LIGHTER SIDE

LONE LITTLE BIRD

2012-02-01T09:21:00.004+05:30

The dusk was a rage of red

And melted away, was gold

The breeze was a welcome bliss

But in came a cruel cold.

The sun was away for a while

Stars, waiting for the moon

The sky was an empty heart

Oh Night! Be here soon.

Through the gray, gold and red

Fluttered a little lone bird

"Where were his friends"? I wondered

And it seemed, for a moment- he heard.

"What had kept you back?

Why did you wait so long?

Is it for a grain of rice?

Or some poet's sad- bird song?

You flutter as you fight with the breeze

Your wings growing tired as I see

What had kept you back- waiting?

While you watched your friends fly, free?

Fly home safe, little bird

Worry not, for the grain of rice

Your little ones wait for you, back home

Keep them safe from a world of lies.

Return to them, help them live

Return to them, to life

For rice is rice, and song- a song

But life- not something rife"!

He fluttered along- soon, was gone

The sky now dark- an empty space,

I closed my eyes, to feel through the sky

And I found his little wings' pace.

He was home, he was safe

That was all, I needed to know

The night was here- and so was the cold

"Au Revoir, little bird- for now, I must go"...

TOMORROW...

2012-01-01T21:45:00.001+05:30

What is that-
that which is tomorrow?

A hope for a new day?
Or a new day of hope?
A change in the making?
Or making new change?

That which is tomorrow-
Is it a blossoming dream?
Or a dream still a dream-
within a mind fast asleep?

Is it a life in progress?
Or a search for a life?
A beginning? An end?
Or a means to them both?

That which is tomorrow-
Is still but- tomorrow;
An uncertain truth
Or a certain untruth

A mirage, nevertheless-
A wonderful sight
It is, but not-
That which is tomorrow...

WOMEN'S EMPOWERMENT?

2011-12-07T23:22:00.003+05:30

Today, I heard something about a friend of mine. This was not something I would have wanted to hear about a friend after almost 4 years of no news about her.

Padma was in my class in my 9^th and 10^th std. She had a very good handwriting. She sang very well. She danced Bharatnatyam with such grace! She went to a different school for 11^th and 12^th std. and studied commerce later. After almost three years, I found out that she joined a BPO in Chennai and got married to a guy working in Software Company in Chennai. That was the last I heard of her.

Today, I found out from a common friend that she had given birth to a baby girl recently. I was so happy for her, until I found out that, she was blamed by her in-laws for giving birth to a ‘girl’ child and was sent out of her home! She is not being allowed to meet her husband and neither was this husband of hers doing anything in this matter.

I do not know what is happening to her now, as I don’t have her contact details. But this has been worrying me since the moment I had heard about it.

I feel like confronting her in-laws and her husband this very minute and slap them hard in front of everyone. Her mother-in-law too is a woman and why the hell was her mother not punished for giving birth to her? I always used to think that this was an issue in the rural areas in India- Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jharkhand, or Rajasthan. But here? In town? Among the educated? And to think that the guy did B.Tech! Wouldn’t he have the sense to correct his mother or father? Wouldn’t he know that giving birth to a boy or girl is not in anyone’s hand? ‘XX’ or ‘XY’ is a process of science! And there is no person in this world who does not get “Fooled by Randomness”.

I am disgusted.

Whatever is the purpose of having so many Acts for women? Domestic Violence, Sexual Harassment, Trafficking and what not? Celebrating an International Day for women? What purpose do they serve? They are all one big farce! Practically speaking, I have no reason to believe that they have any chance of proving their effectiveness unless the society wakes up to them. This is a social issue. If such an issue is happening somewhere around you, it is your duty to put a stop to it.

Will there not be at least half a dozen reasonable and respectable people living in the same street? Can they not one day visit the house and try to drill some sense into these idiots. I feel that that’s the only practical thing to do. Legal action must be the last resort as it would take 20 years or more and the affected people rarely get justice.

I hope Padma gets this support from her society. Meanwhile, friends of mine who are in touch with her, if you’re reading this, please let me know her details, if you know...

26/11- HISTORY?... NO- NOT YET...

2011-11-27T16:51:00.002+05:30

Three years. I think we must stop counting the years. Counting the years is one way of making things ‘history’. An event of the past, something that we have done away with. This, however, is not a thing of the past. It is very much alive. The day may come and go. And one fine day- it may cease to exist. News channels would get tired of reporting about it. There would be no news about the day. It would just be another day of the week. A good day or a bad day. Then finally, it would become history. Washed away with time. Human emotions diluted to words in history books. Like Jalianwalah Bagh or hanging of 172 Indians post the Chauri Chaura incident, which was not even reported.

One fine day, the clock might tick and we would not even realize which day was making it tick. Many years later, may be one day- two old people would sit on the porch and talk about the old times. And even then- this would be an incident that happened. A tiny drop in their ocean of a life. Or may be in future- a child may ask. “Who was Grandpa, Granny? How did he die”? And the Granny may reply- “He was a good man. He was not meant to be dead. But fate had other plans. And one day he was dead”. As simple as that. Why should we corrupt a child’s mind? Let’s blame it on fate. Let’s make things easier for the child. She is the future. Let’s weave a bed of roses for her.

But the bed of roses is not what is life. The reality should never be allowed to be washed away. Three years back, the quiet room echoed with the loud ring tone I had set for myself. It was from home. My mother starting listing off her usual list of do’s and don’ts. The list now included- don’t go to hotels. For a person like me, living away from parents, this sounded strange. She burst out crying all of a sudden. “Gopu no more... Gopu no more...”. I don’t even remember how the news entered into my mind. How was that possible? A terrorist attack killing a member of my family was just absurd! Calls kept coming throughout that evening. Mama’s last words, I was told, were the names of his children. This is not a history or incident that needs to be recorded and reported and be done with. A man’s last words. Last sound of a voice that would soon be muted for ever...

I sometimes think the terrorists understand ‘human life’ better than Government. They know that the damage to life would earn them ‘fear’. People are not numbers on Government’s records. Government would do well to realize that.

I have not come out of this realization that it forces me to rethink and re-realize it over and over again. No matter what the magnitude is, the intensity of the news that flashes on the TV screen can only be felt when the numbers of the casualties on screen cease to remain numbers for you. And no matter whoever you are, whatever you do- for a moment, for a day, forever, you shall feel it happen once again deep down. What is that, that is to be done? Least that can be done- is to keep the lives lost, alive. For the ones who have lost loved ones, they lose them every single day of their lives. This can never be understood by anyone else.

