thoughts, the Bubble holding stead against the Morning Breeze floated closer to the place where the Dew Drop rested.

He cleared his throat and spelled his doubt, “What kind of a Bubble are you, which does not float but embraces a Rose petal?”

A tinkering laughter escaped the Dew Drop, “I am not a Bubble, but a Dew Drop”.

“A Dew Drop?” the Bubble quizzed.

“I was conceived on the fair forehead of Dawn, when the frisky Sun, touched her tresses, in warm fervor. I was born, when Dawn set me free to descend on this Rose petal.” Dew Drop proudly declared her Celestial origin, with the airs apt for a young lady, and a flushon her face.

“Ah, I see, so you are not a Bubble. I was born of Innocence and of the Liveliness of the Children of the Earth.” Bubble traced his birth from Earthly Virtue. “And now I float in the Morning Breeze without restraint.”

The Dew Drop looked away, and then whispered in sad tones, “Though I am a Child of the Heavens above, I cannot float and revel in the Morning Breeze like you”.

“Don’t be distressed! You have soft petals to rest your delicate self on. It is not easy for a floating Bubble to maintain its stead against the Breeze.” The Bubble voiced his predicament.

The Dew Drop was impressed by the brave stance of the Bubble. She looked at him admiringly. Bubble caught the glint in her eye and saw the tint on her countenance, “She is so beautiful, and she reflects the virtue of my mother, Innocence!”

His incessant gaze filled the Dew Drop with ecstasy. The Bubble continued to look on inquisitively and then with a mischievous grin when a sudden tug pulled at his heart that threatened to shake his entire existence. The Dew Drop caught asked coyly, “Why do you gaze at me so intently?”

“You have beautiful hints of Dawn and a heart fiery like the Sun. I revel in the warmth that you exude!” The Bubble complimented the little Dew Drop.

A glowing Dew Drop laughed light heartedly, “Stay away, least my warmth pull you down to the grass below.”

The Bubble smirked and took a somersault in the light Breeze, reflecting Rainbow shades from his bosom. “So many colors, so many vistas, a little Rainbow enclosed in a small world!” The Dew Drop murmured mesmerized by the multihued effect.

“But none to compare the ruddy colors of Love that you exude.” The Bubble spoke affectionately.

“And what do you know of Love, my free-spirited Bubble! Love sets its eyes on an object of affection and intoxicated with the wine of desire, lodges itself deep into the taverns of the heart, never to be liberated.” The Dew Drop admonished him.

“That’s where you are wrong, my beautiful Dew Drop. Love is never vanquished, it is never fettered, and it is never meant to be locked. Love rises high in intoxicated free will and lets the Spirit soar and fly beyond the recesses of the Universe.” The Bubble shared a different vision of the resident of the Land of Eros.

“I always felt Love deep down in my heart, from where it sang to me of togetherness and of longing. I cherished it and I let it snuggle deep within me, its ruddy glow lighting me from within.” The Dew Drop answered in low tones.

“Set it free, my Dew Drop. Set Love free, before it burns you down in a fire as resplendent as your countenance. Set it free to traverse across the Rainbow dressed in hues never seen before.” The buoyant Bubble flipped and somersaulted.

“Oh, how I would like to traverse across the Rainbow!” The Dew Drop exclaimed in delight at the thought.

“Come hither and float with me, across the skies, to the Rainbow.” The Bubble floated close to her and spoke endearingly.”

“I cannot leave my abode on the Red Rose. I am weighed down by the Love in my heart. I cannot rise up to touch the skies.” She sadly responded to the Bubble’s suggestion.

“I wish I could touch your heart and unleash the Love that lays hidden. Alas! I cannot come down as I am guided by the Morning Breeze and destined to remain afloat, till I reach my final abode across the Rainbow.”

“Come down! Come close to me, just once, my brave Bubble. Help me set free the Love, I have fettered for so long.” The Dew Drop requested, almost bursting with Love.

“Not once, not ever! I cannot touch you my Rose-tinted Dew Drop. I cannot let the embers of the Love within you, burn me. I must bid you adieu, my Dew Drop, and navigate the course chartered by the Morning Breeze.

“Stay here. Stay for me!” Her words were drowned by the sound of the Morning Breeze whispering a new direction to the Bubble, nudging him towards a new path.

The Bubble tried to follow the new breezy course but felt weighed down by Sorrow. The burden made it hover downwards. Even against its will, beckoned only by Love, the Bubble came closer and closer to the Dew Drop and touched it just for an instance. In that transient moment, Love was set free, and a Raindrop was conceived where once the Bubble had united with the Drew Drop.

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Remixes, Replays and Reality Shows, these are the three R factors that have defined the milestones of modern entertainment, particularly in this decade. And if you may, some enthusiasts would add the Rakhi Sawant factor to this list.

Talking about Remixes they were the rage of the pub-hopping, disco-dancing young generation, who loved the idea of their own set of desi-musical beats to match their steps with. The ability to comprehend and emote Hindi lyrics while thrusting and grinding their pelvis to thumping percussion and eletronica went down very well with the younger audience.

The music remix industry rode the waves of the times, and endless volumes of remixed albums and dance numbers were churned out much to the élan of the neo-party-goers. Along with the audio-album industry, the television industry also received a great impetus with every other artist/DJ coming up with an album and a suggestive video to go with it. Television programs featuring top remixes and top pop songs of the week were widely watched.

It was also the time when the tribe of “item girls”, who have today become the star feature of all Bollywood movies, emerged. We may recall that our popular item girl, Rakhi Sawant, was also launched via a dance video, featuring a remix of the Amitabh and Rekha original – Pardesia. However, there were as many Western songs that one could remix with Indian numbers, and as many songs that one could rehash in the face of radical opposition from old-timers like Asha Bhosle and Lata Mangeshkar, to name a few. Slowly, remixes became passé but item numbers, i.e. thumping music usually with raunchy lyrics, featuring item girls became a staple of all Bollywood movies, and music directors like Himesh Reshammiya started creating remix versions of their songs, in movie albums.

Replays have mostly been associated with the game of cricket, but their greatest use was made in Ekta Kapoor ke K-walle serial. Never before has any other style of cinematography been used with such extreme results as to push a serial beyond 200 episodes. In the absence of a storyline, in the obligation to feed the addicted masses with their daily dose, in the desire to rake the maximum sponsorship mullah, Ekta Kapoor perfected the art of replay.

Hence, each bat of the eyelid and every trickle of a tear, the smudge of the sindoor and the sweat drop on the forehead, the teeth-gnashing and the shock, the breaking of the bangles and the flutter of the curtains, the shuffle of footsteps and the boiling of the milk, every single shot was shown three consecutive times in a swift replay, accompanied by music to suit the scene. Each replay – dhish-dhish-dhish – emphasized the severity of the situation, the seriousness of the matter, the wasting of the time of the jaw-dropping viewers. The saga of the R factor of replays on modern television continues with news channels replaying for 25 minutes, a 3- minute clip and script, and reality shows also adopting the tactics of stills and replays.

That brings us to the third most important R factor, the Reality Shows, and the reason why I actually wrote this blog, because I am wondering what will be the next stage in television after the audience has had enough of these so-called Reality Shows. “So-called”, because by now most of us have understood that these shows are scripted and seek publicity in the name of scandals and orchestrated incidents. And, alas the public memory is so short that we aren’t even asking what happened to the Anupama Verma and Aryan Vaid love affair that began in Big Boss 2, or any of these numerous scripted affairs, quarrels, tantrums, injuries and melodrama on TV.