Memories are the most powerful records in the world. It doesn’t just contain numbers. It contains life. Memories must be kept alive. They would guide us. They are the cause for the future. And for this future, let’s leave behind memories, and not history...

Older Articles on this: "Home" Calling... , A Reason, to Cry..., 26/11- The Numbers
Remembering.... P.K. Gopalakrishnan (Maternal uncle)

RAINING TEARS

2011-11-11T08:53:00.003+05:30

On the tip of the green

lies a crystal tear

Holding on to the green

As her end comes near.

Up and down

waved the green in rage

On it was the tear

Clutching her edgy cage.

At the Earth's womb

burst a little pod

It longed for a tear

And begged the green to nod

Scared of the Earth

the tear begged not

She wished to be caged

But freedom, she got.

She saw a bloom of life

When on the pod, she fell

Now happily, she rained on

with her tales, she would tell...

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 11

2011-10-29T22:10:00.005+05:30

11. THE OTHER SON OF GANGES

He was wet… (PART 10)

He was wet. But so was the dog. But the difference was this. The dog had soon found a shelter in a broken piece of wooden box. But he was still out there. Beneath nothing. He was wet. He was sad- a castaway. A man, whose life ceased to exist for him to live, still, he was wet.

Who was he? Did he have a name anymore? Was he good or was he bad? What was his life?

The dog shivered. The water was trying to befriend the dog. There was water all around the wooden box. The dog moaned for soon his box would float upon the water. Where would he go? The water would drown him, if he jumps off the box. He tried to stay steady inside his little wooden box. He grabbed the dog out of the wooden box. The box floated away.

The water was one. Here and all over- it was just the same. Just water. The wooden box floated along- crunching, jumping along with the water, that was carrying it off. Where would it go? That only the box can decide for itself. The water can carry it away. But the box shall decide where to stay. The water entered an iron grill. The iron bars of the grill tried to control the water- but the water is all powerful. She shall go where she wants to. She was free.

The Ganges is never calm. Even though, she was a mother to many, she was always in a hurry to meet her destiny, the ocean. People have satisfied themselves, with a tiny drop of Mother Ganga. What is human in front of the Ganges? She is the final abode of everything. She is the medium between the worlds. And all that goes into her stays, forever, within her. Hence, in a way, loving her, is loving everything.

The Maha Arti at Dasashwamedh Ghat had never left his mind. It was not an easy memory to forget about. Especially for someone, who was a son of Ganges. Why did he think of it now? Was it saying something to him? A life, however it may sway, the end lies within Mother Ganges.

Mother Ganges, he felt, was reminding him of the promise, he made to her, long time ago. “… I would go back to her. One day. Some day…”

The dog had been sleeping all morning, oblivious of the noise all around him. The oar kept touching the Ganges, occasionally. The boat floated over the Ganges, rather cautiously. The people on the boat kept asking him questions and wondered when they heard him reply. The Ganges was so new to them. Shravan tied the boat on the bank and the people on the boat got off. They paid him well. He sat down on the banks of Ganga. Ganga touched his feet as she raged on further to meet her ocean. He scooped a handful of her water and placed it upon his forehead. It was a familiar feeling. It was saying to him, that his mother was within those waters. It was saying to him, that mother Ganga shall always stay with him, wherever he may be. It was saying to him- that he was home…

***THE END***

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 10

2011-10-06T12:41:00.002+05:30

10. OF POWER, TRUTH AND WHO…

Tomorrow, Bhanupratap, would become- Bhai… (PART 9)

“… A Pandit turning us all into this… this…”, shouted Vishwa in rage.

“.. I know. I trained him…” , said Sinha.

“Why don’t you do something about him…? Like arrest him…”, said Vishwa.

“Arrest him? What did he do? I mean- who is he”? said Sinha. He was troubled and confused.

“What do you mean- who is he? Don’t you know him? You brought him to us… remember…”? said Vishwa. He was looking at Sinha in disbelief. He could not imagine the events that had been happening for the past four months. A Pandit, was running the whole show. Bhai had chosen a Pandit to lead them all. Vishwa had lost Bhai’s trust. And he did not know how that happened. He was frustrated.

“I don’t know him. And now- even if I ask him, he says his name is Bhanupratap. What am I to do…”? said Sinha.

“Kill him”, said Vishwa.

The Pandit was not an easy man. He was not Bhai. But sometimes, everyone thought he was better than Bhai. Bhai now rode the car that the Pandit drove. The Pandit had out-grown the Teacher, himself.

“Kill him? That’s not easy…”, said Sinha.

“Who said it is? I’ve heard of a tale long back. There are two boys and a man. The boys fought and the man tried to make peace among them. But the boys did not want to make peace. So they solved it in a different way…”, said Vishwa.

“Where are you getting at”? asked Sinha.

When Bhai spoke to them that day- he said it was all with the Pandit now. Whatever he said- they would do. If the Pandit says- ‘Quit’- they all quit. If he says- ‘Kill’- they do that. And suddenly, there was blood. The Pandit’s hands and face was drenched in blood. There was confusion and commotion. It was Sinha who saw it first. Bhai lay there in a pool of blood. Near him was the Pandit, unsure of what happened. Someone in the crowd shouted- “Pandit killed Bhai”!
“How can I kill myself”? asked the Pandit.

“What do you mean? We all were there…”, said Sinha.

“Yes. I did not kill anyone. And you cannot arrest me for killing Bhai- for I am Bhai. Remember”? said Pandit.

“Bhai..? You? No one would believe that”! said Sinha- he was laughing. “I created you. This is where we first met. See this place- the prison? You were a nobody…”, said Sinha.

“Yes. I still am. And your prison records have my details listed under Bhai’s name…”, said the Pandit, smiling.

Sinha stood there looking at the Pandit. He did not know what to do. But the Pandit had it all planned. He wanted it all to end. Sinha was his solution. This was where- power would be made to meet the truth.

The police force was now in search of the whereabouts of Bhai. No one seemed to know where he was. But his gang was captured and sent to prison. A tip-off from a reliable ‘source’, earned Sinha glories, he had never imagined to receive in his entire career! But no one seemed to know of Bhai. And no one seemed to know the identity of a mysterious blood covered body, either…

He was wet.

(..To be continued., Part 11: “The Other Son of Ganges”…)

THE RAMLEELA

2011-08-28T13:12:00.002+05:30

I remember, a couple of years ago, during one of the Group Discussions in college, I spoke vehemently against the effectiveness of “Gandhigiri” in the modern times. But today, I am happy that I was proved wrong. When the Movement Anna began- I had not heard of it. It only remained a “lunch time” topic at work place. But the turn of events, the arrogance of the “people in power”- forced me to think about the issue in a different perspective.

I am not very optimistic most of the times. The system perhaps, has made me cynical. I remember the six hours I stood outside the passport office and was denied one, citing reasons, unfathomable. Peoples’ mindset was changed. Most people, when asked what they would do if caught by police for violating traffic rules, they reply- “I would pay Rs. 200 or 300 to the traffic police”. No one knows the actual procedures anymore. I had always felt that we had no one to show us a way. The vicious circle of corruption all across the nation, the series of scams, the incompetent government, made sure that there was no hope left in the minds of the “Aam Aadmi”.

Then came Anna.

My involvement came in unexpectedly. One day, at office, a friend said that he was going to 153, LB Road, Adyar, where “India Against Corruption” (IAC) protest was happening in Chennai. Something spoke to me that moment and I decided to be a part of it. I am still sceptical about the execution of Jan Lokpal, for I do not trust the politicians of this country. I believe that they can deny anything that they say, any moment. Why, even during the historic debate in Parliament, on Lokpal- Lalu Yadav said, “Doctors should research and write a book to reveal the secret behind Annaji's stamina for standing such a long hunger strike”. Why Doctors? I say- the secret behind Anna's stamina is Moral strength, will and dedication towards a "Cause" with no personal axe to grind. Alas! None of these could be explained to Lalu, for he wouldn't understand the meaning of any of these! My complain had always been about “nothing actually happening”. And here, when “something” was indeed happening, it would only be right, to be a part of it. Now here was someone, a leader- who earned his respect. But I must confess that it was not Anna Hazare, but Kiran Bedi, who was the main reason for my motivation. She has always inspired me. The clarity in her speech and thoughts- is something very genuine! My father says, “If there are two people in this country who are really efficient- they are Kiran Bedi and T.N. Seshan”.

153, LB Road, Adyar. Here was a glimpse of “Ramleela”. The “Ramleela” ground- such an irony in the name! Like Rajnikanth says in the film “Padayappa”- they were not crowds who were paid for. They were crowds who came voluntarily! People like you and me. The Aam Aadmi. Young, old, children! It was amazing! Students-it was their enthusiasm which was drove the entire movement here. There is one incident which I would cherish forever. There was a mother, a housewife, who had brought along, her 5 yr old to 153, LB Road, for the IAC protest. She had made him hold a small Tri-colour. The kid pointed to the LCD, which was playing the news and asked who the man in it, was. The mother replied- “Athu thaan Anna thaaththa” (That is Grandpa Anna!). This was a sign that this Nation has made him, its own!

Today, 28th August, 2011. We, my father and I, went over to 153, LB Road. There was a small group of, say 30 people. We had all gathered around a laptop to listen to Mr. Arvind Kejriwal’s Vote of thanks, cheering and clapping whenever we felt like it. When Anna Hazare ended his fast after 13 days- with a glass of coconut water and honey, offered to him by two tiny little girls, the whole Nation, it felt as though, spoke with one voice. This voice- the only antidote for pessimism and cynicism that has been absorbing the Nation, so far- it is called- "HOPE".

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 9

2011-07-23T21:22:00.004+05:30

9. THE PANDIT’S OBSEQUY

“You pull the nerve. You pull the life…”, began Bhai. (PART 8)

Every end has a beginning. And all of it began when all of it had ended. Like the soil parting away for a layer of new soil beneath itself as the rain breaks through its surface. Men, women and children have all have to face a downpour of time upon them that breaks through their selves. The rainy night upon the terrace was one such night. Back home, on the banks of the Ganges, somewhere along the Harischandra Ghat, a sadhu sits and speaks of wisdom that lay hidden in a battered book. As a boy, he remembered going near the Sadhu just once- he could never manage to do it again. The Sadhu tried to bite him. Everyone did call him mad. But the Sadhu spoke of a book- where a teacher taught a pupil about truth and the very existence of all beings. The pupil could not fight some war against his kith and kin. But the teacher showed him a way. And it all made sense, once the teacher spoke.

Bhai was the teacher and Bhanupratap- a pupil.

“… It’s a truth explored a little too many times, perhaps, in the past. And yes. We still do like testing it. The taste of the nerve before being cut”, said Bhai.

“But I do not understand. Isn’t that cruel? And the agony that is left behind…”, said Bhanupratap.

“People, I find sometimes, find pleasure in savouring agony. Odd choice of words, there. But true, nevertheless. People like a meltdown. Stories of sacrifices, heroism, love- they just seep in deep down, making us uncomfortably heavy at places, completely unknown even to us! People relish these pains. Their eyes—oh you must see it., just glow with the molten pains from their insides”, said Bhai.

“It’s a game played upon most, I guess”, said Bhanupratap.

“Precisely. Have you ever been afraid”? asked Bhai. Bhanupratap nodded and smiled. “Beautiful thing, ‘fear’, isn’t it”, continued Bhai, “A small dose of it, the thing ‘inside’ is ‘out’ and ‘outside’ is lost forever. Trust, hope, happiness- however you claim that things would be fine someday- they desert you. May be not forever, but they do- for a while. I think ‘fear’ is beautiful”.

“All things created in heaps and mounds inside a human mind- are beautiful”, said Bhanupratap.

“Back again, are we, Panditji ? I am an admirer of this particular thing- ‘fear’, the most- Panditji. Learn to admire- for it exists only to be admired. For the real beauty in things is not let shouting out loud. It is subtle. It’s for the admirer to trace it. ‘Subtlety’, an art in itself. ‘Fear’ is subtle. It lies deep down in the stories of ghosts that track down naughty kids, or behind those big books of law written in words that one can never understand, or in calamities that strike places that you have never known to be so close near you. It may even be in those closed eyes of a child who has slept a little more than usual! Subtle”.