Reality dance shows are another subset of these reality programs, where we can never be sure of whether the audience vote actually counts or is it again a well-scripted televised drama. I can’t help but recall the first Nach Baliye show, in which the final competitors, Rajyahsree and Varun Badola actually forgot their steps on stage and were hence defeated. The question is if such an exit was scripted, then why strong performers would agree to bow out. The answer may lie in the money that they are offered.

The latest controversial statement comes from a contestant in MTV Splitsville, claiming that the contest winners are decided on the Director’s casting couch. Reality show “Sach ka Saamna” also seems an eye-wash with the polygraph test done behind the scenes and the contestants feigning surprise and acting their part during the show. I guess the only Reality Shows, which are not scripted are quiz shows like “Kaun Banega Crorepati” and “Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas se Tez Hai?”

Whatever is the reality or the fallacy behind these shows, the pertinent question is “How long will the age of the Reality Shows last?” Isn’t it high time that the audience says no to these serials and demand educative, creative, and value-based entertainment? It’s also a shame that most of these shows are carbon copies of their foreign counterparts. So much for originality, specially in Indian television, because all that we are doing is aping the West, be it plugging in western beats to create remixes, or stealing the concept of never ending soap operas, in the league of The Bold and The Beautiful or for that matter copying all the reality shows. Even Rakhi Sawant ka Swayamwar, is “inspired” by the serial – “Daisy of Love”.

This also reminds me that Rakhi Sawant ka Swayamwar is much talked about with everyone wondering whether she will actually marry on the 2nd of August. While many believe that the drama queen will come up with some melodrama on the given day and get away from committing, the fact is that she has already let the cat out of the bag. In an interview to Headlines Today, she has clearly stated that this is a Swayamwar, an ancient method of selecting the groom; hence she will only select the groom, and will enter a period of courtship. So much for our Reality Show lovers, who suspect that there is hardly any reality in the show but always succumb to the fast one that is being invariably pulled on them!

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This post has also appeared in the July edition of TechCraft, one of the leading ezines in India, on technical writing – http://groups.yahoo.com/group/technical_writers_india/files/TechCraft/

My laptop has taken over nearly every waking moment of my life, and words, words and more words have invaded each nook and cranny of my existence. As a full-time technical writer/editor, I spend nine working hours (and sometimes more) poring over technical and design documents and then churning out reams of user documentation, in its varied forms. After I am done with the professional part, the remaining wits and time is directed towards maintaining my presence on the myriad social media that I subscribe to.

Social media demands that I share information on numerous matters of global as and group interest and maintain updated profiles on networked sites. As a netizen, it is also my duty to read and comment on the inputs that my networked “friends” are constantly updating, usually round-the-clock. In the world of social media, the rule is simple – “You scratch my back, and I scratch yours!”

Sometimes, I am overcome by fatigue. As a technical writer, my first love is writing, and words are the cornerstone of my being, but there are days when the barrage of information and learning, and even extended demands on my time and efforts is mind-boggling. Then I usually take a break and let my tired mind rest, but not for long, because I realize that I am becoming uninformed, particularly, from the professional perspective. Social media has become a part and parcel of our existence, more so for the technical writer, and in this article, I, humbly, attempt to discuss the why and how of this phenomenon.

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Social media is a powerhouse of ever flowing information, tinged with experiences and opinions of many users, across diverse stages of learning, maturity and understanding. A decade ago, when technical writing was struggling to find a stronghold in the Indian IT industry, the greatest impetus came from the use of online groups and mailing lists. Islands of information and individual aspirants conjoined at an online abode, where they shared details of jobs, tools, technical trainings, and challenges. In the absence of established courses and training institutes, most technical writers were learning the intricacies of the usage of authoring tools through chats, forums, and blogs. The online availability of industry-wide authoring standards and trends has helped technical writers to think and write from the perspective of global users, and also come of age, in terms of international competition.

Collaboration is the key concept in all social media; and collaboration is a must-have skill for a successful technical writer. It is no wonder then, that technical writers have adapted to (and adopted) social media, as fish take to water. Technical writers across the globe are communing as affinity groups, which are usually “thin-sliced” by virtue of the professional collaboration that has transcended geographical boundaries.

Creative freedom is another important aspect of social media; and creative freedom is usually the fleeting fantasy of most technical writers. Bound by style and rule-based writing standards, and user-friendly concise procedural documentation, their time devoted to troubleshooting tools, talking XML and DITA over lunches and AJAX and Strut in trainings, many inspired technical writers have found the perfect creative let-out through the art of blogging. From writing about experiments with technology, to invoking a call for change, from future-gazing on evolving trends to just writing to satiate the creative streak, technical writers have a vast presence in the blogosphere.

Trainings have become simpler because of social media; and trainings have been a sore-spot for many technical writers, especially in India. But now we have webinars, webcasts, study groups, Q&A and discussion forums, courses through streaming media, portals for learning and sharing, interactive course materials, free snippets of information, codes, and online certifications. Global training and certifications are now available at the click of a mouse, and what is most important is that information regarding upcoming trainings and certifications is widely published, and archived data is available.

Broadcast abilities are the inherent baseline for social media; and broadcast is significant for technical writer both for personal growth, as well as for organizational growth. Social media gives technical writers ample opportunity to showcase their skills, advertise their potential, explore free-lance or newer job opportunities, and maintain competitiveness. Companies are also becoming increasingly aware of the need to leverage the broadcast benefits of social media, and in this context the role of technical writers will expand to envelope corporate blogging, online publications, professional writing for social media campaigns, building learning communities, and redefining user experience.

Information, and loads of it, is available at your finger tips; and information is fodder for technical writers. It is evident that social media scores over traditional media in terms of its reach, amongst other things. By virtue of free accessibility, and also pronounced recency of information, social media has become the first choice of all technical writers to seek information. Google search inadvertently leads the searcher to twits, and blogs, forums and wikis, and technical writers are becoming highly informed with each passing mouse-click.

Social media, however, is transient, controversial and highly transparent. Information can be edited, and changed almost instantaneously. There are chances of information overload, and hence the need to intelligently sieve the relevant from the irrelevant, the biased or personal from the impartial and globally relevant. Inductive and deductive reasoning and controlled rhetoric are the two factors that can help technical writers to determine the social media and profiles that they should follow and contribute to.

While social media can help technical writers to “sharpen their claws”, overindulgence can also lead to reduced quality of thought and writing. As technical writers it is our personal responsibility to know when and where to draw the line. When associated with organizations, we have to remain conscious of intellectual property, confidentially and expected decorum in all our communication. Social media has transformed technical writers and information gatherers into publishers. As our written word reaches out to billions across time and geographies, we have to appreciate and accept our increasing responsibilities as mature and informed writers.

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“Amateurs wait for inspiration. The rest of us just get up and go to work.” – Chuck Close – Reader’s Digest July 2009

I am obviously and practically an amateur writer/author with only one published short story as my “claim to fame”. I have always cradled the dream (and ambition) of having at least one book published as an author. So, all this time, I kept on sharpening my claws (my pen) churning out short stories, articles, and blog posts, until the amateur in me got the required inspiration.