“One can never overcome this beauty for they are born with it. Right since that journey from the dark, yet comfortable life of a cozy womb to the light outside, waiting to engulf the little life with just too many of its games- we are born with it. Why else do you think, we learn our defenses there? Nails grow in there. We learn to react in there. We are burdened with these little skills to help us live with ‘fear’. And it always stays inside us- till the grave turns cold- sleeping off only when we do”, said Bhai.

When Bhanupratap left, Bhai’s words were still ringing aloud deep inside him. The rain water, he felt, had cleansed him- just like the Ganges poured herself upon his forehead out of a tiny bronze nozzle, when he was little. It was an end and a beginning. It was again an end and a beginning, now.

“Fear- is white”, Bhai had said. “White- for its fair and just and a part of everyone. Unlike ‘life’- a dark hole, that never plays fair. But it’s this combination- that makes us all ‘grey’. People color-coded. All species- grey”.

As Bhanupratap settled down, thinking about a life ahead as Bhanupratap- he began to wonder in awe, about Bhai- if he had known about this day, when they first met in the tiny little prison cell, before? Seemed ages back- when all that happened.

“Admirers of beauty in ‘fear’, they like the white. For they bring out the white in people, better. For in white- and only in white, things show themselves. The truth. We ‘admirers’ like the truth. Out in the open. They are the ones with the ‘power’ to bring out the white. ‘Power’- brings out white. The ‘dark’ is put out, so that the ‘white’ can come out. And ‘Power’- does all that”, Bhai had said.

May be it was his calling. He was the one with ‘Power’ to bring out the truth out of its hiding. Just as Bhai had told him. Tomorrow- a new day. For tomorrow, he would be born, again.

Tomorrow, Bhanupratap, would become- Bhai…

(..To be continued., Part 10: “Of Power, Truth and Who”…)

THE HINDU- JULY 13TH., 2011- MY LETTER

2011-07-14T22:12:00.003+05:30

My Letter gets published in "The Hindu"- Letters to the Editor column. Yippiee...!!!

Isn't that the best ever black on something white?!

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 8

2011-07-03T11:15:00.003+05:30

8. A DROP OF WATER

“Come now, Panditji. It’s time for the Puja”… (PART 7)

It was a night of questions. There was not a single soul who knew answers. Shukla was the reason for these questions. A man with a sensitive tooth, Shukla was the cleverest of the lot. Bhanu Bhai thought that the cleverest should be used in a better way. And so, he became an ‘insider’. And now, the cleverest chose to use his cleverness in a different way. It was getting dangerous.

There had been trouble before. And there was trouble now. A trouble that needed to be solved without a trace. Inspector Sinha got his holiday in Malaysia for dropping off this piece of information on Shukla. The night posed just one question. How to ‘out’ the ‘insider’? Bhai was sitting on his Diwan, his eyes closed. Bhanupratap could tell that he was deeply troubled. Someone began the talk. It was slow. But it was a beginning.

Water, leaking somewhere- nearby. Drop by drop. As each drop fell, Bhanupratap saw a new bead of sweat on Bhai’s forehead. The heat inside, desperately trying to cool-off the ‘heat’ outside. Water- the universal solvent. Everything is in it. The good and the bad. A life in distress, plotting the end of another. How was that possible? Suddenly, he seemed to know answers. Why him? He wondered. It would be wrong for him to know answers for the questions being asked here. But he knew. It needed to come out.

When he spoke- they all listened. No one thought of stopping him. No one bothered to call him, Panditji. They knew that he knew. They knew that he was right. The beads of sweat on Bhai’s forehead had vanished.

Poison deposits in the cavities. Shukla’s toothpaste had contained traces of Thallium poisoning. Bhai could not be charged on murder, since he was in jail, according to Sinha’s records. Panditji had said his mantra well. Bhai, had his plans…

It was raining when Bhai called Bhanupratap to the terrace. There was no one else on the terrace, except Bhai. He was standing at the edge of the terrace, looking at the plains stretching towards the horizon. Bhanupratap saw something extraordinary in him. Power, perhaps. This man could have been anything else. Bhai, Bhanupratap thought, could do anything! Why did he choose to be this?

When young, all children are taught about the good and bad. Why was ‘the bad’ so glamorous? Why was it that his mother never tried to make him go back to her? He stood behind Bhai, looking at him. Why was he being called?

“You did well, Panditji…”, said Bhai.

“I didn’t mean to”, replied Bhanupratap.

Bhai turned around to face Bhanupratap. Bhai was an element of time. His face was the past, present and the future. Something about him, made Bhanupratap to stop thinking about anything else and just listen to Bhai.

“You want to know the reasons, do you”? asked Bhai.

“Well…”, began Bhanupratap.

“You pull the nerve. You pull the life…”, began Bhai.

(..To be continued., Part 9: “The Pandit’s Obsequy”…)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 7

2011-06-19T00:26:00.002+05:30

PART 7: THE PRIEST

“Yes. I shall come”, replied, Bhanupratap. (PART 6)

It never occurred to him that the room was dark. The creaking cupboard rattled noisily, as he stood there- rummaging its contents. He had been searching for so long, that he had almost forgotten what was that which he needed? A murky brown envelope fell on the floor, its contents spread everywhere. Dirty little bits of paper, they were. No. Not dirty. It was money. And that money, those little bits of paper, had cost him- his self.

It was almost a year since he had become one of “them”. His head felt heavy even as he thought about it. He was never one of “them”. Not now, nor then. He had joined them, nevertheless. He had refused to take a life. He refused to carry a gun. He refused women. He refused stealth. He was a medium. A transporter. A link between two links. He chose to be at the middle of nowhere. It was Vishwa who found it most amusing. “Sin-less Sinner”? He would say. “You really believe you could be that”? Bhanupratap could not answer him. He did not know the answer. Deep down, he knew that this was where he fit in. And that was why, they called him “The Priest” or the- Panditji.

Not many of Bhanu Bhai’s men, approved of Bhanupratap. Shukla- one of Bhanu Bhai’s ‘insiders’, even called Bhanupratap a “man with a price”. A few of them, even told Bhanu Bhai, to dispose of Bhanupratap. But Bhai only told them- “How can I not trust myself”?

Vishwa was good to him. Vishwa- was Bhai in all aspects. Bhai never did anything without Vishwa. Vishwa’s liking for Bhanupratap had what sealed him within their world, even though he was not one of “them”. Vishwa had said, “It’s always good to have a Priest around to wash our sins”.