Samit Basu’s initiative on Twitter set the ball rolling for me. Samit Basu, the famed author of the “The Gameworld Trilogy”, initially called for a word count race on Twitter, which was further organized by YuviPanda into a Facebook discussion forum/community. NovelRace was conceived to give a touch of competition and motivation, and a drive to actually get, set, go … and write! To quote from the Introduction of NovelRace on Facebook –

“The motive was simple enough – to tell each other, “Write, bugger, write.” And perhaps to point and laugh when you’re ahead. So here’s where we are right now. Finish a novel (‘novel’ here would mean anything – screenplay, play, graphic novel script, non-fiction or, of course, fiction – exceeding 60,000 words) by October 31st. Meet on Twitter, update, heckle each other, make a tally every weekend, and bitch. Everyone is welcome.

As Samit says, there’s no real group objective beyond going “DAMN, he/she is 5K words ahead again!”

Perhaps we should also add that this is far less structured than things like NaNoWriMo. There are no rules, no one’s checking your work, what you do with your finished book afterwards is entirely up to you. Also, no real rules as far as eligibility is concerned – you just need to want to finish your book/screenplay/play/comic, it should be a full-length piece that would serve as a first draft that you could show publishers after editing. Thassall.

Even the word count guidelines we’ve set up are, like the Pirate Code, just guidelines. Don’t ask us whether your work is eligible. It is. Write it.”

When I came across NovelRace, the occurrence was aptly complimented by the fact that I had three stories running parallel in my mind, but had not yet penned them down. This made the search for a theme for my novel a cakewalk, as I decided to thread the three stories together with a common event and/or a series of event and then just go with the flow.

Thus motivated, I upgraded from bystander mode to a competitor role. Within fifteen days, I reached the 20000-word count mark, and according to the NovelRace discussion forum, actually had a sample ready. Though I am still refraining from spilling all the beans (and the marketing masala), I thought it would be nice to put up something on my blog to generate interest (particularly, publisher interest).

22000-words plus and obsessively attached to this “creative adventure” here’s what I imagine on the back cover of the novel –

“Destiny charters the course in the life of three different women, as a local scandal makes the headlines. Over a course of chance and then planned meetings, the three women find themselves being influenced by each other’s experiences, consequently redefining their lives to follow singular courses.”

Each of the characters is from a different walk of life, with distinctive personalities, challenges, and dissimilar ways of handling circumstances. When they meet, a little color of each one’s attitudes and experiences rubs on to the other and is eventually reflected in the decisions that they go on to take for themselves. To introduce the stories of each of the three female protagonists, and then the concluding section I wrote down a few verses. I hope it helps to bring out some of the flavor of the story and the characters.

The Path of Hope

Meandering through alleys cobbled with stones

As grey as the ash flicked from a burning stub;

The melody of love touches her and stirs the senses

Leading her to a path of hope lying beyond the curb.

The Trail of Belief

In the realm of her simplest dreams and desires

In the dominion of her wildest fears and frets;

Seeking refuge and respite from the searing fires

She awakens, and gradually, the trail of belief treads.

The Passage of Trust

Struggling to find roots in the crevice of a rock

Craving to fulfill a promise bursting at its seams,

She tenderly gathers the weak tendrils running amok

And embarks on the passage where trust gleams

At the End of the Road

Beyond the previous bastion of their lonesome strife

Across the rickety bridge transcending the valleys

Of stifling despair, of broken trust, of shattered belief

Traversing an uncharted course to flee the gullies

They are borne by a twist of fate and a turn of destiny,

At the end of the road, right into the arms of serendipity.

I am hoping to receive some attention and responses on this blog post because I am working very hard on this initiative, considering that I have a full time job (and a hubby). For live scores, visit http://novelrace.in. Until I slog it out, here is another quote from Reader’s Digest July 2009, to keep me inspired.

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” – Maya Angelow.

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An inconspicuous path led away from the main mountain road. Had they not been looking for it, they would have definitely missed it. Earlier, Swarna had espied a quaint looking red building at the top of a hill and encouraged Manas to find a way to reach the house, or whatever it was, so that she could take a few photographs.

“We have passed so many other brightly colored and interesting edifices but what’s so attractive about that building that you want to actually go knocking on the door?” Manas was always surprised by the obscure things that caught Swarna’s eye and how she always wanted to tread the unbeaten path. Although he readily agreed to most of her plans, he sometimes felt disconnected from her when he couldn’t share her passion for the wild and the weird.

“I was just imagining the scenic splendor that must be visible from that height. Just think, the kind of fun the people living up there must be having, enjoying the fresh mountain air and looking down at the world below.” Swarna answered animatedly.

Manas smiled at her enthusiasm. He stopped at a roadside eatery and asked the onlookers about the way to reach the red building. The bunch of local people remained quiet and then one person asked him, “Babuji, why do want to go there?”

“Just like that! In fact what is that structure?” He answered and inquired in one go.

“It’s supposed to be an old summer house of a military officer, and has been uninhabited since a long time. I would suggest that you don’t go there.”

“Why?” Swarna leaned over Manas.

“Bibiji, there are stories regarding that area, about strange sightings and sounds. Moreover, the path leading to the house is tricky and uneven.”

“Wow!” Swarna’s eyes lit up instantly. She prodded Manas, “Take the directions, we must go there and see for ourselves.”

After Manas had taken the directions, he teased her that she was a witch because she had picked up the strange vibes of the place and had entrapped him to take her there. Their conversation stopped as they started looking for the narrow path that would appear at the side of the mountain road. They nearly missed it and had to reverse the car to finally hit the path. The way was rocky, constricted and was a long uphill drive and Manas had to concentrate on the driving.

They eventually came to a fenced area, and wooden gate lay invitingly open before them. Swarna clapped in glee. Manas drove into the wicket gate, and before them rose an imposing house, that was spherical in shape. They parked the car, and walked up the steep climb to the two pillared open gateway that was the entry point to the house.

The chaste mountain sun was glaring down at them, but a cool, rather cold wind was also blowing. They thought it was the altitude but there was a distinct change in temperature since they had parked their car and trudged towards the house. The house, rather a red-brick bungalow, was at an elevation and they climbed up the stairs to the high plateau. It was a glorious sight from there. They could clearly see the play of nature, as one hill was lighted up by the sun, and another was hidden behind a growing mist, that implied that it was raining on that part of the ranges. The opposite side, had a rich growth of cacti and a mountain range dotted by dwarf-like city structures, was clearly visible. They stood spell-bound for sometime till Swarna took out her camera to take photographs.

Manas, in the meantime, surveyed the spherical premises of the building. The exteriors were clean and well kept, and on treading the narrow path around the bungalow, he came upon a flourishing flower garden. He called out to Swarna to capture the beauty of the mountain roses and lilies. Swarna’s attention was captured by the garden and then by the red house.

“This place is well-maintained. There must be a caretaker or even occupants. But that man at the dhaba said it was uninhabited.” Swarna thought aloud.

“May be it’s been recently occupied, or maybe that person was only scaring us, or else wasn’t even aware of what’s going up in this misty abode.” Manas offered some reasoning.

“Let’s go and see if someone’s around so that we can get some more information.” Swarna’s eyes were lit up as if she had stumbled upon an adventure.

They encircled the house and peered into the windows, but all were heavily draped. They went along testing the doors but each one was padlocked.

The sound of a door creaking behind her made Swarna stop in her tracks. She had heard the click of a handle and the distinct sound of a door opening, very close to her, but she was sure that the door that was few paces behind her was firmly padlocked. Swarna hesitated for a moment and then carefully looked over her shoulder. A man was staring directly at her, a blank expression on his face. She wanted to scream, but only a whimper escaped her lip. Almost instantly, she saw Manas appear from the bend, and she relaxed a bit.

The man turned towards Manas and said in a clear and deep baritone, “I heard some sounds in the garden, and then you probably knocked on the doors. I woke up from my afternoon siesta, a little surprised, because no one comes this way.”

“We apologize for disturbing your sleep, and trespassing on private property. We were inquisitive and also attracted by this beautiful house that you have so high up on the mountains. But, we will leave now, and not bother you further. Come, Swarna.” Manas apologized, and gestured at Swarna to join him.

“No, no, be my guest. I get to meet hardly any people and I would like to enjoy your company. In fact, I was going to set up a barbeque and it will be good to share.” The man answered in the same stern baritone and his request seemed almost compelling because of the lack of warmth.

Manas looked at Swarna, who had regained her spirits, and was once again feeling adventurous. She also felt bad for the lonely occupant of the household. She smiled at Manas to express her approval for accepting the invitation.

“If you say, Sir, but we don’t want to intrude or trouble you.” Manas could hardly believe what he was saying. For a moment, he felt strange under the scrutiny of this man, who displayed neither emotions nor expressions, and yet, he didn’t feel like declining the invitation.

“Please, join me, inside.” The man signaled. As Swarna crossed the threshold, she glanced at the door handle, and saw a lock hanging from the latch. “So, this was it; a camouflage and I thought the door was actually locked.” She assured herself.

Inside the bungalow, they were surprised to see polished antique furniture. The house offered an old-world charm, as if they had stepped into a house that was first furnished and equipped, nearly half-a-century back. They had entered directly into the dining room, and followed their host across the room into the mahogany furnished, musky-smelling living room. The room was neat and they settled in the plush yet worn out sofas. The tables were decorated with crocheted dollies, which had taken a distinct yellow color. Gilded photo frames hung on the walls, and displayed black-and-white photographs from another era. Their host occupied a rocking chair, and fixed a steely gaze at them.

“I am retired Colonel Kamdar. This has been my home, since I came to this hillside years ago leading troops to guard the surrounding hills from the rebel Rajas.” He offered information about himself.

Listening to him, Manas, wondered about Colonel Kamdar’s age. He must have seen at least sixty decades of his sunrise and sunset, and yet, there was not a wrinkle on his face. The slight graying of the hair at the temples was the only giveaway of eventually fading youth. His hands were clean, manicured and oddly free of wrinkles, though not plump, and the blue veins were clearly visible. Manas thought that the mountain air, free of pollutants, and invigorating, was the perfect antidote to advancing age.

Their host got up and walked out of the room with steady steps. Manas and Swarna sat there stupefied and silent, only extending their hands to grasp each other’s palms. Their eyes darted over the place, looking at the  photographs, artifacts and antiquity, their reverie broken by the sound of thunder and the unexpected gush of slanting rain against the window panes. Manas went to the window, facing the garden, lifted the heavy drapes and peered outside to witness a darkening sky and heavy rains. Within minutes, a pleasant and bright evening had turned into dusk.

“Rains in the hills are sudden, but fleeting.” The voice left a shiver down his spine and he turned abruptly to face his host. Swarna got up to take the tray that he had carried into the room. The tray held a crystal decanter and three crystal glasses.

The retired Colonel settled in his rocking chair, requesting them to help themselves to the vintage drink. They politely filled their glasses and slowly sipped the grape wine, making small conversation. They waited patiently for the rain to stop, but it continued to pour cats and dogs. They debated on the danger of driving down with sheets of rain obscuring their view, but they didn’t want to overstay the Colonel’s hospitality. However, the Colonel insisted that they should stay back for dinner and spend the night at his house.

“Once the rain stops, the skies would be filled with the most enthralling view of brilliant stars, and the garden would be lighted up by fireflies. Though, we will have to make do with some light meal as my cook hasn’t come in because of the rains.” The Colonel took out a jar of pickled deer meat, loaves of bread, and dried apricots. Manas and Swarna had a packed a meal for the way, which was in the handbag that Swarna carried. They laid the table, and sat down to eat. The Colonel nibbled at his food, but regaled them with tales of valor and war.

When the conversation, slowly died down, Manas asked, “We met some locals on the way and they nearly believed that this place was haunted.” A glaze came over the Colonel’s eyes and his posture become stern and tense, as if it would unexpectedly give away under an unseen pressure. “The untaught make up stories to vile away the already wasted time in their lives.” He responded in an equally stern and tense voice.

When Swarna and Manas saw that the thunderstorm had failed to abate, they reluctantly agreed to spend the night in the red house. They were led into the guest room, which once again gave a smell and distinct feel of the distant past. They quickly retired for the night and as a cold draught entered the room and the night howled outside, they snuggled into each other for safety and warmth. Thus, nestled they let the night and the wind play on the throes of their passion, and the magic of the hills beyond brought them together in pure ecstasy.

The first light of dawn woke up Manas, and he peered out of the window to witness the sky was clear, and the sun was rising from the embrace of the emerald mountains. The tree outside the window was crystal studded with the last drops of last night’s downpour hanging in blissful union with the jade leaves. Manas stretched his arms wide, took a full-breath of the air, and reached for the bedroom door, with shuffled steps. As he opened the door, his heart skipped a beat, and a cry rose up his throat.

Sitting at the dining table, staring straight at the guest room door, and now at Manas, was the glaze eyed Colonel, his white shirt unbuttoned, nursing a long-untouched drink. When Manas realized it was only the Colonel, he said a hearty good morning. The Colonel responded with a nod, and reached for the collar of his shirt, to cover up his bare chest. Manas followed the movement and for a split second he glimpsed at a raw, red, and scarred flesh on the Colonel’s chest. He gasped but when the Colonel fixed his shirt and rose in a swift movement, Manas shrug away the memory of what he saw, and went back into the room to wake up Swarna.

Somehow, in the bright light of the golden sunrise, Manas and Swarna felt an urgency to get back on the road. The Colonel also didn’t extend his hospitality further and they thought that they had already overstayed their invitation. They quickly went about their business, bid a hasty yet warm good bye to the Colonel and went down the steps to their car. As they closed the car doors and strapped their seat belts, they didn’t hear the soft click of key in a padlock, as the door to the dining room of the bungalow was locked once again.

___________________________

When Swarna discovered she was expecting, she wasn’t very happy. The unplanned pregnancy threw water over all their plans for a world tour in December. For a long time, Manas and Swarna contemplated a termination of the pregnancy, but each time a fear of karmic debt made them change their mind, for they had been deeply involved in spiritual pursuits.

So, they decided to bring the child into their world. All went smoothly for Swarna, except for the sudden chills that shook her body, and for which the doctor didn’t have any diagnosis, except for fatigue and weakness. In the second trimester, Swarna would get up in cold sweat almost every other night, and said that she felt that somebody was watching her while she slept. The doctor attributed the delusional beliefs to anxiety and sometimes to excitement. When her figure had become definitely rotund, and her belly proudly proclaimed her pregnancy, Swarna swore that she felt strange external movements on her stomach, as if somebody was caressing the taut skin. The doctor said it was psychological fear of stretch marks.

Finally, all doubts, fears, anxiety, and impending excitement, led to the birth of a healthy and active baby boy. Swarna and Manas were elated by the new addition in their family, and little Swapnil became the cornerstone of their existence. Swapnil was a strong and active child but sometimes he had a faraway look in their eyes. They attributed his dreamy nature to the fairytales Swarna loved to believe in and read during her pregnancy.