Though the true meaning of those words only occurred to him later. The men of ‘darkness’ never joked about business. Bhanupratap occasionally became others too. Sinha’s lessons had their uses. But mostly he was Bhanupratap. The prison register bore his signature- “Bhanupratap”, it read. One day, Sinha asked him, “Bhanupratap, what is your name”? “Bhanupratap”, he had replied. Sinha looked at him for a few seconds and said- “Yeah, right. You are nobody if not Bhanupratap”!

The dark liquid needed water to quench itself of its wrath. The water he knew, spoke of stories. Stories of her life, and his life and dreams. The water he knew was hope was life to many in the place he knew from his previous birth. The water he knew was his mother- his Ganges. But this water knew no stories. It knew only pain. The pain of the dark liquid that she had absorbed into herself. And when drunk- she would rest not until she transferred all the pain deep down through your throat. The pain of the dark liquid blended itself with the pain in the heart- and out came the tears and words never uttered otherwise. The tears were her tears. The tears of the Ganges in his blood.

The ringing of the phone. Bhanupratap gathered the little pieces of paper and put them back into the envelope. The “darkness”- they often told him, helped them to see “light” better. He chuckled as he picked up the phone. It was Vishwa who spoke from the other end-

“Come now, Panditji. It’s time for the Puja”…

(..To be continued., Part 8: “A drop of water”…)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 6

2011-06-07T23:35:00.002+05:30

PART 6: HE AND I

Four months- and he was almost Bhanupratap. A man with just a name. No birth. No life. No death. Somewhere amidst everywhere. Sinha called him that night. He held a Rs.1000 in hand. Smiling as he spoke, “Would you like to earn more, Bhanupratapji”? (PART 5)

In movies, there were heroes who were jailed for crimes they had not committed. They spoke of justice and revenge. Their passion for justice and doing the right thing, assuaged the burning rage in many of those ‘common men’- awaiting for a spark, somewhere from someone to lead them on. He was no hero. Who was he? Shravan- son of a masterji, from Kashi? Bhanupratap- a criminal? But who was this Bhanupratap, who has completely taken over his life? The questions that he could never find answers to.

True to his promise, he had stayed back. He would be released, paid. And then, he would again be sent back to the prison. No one knew the son of masterji any longer. In fact, the prison had become more like his home. May be this was what he had come to see. He had heard tales, back home- of boys running out of their home to become a movie star or eloping away with girls. But he came to the city- to see new world. He wanted nothing in return. And this was his new world. He knew he was safe here. He had money. There were no pavements here where he was not allowed to sleep. There was no cruel sun here, burning him alive. There were no strange people here, who would not smile at him. He wanted to see where it lead him to, his life. His mother had assured him that there was a path laid out for him. He waited.

On a night of his release, he was called for by Sinha. Sinha, was sitting in one of the prison cells along with other men. These mean, Bhanupratap could tell, had never seen the light of the day. Something told him that these men, all of them, belonged there- belonged to the night. There were bottles of whiskey and soda- and many other beverages that often made men, men. Sinha was looking at him- in a way a teacher looked at his favorite pupil. He called out to him, loudly- his voice croaking due the liquids taking an effect over his vocals, “Come-Come Bhanupratap saab… C’mon here”! He entered and stood there in a corner, uncertainly. Sinha now spoke to the man, who appeared to be in command. Big, dark, balding and drunk. Sinha said, “Want to meet yourself Bhanu bhai”? And he pointed towards where he was standing. The real one was now scanning Bhanupratap, closely.

“What’s your name”? asked Bhanu bhai.

“Bhanupratap”, he replied. He did not know why he said it. It was may be because he was so used to it.

There was a moment of silence. And then, all of a sudden, the room rang with laughter. Bhanu bhai now spoke, “Good training, Sinha”. Sinha looked pleased with himself. Bhanu bhai spoke now to Bhanuprtap- “You have done me a huge favour. I am indebted to you. And I never liked being in debt to anyone”. There was silence once more. Everyone looked serious. Bhanu bhai spoke again, “Come with me, Bhanupratap. I’ll teach you, how to be like me”.

Bhanu bhai. A leader. Bhanupratap could tell that he was everything. He controlled almost everything. It was absolute power that spoke through his eyes. A power that could never be denied. A power that could never stop luring you towards itself. There are just too many of those little fire-flies that are attracted to the shining light. But the light wants only a few of them. The power in Bhanu bhai’s eyes- told Bhanupratap that it wanted him. The steady stream of the Ganges took a steep turn, deep inside his mind. It was as though his mother was saying to him- “This was what I had warned you about…”.

Ganges did flow everywhere. The hills and valleys alike. She changed herself and became a part of everything, wherever she went. But once she was a part of them- they were lost to her. It was not hills or valleys any longer. It was just, Ganges.

“Yes. I shall come”, replied, Bhanupratap.

(..To be continued., Part 7: “The Priest”)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 5

2011-05-30T21:48:00.002+05:30

PART 5: THE BIRTH

Sinha looked at him- smiling to himself as he said, “For a few months from now on, you will not be Shravan. Your name would be Bhanupratap. And you will remain here, in the lock-up”… (PART 4)

Ganges was flowing all over his mind and body. There can be no place where he would stay forever. He would go on. On. Not knowing where it would lead him to. The flow was not a path he chose. It was there. He would only flow along. The choice was not his. There was no choice. The destination was not his. The Ganges- would lead his way…

Sinha continued, “No one would question you. You can remain anywhere within this prison. But you would not go out of this place. Understood”?

His mother would lead him. “Yes saab”, replied Shravan.

Sinha looked satisfied. He said, “Good. I’ll get you `1000 by the end of four months”.

“Yes saab”. And that was their contract.

The Gangotri sees her in a form so different. The child about to enter into a new world- a world that would worship her. A world that would depend on her to wash away its blackness. No more the soft infant touch- but the rough wrath over the ever mounting human sins! That was how she was- washing away the sins of sinners. Only- the prison was no holy Kashi! He was in his mother’s lap- but there were other prisoners- foster children of his mother.

It took him a while to get used to his new identity. Bhanupratap. He was now, officially, a criminal. But what crime? He wouldn’t know, would he? Sinha checked on – every day. Was he friendly? May be. But the new Bhanupratap understood that “food never comes free”. Sometimes- there were small packets of white powder to be given to a certain Motilal. Brown covers- heavy at times, to be given to Sinha. Powder- Motilal’s food. And food- never comes free. Bhanupratap was learning…

Soon, the sinners within the walls became people with names. And everyone knew him as Bhanupratap. There were thieves, rapists, fraudulent geniuses, may be a few murderers even. But they were the ones who could not afford a `1000 every four months!