As Swapnil grew up, Swarna and Manas rekindled their adventurous streak. When Swapnil was four years old, they planned a trip with another couple to the hills. On their way back from an exhilarating and relaxing trip, Swarna recalled the red bungalow at the top of a hill. She insisted that since it was on the way they must pay a visit to the elderly gentleman, who lived there. So, they took a detour and soon the red bungalow was in sight. The house and the surrounding area looked unkempt. The garden had dried down, the fencing broken and moss had grown on the walls. Manas said a prayer quietly, and whispered to Swarna that the Colonel might have passed away. Swarna nodded her head, but went directly to the door that led to the dining room. She sadly looked at the rusted padlock, and then saw a broken wiring in the mesh of a window. She shielded her eyes with her palms and looked inside through the peephole. A wall in the drawing room was clearly visible over the hazy silhouettes of the dining chairs. The gilded photo frames were rusted, and old.

Swarna gazed at the photographs in her limited line of vision, and her eyes fell upon a photograph that she didn’t recall seeing before. It was the photograph of a young uniformed officer. What captivated her was the striking resemblance of the photograph, with some she knew. She realized that it looked like the photograph of Colonel Kamdar in his younger days of conscription. And yet, the photograph resembled someone else, too. She stood their raking her mind, and when she could place the recognition, her heart started pounding against her ribcage. She called Manas, and whispered something in to his ear. Manas also peered inside, looked at the photograph and his face grew pale. He quickly pulled Swarna aside, called his friends, scooped Swapnil up in his arms and hastened away from the premises of the red house on the hill top.

That night, Manas helped Swapnil changed into his nightclothes, and gently touched the red colored birthmark on the right side of Swapnil’s heaving chest.

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A weekend trip to Renuka Lake in the midst of the Swalik Hills, Himachal Pradesh, in the last week of June, was intended as a relaxing escape from the scathing concrete heat of Delhi. However, it was a far cry from the comfortable weather that one expects when surrounded by lush forests and mountains, in the premise of the largest lake in HP. When we reached Renuka Lake early morning on Saturday, the sun was glaring down at us, threatening to confine us in our HP tourism hotel rooms, but by mid-day a cloud cover allowed us to undertake the 10 km circular trek around the Renuka Lake, and visit the wild-life sanctuary. The clouds romanced with humidity and the next day of our trip became arduous because of the stamina-draining clamminess.

But when six young travelers share the motivation to make the best of their weekend break, the heat and humidity is hardly a show-stopper. So, we explored the Renuka Lake, visited Nahan, Jaitak fort and the Fossil Park at Suketi and enjoyed the brilliant photography of the enthusiastic photographers in our group. The lake had a dull green tinge and was littered, but abounded with fish of a few varieties, rich lotus growth but no ducks. Boats were docked and didn’t seem to have been used in a long time. Apparently, boating and bird-watching has ceased to be a highlight of the Renuka Lake.

The banks of the lake are dotted with temples and ashrams and colorful shops selling beads and essential articles. Fish feeding has emerged as a thriving business and recreation, and local vendors sell dough to lure the fish, which display ample gluttony to allow everyone to feed them to their hearts content. Monkeys thrive in this area, competing with the fish for their share of food, but are less aggressive than the ones we encountered in Pushkar, on our way to the Savitri temple. Strangely, for a place with so much vegetation, and greenery, it is a disappointment for the ardent bird-watcher, except for the Raven that is spotted in the lush trees.

The wild life sanctuary maintained in this area is a delight – the six lionesses and one aristocratic lion make for an interesting wild-life study. We were first scared and then highly impressed by loud roars of the six lionesses, apparently accosting their male counterpart, confined in another enclosure. The local caretaker mentioned that the females and the male fight with each other and are hence separated by barbed fences … so much for feline pride and arrogance! Himalayan bears are confined in a nearby enclosure and they made a happy peaceful family of mama, papa and baby bear. A few paces ahead an exotic but lonely leopard with brilliant eyes is caged. We were also surprised to see an entire colony of bats that inhabited some of the eucalyptus and coconut trees. Hanging upside down, these large bats looked eerie but were apparently harmless.

Nahan is a bustling hill-town and the Lytton Memorial area is primarily a bus-stop surrounded by counters for Himalayan juices and milk-products. On some distance from Nahan, a steep side trail from Jamta, leads to the Jaitaka fort, which is a red building of British architecture perched on a cliff. The fort was locked but a sly peep inside from the wire mesh in the windows, revealed a surprisingly modern household which was well-furnished and frequently visited and cleaned, or even inhabited. We could not get any information in this regard as there was no soul in sight. The scenery is picturesque and provides a wide-angle panorama of Nahan and Jamta, and the Sivalik ranges.

A detour from Jamta through Kala Amb leads to the Suketi fossil park, the approach to which is by an unpaved road weaving through a village. The dry bed of a river, visible from the road, is a sad and disturbing sight, for it hails the onslaught of receding water bodies. The Suketi fossil park also screams of ill-maintenance with most of the models that were placed here in 1975, broken and chipped. What started off with a staff of 25 people is now managed by 3 local caretakers. The walk in the wilderness would however be extremely charming, when the temperature is bearable. The drive back to Delhi is pleasing to the eye with rows and rows of Mango orchards. Thriving poultry farms are also seen along the highway.

All in all, Renuka Lake, Nahan and the fossil park are still attractive tourist spots with families pouring in all over the weekend. The food in the HP tourism hotel is on the expensive side, but we discovered the Umang restaurant, around 2 kms from the Renuka Lake and enjoyed a hearty dinner followed by ice-cream. Breakfast at the HP tourism hotel was a better fare with fresh parathas and vegetable cutlets. One must keep lots of water handy to counter the heat and enjoy the long treks, even though strategically placed local shops provide snacks, cold drink, tea and water during the “parikrama” of the lake as well as the fossil park. The trek around the lake can also be facilitated by a vehicle, but that will cost an entry fee of Rs 250.

The best season to visit this place would be November to February, but a vacation at this time of the season is an eye-opener that even the hills are reeling under the effect of global warming and the natural resources are depleting in the face of human exploitation.

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Google Wave is a new tool for communication and collaboration on the web, coming later this year. Google Wave introduces a new platform built around hosted conversations called wave. With the Google Wave APIs, developers can take advantage of this collaborative system by building on the Google Wave platform, and allowing people to communicate and work together in new and more effective ways. The service seems to combine Gmail and Google Docs into an interesting free-form workspace that could be used to write documents collaboratively, plan events, play games or discuss a recent news.

Key Features
• Real-time collaboration – Concurrency control technology lets all people on a wave edit rich media at the same time
• Natural language tools – Server-based models provide contextual suggestions and spelling correction
• Extending Google Wave – Embed waves in other sites or add live social gadgets, using Google Wave APIs
• Emeddedability – Can be embedded in any blog or site
• Wiki Functionality – Live editing to correct, append, or add information

What is a wave?• A wave is equal parts conversation and document – People can communicate and work together with richly formatted text, photos, videos, maps, and more.
• A wave is shared. Any participant can reply anywhere in the message, edit the content and add participants at any point in the process. Playback lets anyone rewind the wave to see who said what and when.
• A wave is live. With live transmission as you type, participants on a wave can have faster conversations, see edits and interact with extensions in real-time.

What is the Google Wave API?
The Google Wave API allows developers to use and enhance Google Wave through two primary types of development:
• Extensions: Build robot extensions to automate common tasks or build gadget extensions to provide a new way for users to interact
• Embed: Make your site more collaborative by dropping in a Wave

Implications for Technical Publications:

Google Wave can have implications on authoring tools and the way technical writers collaborate with their subject matter experts, reviewers and editors. It is predicted that authoring tool vendors will use the open API for Google Waves to incorporate Wave into their authoring/publishing tools. This will give a great impetus to collaborative authoring, especially in the high-bandwidth agile mode. It will also change the way technical publications teams use Web CMS or proprietary knowledge management tools like Microsoft SharePoint for collaborative authoring, by eliminating the time taken for manually copying content from these external systems, into the authoring tool project or publishing environment.

While authoring tools may undergo changes, the other possibility is that the current core editing and publishing functionality of existing wiki and Web CMS engines are expanded to make Wave an alternative core page/article type in their system. This can be done by adding more extensive content tagging and/or styling options, adding some DITA map or AuthorIT-style structures for reusing Wave in various “books”, and enabling a push-button to take a “clean view” of any Wave in the system and push (and link) it to a standard page/article in the wiki or CMS. End users could follow a link or page control to see a sanitized version of the original Wave that was used internally for authoring, and they could begin comment threads in that sanitized Wave to provide feedback. This would eventually support the authoring and publishing needs of information development departments.

Google Wave seems all set to create ripples in Technical Publications … Take a sneak preview at: http://wave.google.com/

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The phrase WYSIWYG is an acronym for What You See Is What You Get, and is used to describe a system in which content displayed during editing appears very similar to the final output. This final output can be a printed document, web page, slide presentation or even 3D graphics.

With Help Authoring Tools (HATs) leveraging the benefits of HTML tags and Cascading Style Sheets (CSS) to predefine layouts, WYSIWYG editors enabled technical writers to see the output without opening a browser. As web-based products and hence web-based documentation came into demand, many WYSIWYG editors evolved to allow the results to be viewed in Internet Explorer (IE). Some editors even used an emulator for IE, which required extra tags for the WYSIWYG display to work correctly, for example, the kadov tags in earlier versions of RoboHelp HTML.

While WYSIWYG became one of the most commonly used phrases in Technical Publications, it also became a misnomer, for developers and technical writers working with various HATs, and word processors realized that many times what they actually saw in the editor didn’t usually match the results. WYSIWYG was becoming a fallacy and the reality was closer to the description of WYSIOP (What You See is One Possibility).

The term WYSIOP was coined nearly a decade ago by Chris Lilley of the W3C but is all the more relevant in the context of XML-based authoring tools like RoboHelp 7 and Flare 4.2 where output results are determined by whatever layout template is assigned at the time the results are viewed. The use of conditional tagging, multiple style sheets and single-sourcing of content, lends further weight to the usage of the phrase WYSIOP, where results are dependent on the layout definition and styling for the specified output. Thus, you can view a Printed Output, or a .CHM output, or a Java Help using the same content and the same editor. With output media ranging from PDAs to phones, and content being linked to media-dependant style sheets, it is a good time for technical writers to shake away the habit of using Wiz-ee-Wig, and including WYSIOP in their vocabulary. Its time to say hello to Wiz-ee-Op!

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I was surfing the internet and came across – QUEST, the Indian Express initiative covering over 50 schools in Delhi and NCR, wherein readers were invited to express themselves in 55 words. That reminded me of this literary genre of Nanofiction or 55-fiction and I decided to experiment with this form of story-writing.

I didn’t think it would be a tough job because there are a million of stories running around my head most of the time, and I am trained to write concisely by virtue of my job. As a technical writer/editor, we are supposed to be crisp, concise and precise, and I generally follow two rules –

1. A sentence should not exceed 7-8 words and

2. A set of procedural steps or bullet points should not exceed 8-10 lines.

I have tried to abide by these two rules in my professional writing and my colleagues will also agree to the fact that as a reviewer/editor, I am always chopping out words from their sentences. (They must hate me for this, as each word is very precious to a writer!)

So, when I decided to dabble with 55-fiction, I expected it be cakewalk. It wasn’t. It’s very difficult to contain thoughts in as little as 55-words, while maintaining a plot, characters, conflict, resolution and the shock element. After I jotted down the storylines, a lot of time was spent on editing and redoing the sentences to reach the magic number. I finally have five stories in place that I am sharing here.

I, am, however, enjoying this exercise, and I believe it’s a great form of self-training for aspiring writers and is also packed with intense creative satisfaction. I hope to experiment more with 55-fiction, for I have always been an avid story-teller!

NDE

Calmly she floated towards the glimmer at the end of the tunnel. The momentum was interrupted by confused voices in her head. She hung in limbo; feeling nauseated as the voices coaxed her to retreat from the tunnel. Startled, she opened her eyes. The anesthesia had worn-off. She still wonders if she had a Near-Death-Experience.

Horoscope

“Your child will never sleep hungry.” The pundit predicted. The father gratefully extended a token amount of 11 Rs and went home happy.

Mohan is a healthy 10-year old, who never sleeps hungry and frequently samples tasty food. The meals come as a perk with his regular job of cleaning dishes at Chaudhary ka Dhabba.

Coincidence

She looked around, biding time in the traffic jam, and caught his bored glance. The frequency of their coincidental meetings left a sweet pang in her heart.

“Of course, it had to be so!” she murmured when she saw him dining with his wife. She continued to wait for her husband in the hotel lobby.

Control Freak

Her death left him lost, confused and hungry. A day had passed since he had eaten. All these years he ate, slept, spoke and acted as she had commanded him to. He was afraid to fix up a meal lest she suddenly walked in and admonished him for fiddling around in her kitchen!

Lonely Lunches

He always ate lunch alone, gazing out of the glass window. She thought he was lonely and decided to befriend him.

She shared her meals with him and she shared her heart and soul. He also adored her and specially invited her to his wedding.

The new recruit always saw her eating lunch alone…

Flight

The incessant tapping on the window was distressing. I cautiously flung the door open. It remained oblivious to the escape route, ardently struggling against the glass pane.

Suddenly, with a flutter of wings the pigeon hovered around the room, saw the open space and flew away. A broader perspective is indeed required to notice prospects.

Long-Distance Relationship

We kept in touch through chat messengers. I enjoyed innumerable, private chats, always imagining his expressions and demeanor.

Three months later, he returned from his trip. I was shocked to meet this stranger. Over time and space, my mind’s eyes had cradled an impression of him in my own likeness, not as he actually was.

The Voice

Her voice was reminiscent of sunlit winter afternoons when women guarded the washed grain drying on charpoys, and tittle-tattled conspiringly. The voice was endearing; the pitch perfect, the tone reflecting a “know-it-all” attitude, and her stories always had an audience. It, however, annoyed me as it disrupted my attention, reaching across the office cubicle walls.
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These stories are also cross-posted on: http://55-words.blogspot.com/

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William Faulkner, Nobel Laureate and American short-story writer and novelist, advocated self-training as the best method of acquiring writing skills. “Read, read, read. Read everything – trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it is good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out the window.” As a professional technical editor, and an aspiring author, I have tried to imbibe these words in my daily routine. I read, and read a lot – including the instructions on shampoo bottles, recipes on spice packets and witty lines on truck tails. I connect to the world through social media and read what others are saying. I read on recommendation, I read by choice, I read after careful research, I read because a book is available at a throw-away price, and I read just because I can surf the internet for free in office. Needless to say, I have always been astounded by the amount of readily available information and the number of authors traversing time and space, topics and genre, to compete for a reader’s time and attention.