And slowly, the people with names were people with stories. Husbands who murdered wives who had made a cuckold out of them. Or young boys- who had been offensive about rich girls. There was a certain 496 that was most common. These numbers became more familiar to him than their names. He made friends with 446s, 489Cs, 463-464s. He was often asked what his number was? He might have mentioned it to Sinha once. He had replied-
“Bhanupratapji, tell them that you are the King of all that. Tell them- you are Government”! And shooed him away- laughing to himself…

Four months- and he was almost Bhanupratap. A man with just a name. No birth. No life. No death. Somewhere amidst everywhere. Sinha called him that night. He held a `1000 in hand. Smiling as he spoke, “Would you like to earn more, Bhanupratapji”?

(..To be continued., Part 6: “He and I…”)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 4

2011-05-24T19:10:00.002+05:30

PART 4: HIS DEATH

He opened his eyes, slowly. Things were a nebulous wreck in the beginning. But they were coming back to him. The streets- the strangers- the buildings… The police station. (PART 3)

Shravan looked at the creaking old-fashioned ceiling fan, full of dust, hanging there, doing everything else but that which it was suppose to do. He heard someone say- as though from a far-away land- “He’s awake”! He sat up and looked around. It was not a police station as he’d seen in movies. The movies, had clean pictures of famous leaders like Gandhiji, Subhash Chandra Bose and a few other people whom Shravan did not know. There was a hero- who spoke the language of honesty. He fought for justice and had a beautiful heroine singing songs about him. This was nothing like that. This was the real one. The dirt, the disgust. There were real people around.

“You- you there! Are you dumb or what? Can’t you hear”? He heard someone yelling.

He looked around and saw a hefty police man, with a big mustache. Dark. All the meat in him, Shravan could tell, did not come through the honest means. Honest money could never feed a belly that big. He could be a villain. But definitely not a hero in movies, Shravan felt himself thinking.

“Come here”! said the hefty police man. And Shravan felt himself obeying.

“What’s your name”? demanded the inspector.

“Shravan.. Shravan Kumar, saab”

“Where are you from”? Though, the inspector appeared least bothered about the details that he was about to hear.

“Kashi”, replied Shravan.

“Ran away from home? Did you steal anything”? Shravan felt- may be this was what it meant to be a police.

“No saab. Just wanted to see the city” replied Shravan, looking at the inspector, uncertainly.

“Hmmm…”- the officer appeared to be in a deep thought.

Sometime later, the officer spoke again, “You hungry”?

Shravan did not know what to say. This was the first time he was coming across this question in the city. The officer called out to a constable and made him bring Pav and tea for Shravan. Shravan had his food- his first taste of the city- in those murky corners of the Police Station. The officer did not seem concerned about Shravan anymore. He appeared busy- beating up a few petty thieves, signing papers. May be he was wrong. May be the officer did want to help Shravan. He went up to the officer once he was done with his food. He was not sure what he must say to the officer. He stood there- looking at the officer. The officer looked at him closely, for a few minutes, and then spoke-

“I am Inspector Sinha. I. P. Sinha. I run this place”.

Shravan did not reply.

“I want to give you one advice that I want you to remember for the rest of your life”.

The inspector came closer to Shravan. Shravan did not feel intimidated. And Sinha almost whispered- as though he was initiating Shravan about the secrets of the world- he spoke:

“Food- never comes free”.

Sinha let his words sink into Shravan and then continued.

“You will do a job for me. I’ll pay you well, have no doubt”, said Sinha.

Shravan understood that he was not supposed to deny. So he asked, instead- “What job, saab”?

Sinha looked at him- smiling to himself as he said, “For a few months from now on, you will not be Shravan. Your name would be Bhanupratap. And you will remain here, in the lock-up”…

(..To be continued., Part 5: “The Birth…”)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 3

2011-05-15T15:03:00.002+05:30

PART 3: IN A NEW WORLD...

He also promised her, that he would come back to her. One day. Some day. And he felt her hand pat his feet, gently. His mother let him go… (PART 2)

It all began with water…

May be this was why people came to the city. The buildings were so tall that Shravan felt that they could almost touch the sky! Growing up in Kashi, he had never seen anything like this before. He needed two more eyes to see everything.

There were colours in Kashi. Saffron, turmeric, red and gold all around. Shravan was tired of colours. But here, it was white, or black or just grey. He felt better. His eyes needed a break from all the colours. Kashi was a destination. An end. But the city- was a beginning. There was life here. A never-ending rush, a craze to live. There was pulse. And no one here, paused to see the next person beside themselves on the road- walking alongside. Shravan felt his space too, as he tried to take in the city around him. He too was infected by the life around. He felt as though it was in his dreams that he was “living”. The fire and pyre of Kashi, was moving away from his mind. They were now- a faded painting…

He wandered on those roads- his eyes, finally getting tired of the things around- could take in no further. His leg carried his dead weight, but it could go on no farther. He soon began to realize that the sun in the city was different from the one back home. It had no sympathy for the weary traveler on the road. May be this was why, the city moved fast. May be this was why, the city was never tired! But Shravan was not used to the sun yet. He was hungry. But he had no money. And people of the big city did not believe in charity.

He lay there for how long, he knew not. He did not remember it. People told him about it later.

He felt the boot kick his ribs. But he had no strength to open his eyes and see who that was. There were strange voices. And suddenly, he felt that he was being lifted off the ground. He was swinging. His hands bearing his weight. He knew not when his body would drop off his hands. He was dead. But no. This was not death. He came from a place where people knew most about death. Death could not be it. Or did people think that he was dead? He could not let this happen to him..

He mustered up all the strength left in him- and let out a moan of help. There were voices again. He felt that now, he was being taken to a different place.

The city was a fair judge. Here, the life presented itself- only when one seeks it. There were people, back home, who disliked the city. They did not like the speed- the colours, the life in there. But they were the ones who did not understand the life. The living. This was a place, Shravan thought, where the dead have to prove their death and the living- their living. Else, they were all the same. The city, welcomed him.

There was water, once more…

The sudden chill of disgust and anger! The water slapped him hard. But it gave him strength. Water, he knew, was always with him. But he could not stop wondering that even the water in the city could be so different! His mother, though had the strength and power to overturn the city itself, still was gentle. She had so much love in her. May be that was why, she was Mother Ganga! But the city- it changes everything. The water of the city, Shravan smiled to himself, his step-mother!

He opened his eyes, slowly. Things were a nebulous wreck in the beginning. But they were coming back to him. The streets- the strangers- the buildings… The police station.

(..To be continued., Part 4: “His death…”)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 2

2011-05-05T23:12:00.005+05:30

PART 2: “LET ME GO, MOTHER..."

He somehow knew after this incident that, whatever position he might be in, she would be with him. Help him. Love him, unconditionally. His mother… Ganga… (Part-1)

His father got him enrolled in the school. He liked going to the school. Having kids of his age around him- talking to them. And he was gifted. He could remember anything on just hearing it once. But somehow, he could not always concentrate. He could not help it. But whenever he looked outside the window, he was lost in thoughts. Sometimes he was so lost that-

“Shravan.. SHRAVAN..!”

“Ouch!”

It hurt that day. That tiny piece of chalk thrown at him with such anger, it hurt.

“Where is all your attention? Do you think this is a joke? The whole of Kashi’s kids sitting here and listening to me and my OWN son- let alone listening, doesn’t even care looking at me as I speak…”

His father was indeed very upset that day. He would not talk to his son, that entire day. And if Shravan would try talking to him, he would go away from that place. Shravan felt that he was a lone human in the entire world. There was no one else with whom he could talk to. And he had nowhere to go. He rushed out of the house and ran as fast as he could. He ran to his mother. Ganga would always be there. Flowing with such force- such raw energy! Watching her hurry towards the sea- it could make you forget all the negativities in you. Shravan sat himself on his mother’s lap, both his feet touching her surface. He wept. That was the saddest day of his life. The Ganges, patted him. She consoled him…

But that day, his mother helped him realize something. Shravan was more like his mother. He found her in him. Her free spirit. Shravan saw the Ghats around. Then he felt his mother’s soft touch upon his feet. He felt her say- “Do you think I flow within these man-made boundaries? These stones- the bricks? Do you think they hold me back? No. I am all around. Look around, son. Look beyond the stones. See those sinners washing their sins? They think all their sins turn into puffs of smoke when they wash themselves in me. Fools. I flow on them. Over them. But I never am inside them. These walls, the Ghats- they are physical. Ganga flows into lives. Into minds. That is my strength. A strength, these mortals can never bear in them. A strength known only to a few. I can only be trapped in minds. Like I am bound in you, by your love…” he felt her say.

Each day, Shravan would spend all his time thinking about what lay beyond his world? Sometimes, he would watch the television at his neighbour’s place- strange places, and strange people in it would capture his imagination! They were so different from his world here. He wanted to go away. See those people. Meet them.
One day, he told his father about his desire. His father listened to him, patiently. He then said, “Shravan, you belong here. In Kashi. Those strange places are not for us. Those places would never like people like us, visiting them. Those places would never be good to us. Your life is here, son. Kashi knows you. The soil knows your scent. The air around has seen you grow up. The walls around have seen you loose your first teeth. Your mother, Ganga, flows here. Not anywhere, but here. I am here… You understand”?

He understood. He understood that his mother was in him. Ganga’s spirit in him, urged him to know himself. Identify his soul with hers. He understood that, he needed to leave…

And he left. He remembered the night he left, very well. His father was asleep. He had managed to tie up some of his things in a bundle. He touched his father’s feet while the later was asleep. He left the house and went along, to bid farewell to his mother. He took her in his hands and placed her on his forehead. Somewhere inside his head, he had a feeling that this had happened before. An initiation. He was just about to leave- when his mother took his bundle from him. He tried to take it from her. But she would not give. It was as though she was pleading him, not to go. Perhaps there was something out there- that would harm him. It was as though she held him by hand and did not allow him to leave.

He made her understand that he was ready for it. Ready to see the world beyond here. He was like her, he made her understand. Just like her, Ganga. He convinced her to let him go. He also promised her, that he would come back to her. One day. Some day. And he felt her hand pat his feet, gently. His mother let him go…

(..To be continued., Part 3: “In a new world…”)

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 1

2011-04-29T19:02:00.004+05:30

The Other Son of Ganges is a Series that began almost a year back in an e-zine The Banyan Trees . It started out as an experiment and took shape as a 10-11 part series. Ganges, has always been a great inspiration. Of late, I have started to think that Ganges is in fact- a reflection of all life on Earth. Through her flow, here begins a tale- still new, still raw and yet to be lived...

PART 1 : GANGA, THE MOTHER

It all began with water. Even back then, it had begun with water. No, he did not remember it. But he had heard them say so. It all began, with water…

He was wet. But so was the dog. But the difference was this. The dog had soon found a shelter in a broken piece of wooden box. But he was still out there. Beneath nothing. He was wet. He was sad- a castaway. A man, whose life ceased to exist for him to live, still, he was wet.

It all began with water…

His life started at an end. People who were witnesses, told him about it- later. On the banks of the Ganges, he lay on his father’s lap. Through the tiny bronze nozzle, the clear water from the Ganges, poured herself down on his forehead. He did not remember it. But he might have sensed it then, that a bond of a lifetime was being formed there, with that water-the Ganges. His father laid him on the stone grounds of the Ghat. Scattered petals from flowers, the bits of black sesame, here and there, stuck themselves on his tiny body. Soon, he would be washed. Washed with the water from Ganges. Wash him of the sins from his previous birth, which had taken the life of his mother.

His father went ahead, towards the Ganges, to bid farewell to his wife’s soul. He did not remember his father taking the water from the Ganges on his hands, and offering prayers to the forefathers. The smell of burning flesh from the Manikarnika Ghat, remained fresh in his memory, as he had felt it, back then. People told him, all about it, later. Ganges was, now- his mother.

He grew up there, where people only came when their journey through life was about to end- Kashi. The streets of Kashi, was his world. The only world that he knew about. Ghats, water, prayers, fire and pyre. This was all he had seen. People of Kashi, he had later thought, knew more about death, than about life. The dusty streets full of Rudraksh and idols of Gods and Goddesses. Flower garlands. For the living, dead and also for those whose existence was not proved, yet. The sweet vendors. The kadaai outside their stalls where the yellow milk, seasoned with saffron and malaai and almonds, boiled forever. The begging Sadhus whose blessings were for sale!