Off late, I am overwhelmed by the number of young Indian authors, who are getting published. The emerging trend is in favor of bloggers, who decide to get published, after honing their writing skills through years of dedicated blogging, and on receiving encouragement from their “bleaders” (blog-readers). Faulkner’s words seem to be inspiring one and all. Ardent bloggers have either been approached directly by publishers or they have contacted publishers, not with manuscripts in tow, but with a URL in their signature. Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan, got a book deal with Penguin India via her blog - The Compulsive Confessor. To quote Hemali Sodhi, GM-corporate communications, Penguin India – “We’ve been tracking Meenakshi’s blog for quite a while. There are a whole lot of talented people out there who can write well and they’re doing it online through blogs.”

Blog communities and forums are also coming forward to publish writings by bloggers. Norwest Venture Partners funded Indian community site Sulekha.com has launched a series called “The Sulekha Book Series”, wherein the site is publishing a book containing writings by some of its bloggers. They plan to release two books a month – one will be a single author book, the other a collection of works by bloggers around a particular theme. The first book is Subbu Chronicles – A Series of adventures by BS Keshav. Caferati, which has a writers’ forum on Ryze has published Stories At The Coffee Table. Oxford Book Store has an annual online writing competition – E-Author, and two past winners – Madhulika Liddle of Delhi from e-Author 4.0, and Devi Yashodharan of Chennai from e-Author 3.0 – are reported to have received publishing offers.

The list of bloggers turned writers has been growing – Advaita Kala, Karan Bajaj, Dilip D’Souza, Amit Verma - marking a major cultural shift in the styles and content of what’s being published. Books by bloggers are becoming a cultural phenomenon and a trend, and so is populist writing. Any blogger with a blog that will entertain and amuse the public has a chance to get a book deal. The appeal of a blogger’s personality and the passion for a subject becomes an attractive force for publishing houses looking for long-term commitments and sustained zeal. Aspiring authors are even coming out with e-books that can be downloaded from their websites and blogs. (I am reminded of Paulo Coelho’s web-based marketing wherein he releases some chapters of his forthcoming publications on his website, and regularly contributes small pieces of writing on the online newsletter – Warrior of the Light.) Today, such marketing concepts are being well-utilized by the tech-savvy, young and ambitious Indian writers!

The influence of blogging on Indian authors has been growing. Even authors, who have been previously published, are entering the blogosphere and their writing style and approach is taking on the colors of blogging. For instance, when I read the introduction of Anita Nair’s latest book – Goodnight and God Bless – it suspiciously sounded like a collection of blog posts – “A sparkling collection of literary essays, each one a bedtime rumination, Goodnight and God Bless is about books, writers, book events, mice, mothers, airport hotels, the wind and other such unexpectedly thought-provoking subjects, snugly interwoven with a warmly personal and anecdotal history of the author and her assorted family members.” I may be wrong in drawing this conclusion, but we cannot deny the fact that blogging (and sustaining a blog) has become intermittently woven into the life of an author – published or aspiring. Ashok Banker, author of Byculla Boy, and the recent Ramayana series, has a blog on Indian English. Samit Basu, author of India’s first science fiction novel in English, The Simoqin Prophecies, uses his blog Duck of Destiny to promote other Indian writers. Jaideep Varma, author of Local used blogging as a tool to publicize his work. My own baby-step as an author with a maiden work published in a collection of short stories by bloggers – The Eleven – was possible when author and publisher, Aarti Honrao from Sai Kiran Publications, browsed through my blog.

However, with the latest trend of Indian chic-lit and populist writing, I, as a conventional writer have started having serious doubts about my aspirations to be a published author. Populist writing is like a Govinda or a Priyadarshan movie – the masses love it, the classes shrink from it; but at the end of the day slap-stick comedies and garish masala movies are the ones that rake the most moolah. And somehow, this trend is emerging in what people are reading and enjoying. With younger readers, in stiff competitive worlds, always running short of time and with stress levels bursting at the seams, we cannot deny them the pleasure of their “quick-bus-ride” or “light-after-dinner” reading material. Chic-lit and populist novels are selling like hot-cakes, pointing to the facts that many people are reading, and publishing houses are ready to experiment and cater to changing audience and reading habits.

Amidst all the shifting trends, I am wondering about the whereabouts of the serious (aka mature) reader and the serious (aka literary) writer. I am wondering whether books with expletives and references to casual sex get publishers and readers just like quarrels and misgivings on a reality-show garner the maximum TRPs. I am wondering whether good linguistic appeal is not significant anymore and mere ramblings can be converted into coveted best-sellers. However, I also know that thanks to the young breed of Indian authors, the world can today read about contemporary India straight from the horses’ mouth, probably making travelogues by foreigner’s as sources of information on India, as passé. I am proud to see so many books by Indian authors lining up book shelves and I dream to be one of these names. Till then I seek solace in my dilemma about an appropriate writing style and subject from another of Faulkner’s quotes – “Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do. Don’t bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself.”

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One of the most effective ways of securing and sharing information is through writing. When the Early Man realized that speech is lost and memory fades, attempts were made to record thoughts, ideas, memory and most importantly knowledge and instructions, through the mode of writing. From the Stone Age to the Space Age, from pictographic depictions to the evolution of the language and the alphabet, human progression has been primarily defined by the success and evolving complexity of his ability to communicate and to share knowledge.

While cavemen inscriptions are the earliest attempts at instructional communication, in deserts west of the Nile, Egyptologists have found limestone inscriptions that they say are the earliest known examples of alphabetic writing. From symbols to alphabets, historians have charted the growth of the written word to Ancient Greece and Egypt, but Ancient India has also not been left behind. Epics like the Mahabharata refer to, describe and explain about Vimanas or ancient aeronautical devices, and ballistic weaponry. It is believed that The Indian Emperor Ashoka started a “Secret Society of the Nine Unknown Men” – great Indian scientists who were supposed to catalogue the many sciences.

The first great English poet, Geoffrey Chaucer’s work “A Treatise on the Astrolabe” despite its medieval roots, used deliberate organization and thorough content, along with a simple style and personable tone, to create a quintessential sample for technical documentation. ” The Treatise still serves as a model for incorporating coherent organization, appropriate content, accurate and precise descriptions, personable tone, effective metadiscourse, and varied sentence structure and length in modern technical writing.” The scribbling, drawings, and notes that accompanied the inventions and theories of Copernicus, Hippocrates, Newton and Leonardo da Vinci are in fact examples of technical documentation.

A clear trend towards the emergence of technical writing as professional field can be seen during the World War I (1914-1918) – and later during World War II (1939-1945) – when there was a growing need for technology-based documentation in the military, manufacturing, electronic and aerospace industries. Needless to say, the golden age of technical writing started with the invention of the computer and the internet. Joseph D. Chapline is considered to be the first technical writer to introduce software documentation to the rest of the world. Early in the 1940s, while working for Eckert and Mauchley, he became the first technical writer employed to document the way an operating system worked. He first wrote the Binac Computer User Guide (1949) and later an eight-page pamphlet called Technical Writing (1950).

In 1953, two organizations concerned with improving the practice of technical communication were founded on the East Coast of the United States: the Society of Technical Writers, and the Association of Technical Writers and Editors. These organizations merged in 1957 to form the Society of Technical Writers and Editors, a predecessor of the current Society for Technical Communication (STC). Today, STC is a global organization with many regional chapters, including STC India.

By 1960, the continued growth of technology, particularly in the electronics, aeronautics and space industries, nuclear and medical discoveries, created a big upsurge in demand for technical writers. During the sixties and seventies, numerous publications appeared in which their main concern was technical writing, and including journals such as the Journal of Technical Writing and Communication with its first issue in 1971, all of which have provided information to professionals on writing for technical purposes.

The 20th century is the age of structured authoring and optimizing information reuse. Interactive media, content and learning management systems, authoring tools, and the need for diverse and multi-output documentation to support the upsurge in application development, as well in consumer-focused mechanizations, have given end-user based technical documentation a professional status. The proliferation of social media and learning communities, and the continuous expansion of the blogosphere have opened avenues for more and more writers to connect, share, learn and talk.

In modern terms, many writers believe that technical communication is an evolved state of journalism, backed by the power of online and new publishing media. To quote from the blog by Anne Gentle, a senior technical writer at Advanced Solutions International.  “After all, in software, technical writers are like the journalist is – finding the relevant story for a particular audience, interviewing to get the facts, presenting in a fair, nonjudgmental manner, and writing to a deadline.” And I believe this is what defines the future of technical communication.

As writers, it’s our responsibility to help customers connect with other customers to share and learn from experiences is a critical criteria for companies to make effective use of social media to drive customer acquisition. The modern day technical writer is part writer, part community manager, and part user experience advocate for their products, leveraging the benefits of social media, portals, blogs, and wikis. The art and science of technical communication has evolved; it is now time for the writer to evolve and adapt to the new demands of end-users, craving for better, easily-accessible, crispier and worthwhile information.

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Having been wary of ready Indian women authors, with writings centering mainly on diaspora, I was pleasantly surprised and entertained by Anita Nair’s The Better Man. Choicely recommended and lent to me by a friend, I picked it up with suspicion but was slowly engrossed in a wonderfully written tale of one man and his fears, and tryst to discover his self-worth and identity.

The pitch and flow of the novel is rhythmic. More than a novelist, Anita Nair comes out as an adept storywriter, because she has intrinsically woven many small stories into a striking tapestry of a novel. Characters are introduced throughout the novel with eloquent portrayal. Gradually the characters are shown to play a role in the life of the protagonist, Mukundan Nair, a retired government employee, forced by circumstances to return to his native village. All the “episodes” move in perfect tandem to reach the culmination point of the novel.

Anita Nair has a knack for crisp and complete characterization and is also an accomplished prose writer with liberal rendering of the scenic and daily life of a small (and fictional) village in Kerala. She has touched on many controversial and sensitive subjects, but all with extreme grace and subtlety. She talks about untouchability, casteism, cultural and religious bias, occult, adultery, exploitation and disregard of women, dominance of power and money, bureaucratic red tapism, and even homosexuality. While the novel’s protagonist is a man, the storyline has ample women characters, but unfortunately most of them are depicted as the weaker sex, facing disregard, mental and physical humiliation, and neglect in the face of single-minded pursuits of the individualistic ambitions by the men in their lives. Only a few of these women are able to break the barriers of male subjugation, albeit after years of suffering.

In spite of portraying some of the bleaker aspects of everyday society, Nair’s work is never depressing. There is always a promise of hope and the language is very uplifting. In fact nearing the end of the novel, she even depicts redemption for these overbearing male characters, when Krishna Nair, the lifelong caretaker of a Tharavadu, decides to return to his family, with the realization – “All these years, I was caught in some absurd slavish love. I squandered the best years of my life, but perhaps I can still make up for it. A lifetime is what I wasted.” Mukundan is also shown taking steps for the redemption of his troubled soul, while Bhasi, another escapist from the world of realism is suffering from the desire to belong, seek social acceptance, find his roots and build everlasting relationships.

I have called Nair’s work as entertaining because it has its humorous moments, for example, the incident related to Mad Moindu, or the story of Power House Ramakrishna, or the erratic Philipose, and is filled with a lot of spice – from ghosts and murder, to secrets in the lives of the characters to intelligent conversation. The pace is endearing, the prose captivating, and the story mature and fulfilling. She has also amply used her knowledge of myths and there is a generous sprinkling of mythological references and even comparisons in the various episodes. All in all, The Better Man is a good and satisfying read and has inspired me to get my hands on her first novel – Ladies Coupe.

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Visionary writers like Jack Williamson, Aldus Huxley, Isaac Asimov, and Carl Sagan to name a few, have written about futuristic societies, where genetic engineering is a predominant science. It’s a common thread that binds most writings that foresee the evolution of human society. Genetic engineering, as the cornerstone of future societies, refers to the science and practice of improving the nature and texture of most living organisms, with the prime motive of eradicating and eliminating genetic diseases. The concept is not new – ancient history has seen the rise of the Spartans – a Greek society that was based on the systematic purging of the weak in mind or body. It was a preliminary form of genetic engineering, where the DNAs were not manipulated, per se, but the aspects of heredity and choice-breeding were woven into mate-selection, child-bearing and child-rearing activities.

The earliest codes of conduct regarding marriage in Vedic societies were based on “marriages outside one’s kul-gotra” or clan-lineage. ‘Gotra’ is a patrilineal classification and identification of various families of a caste amongst the Hindus. This was designed to prevent marriages of siblings and was a measure of preventing genetic anomalies that can creep in when close relatives or kin intermarry. In the Hindu custom of horoscope-matching for matrimony, one of the biggest factors that determine whether a boy and girl can marry is the “nadi-factor”. There are three nadis or birth constellations in astrology Aadi, Madhya and Antya nadi. The partners should not have the same birth constellation, else they can have nadi-dosha or affliction, and it can result in problems related to birth and progeny. During horoscope matching, marriages with nadi-dosh are discouraged.

Selective breeding has also been a well-practiced science in both zoological and botanical worlds. We get to know of genetically engineered better, bigger, stronger species of animals and plants. In fact, when we think of it, Hitler’s call for a predominantly Aryan society and the genealogical extermination that followed was close to the Spartan concept of society. Charles Darwin’s “Survival of the Fittest” is an assertion of the fact that the genetically “better, bigger and stronger” will ultimately rule the Earth, or for that matter the Galaxies.

What was visualized has actually come to pass! Advancement in science and specifically in radiology have given parents-to-be and doctors’ the choice of taking educated decisions concerning birth of “unfit” babies. Nature, itself has a method of check in place – it’s believed that most early miscarriages and first trimester losses are due to chromosomal defects in the implanting embryo. Many parents are going in for genetic counseling and second trimester genetic profiling to ensure that the fetus doesn’t suffer from abnormalities such as Down’s syndrome.

While social activists and the moral brigade reckon these tests and ensuing decisions, like informed abortion, as a violation of the unborn child’s right to live, many parents and doctors see it as an effective way of eliminating life-long suffering for the child-to-be-born and the family. Ultimately, we have derived our own formula for a Spartan society. We may not be so ruthless or unreasonable, but the desire to have healthy offspring is a reflection of the highly competitive world that we live in, where only the best will survive.

Thinking about a competitive world, I can relate these thoughts also with our professional lives. Modern organizations have a performance appraisal system based on relative ranking, where a bell curve determines who is at the lowest rung of the ladder. In times of crisis, such as we face today of recession and shrinking profit margins, the relative ranking brings into effect the elimination of poor or average performers from the system. When the average performers are eliminated, in the next appraisal cycle, an attempt will be made to relatively rank the remaining good and best performers and once again eliminate those who trail behind the rest.

The irony of the situation is that the cyclic process will bring even the good and the best under close scrutiny and analysis. Even the best can buckle under such intense performance pressure. The same holds true for the code of life – the DNA – how long can it sustain the pressures of genetic mutation, transmutation, isolation, insertion, splicing, elimination and engineering. What if our quest for the best is unwittingly leads us to excessive elimination amounting to forced extinction?

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