He’d see people, sometimes, all white in colour, taking photographs of the Ganges. Why were they so excited about the river? He would wonder! Had they never seen so much water before? There was once a white man, who took a picture of him too, standing beside his mother. That was the only picture he had, of him with his mother.

His father was a teacher. He taught the kids at the local school. Every child of his locality learnt their first word from his father. But for a long time, he was never able to say his first word! His father tried and tried. Every doctor and Vaid of Kashi was consulted. But his first word never came out for a long time. May be he was thinking what that word should be. He just couldn’t start his life by saying any words, could he? His first word should be special. May be…

It all began with water…

It happened one day, when he saw his neighbour’s son, pampered by his mother. He did not remember what he saw, but at that moment, he felt that he should be with his mother. He too, wanted a mother to love him, to pamper and spoil him! That was the moment he decided his first word too. People witnesses to this had told him, later. He jumped into the Ganges, shouting “MAA…” at the top of his voice! He just needed to be with his mother…

People kept coming home for the next few days after that incident. He remembered this. They called it some ‘miracle’ and that he had ‘divine’ gifts! His photograph was published in the local paper. He still had the paper- preserved! His father was not happy about it. He was of course happy about the first word- but not the divine part of it.

He somehow knew after this incident that, whatever position he might be in, she would be with him. Help him. Love him, unconditionally. His mother… Ganga…

(..To be continued., Part 2: “Let me go, Mother…”)

MAAKKAAN

2011-03-27T10:34:00.006+05:30

“…So children… What is special about 25^th December”? rang the sing-song voice of Sister Margret.

“… The birth of Jesus Christ”, chorused the class of Junior Kindergarten, section ‘A’.

“And what are we going to do on that day”? asked Sister Margret.

“…Dance”, squeaked little Gitu.

“Not just dance- so many other things as well. And who’s going to be our special guest’? Asked Sister Margret.

“SANTA…” shouted the class.

It was very exciting for almost all the children of Kindergarten. It was just I- who was not all that excited about “Christmas”. I could not see what was exciting about singing, dancing? I did neither of that. Nor was I excited about Santa or Jesus. For I knew neither.

“Now I would be coming around and taking down the names of all of you and what you are to be doing on the 25^th”

The class rejoiced- and I was left thinking- What would I tell Sister Margret?

“Mittu. What would you like to do”? asked Sister Margret.

A dead end!

“Child, what do you do”? Repeated Sister Margret.

“I talk”, I blurted out.

‘I talk’. Even deep down, these words sounded stupid. But it was partially true. I have always heard people say- “Mittu talks”! I have even heard Sister Edwina telling my mother- “Your daughter- talks”.

Sister Margret did not reply. She was looking at me for a long time. Then she said-

“Now you are just what we need. You shall be delivering the ‘votes of thanks’. God bless you, child”… and she left me sitting there, wondering whatever ‘votes of thanks’ was!

That evening, I told my parents that I was suppose to ‘deliver’ ‘votes of thanks’.

“We shall ‘deliver’ it, then”, said my dad, smiling at me.

My mom spotted my disappointment.

“What’s bothering you, Mittu”? She asked me.

“I don’t want to do anything on Christmas. I don’t even know who Jesus or Santa is”, I voiced out my thoughts.

My mother looked at me, smiling, and she said- “Well Santa’s Maakkaan’s friend”!

“Who”? I asked her, confused.

“Maakkaan! The black Teddy Bear you have with big brown eyes and big red nose. Didn’t you know”? She asked, surprised at my surprise.

I shook my head. I was excited. I knew there was something about the black bear, when I bought it. So it was ‘Maakkaan’, after all!

“Maakkaan watches you- all the time. And when you do good things- like helping me out and not taking out daddy’s pens from his case, he sends you gifts and lets Santa know how you have been a very good girl”, finished my mom.

“Really”? I asked her, amazed! “What gifts will I get”?

“Oh sweets, Chocolates or something big, on days when you are extra good”, said my dad.

“WOW”! I just had to see it! I decided that day- I shall be as good as possible!

That night, I ate all my food. Even the spinach. I did not pester mom. I slept early even! I was all the goodness, I was capable of!

The next morning when my dad woke me up- “Get up! Maakkaan has sent you gifts”, he said.

I was wide awake in seconds. My dad pointed towards the balcony. And I saw it!

I saw a big polythene bag tied on the branch of the Neem tree! There were chocolates in it! I could not believe my eyes! It was a miracle!

That day, I planned to be even better. I did all my homework. I helped Vinu in doing his homework. And when Sister Edwina wanted someone to lend her an eraser- I volunteered! That evening, I even returned all the pens I had taken earlier form my dad’s office bag.

The next morning, there was a bigger bag of chocolates, tied on the Neem tree!

In the mean time, my dad taught me my ‘vote of thanks’. I was, for the first time, excited about going to school on the 25^th of December! But I was a little unhappy. For the children, who were going to dance and sing- had new frocks made out for them! I- who was just going ‘talk’- got no new dress. My mom told me to ask ‘Maakkaan’ for a new dress.

“Try writing it down and placing it near him…” she said, smiling.

I wrote down what I needed in a piece of paper and placed it near Maakkaan. Nothing happened the next day. Nothing happened the day after, either. But on the third day, there was huge packet tied on the branch of the Neem tree! And when I opened the package I saw the most beautiful dress in it, just the way I had wanted it to be- Pink and fluffy!

That evening, I wrote down in a piece of paper- “I want a remote controlled car toy like the one Subho has”, and I placed the little note near Maakkaan.

The next day- I saw a huge package tied to the Neem tree. But it was empty. No- Not empty. It had the note I had written to Maakkaan, inside the package. I told my mom about it- and she said I should not misuse Maakkaan for anything I wanted. “Maakkaan might get angry”, she said.

That day- I finally revealed my secret to my friends. They had been pestering me to tell about who got me so many chocolates.

“Who Maakkaan? There’s no such thing as that. You are fooling us”, said Gitu.

“No”, I said. “I’ve seen it. It is true”.

“Then ask Maakkaan to get me chocolates, tomorrow”, said Kirti.

“He’s at my home- so he gets them just for me”, I said.

But none of them would believe me. Gitu even told Sister Edwina that I was telling lies to everyone! And no matter how much I tried explaining to Sister Edwina, she would not believe me either.

“Whoever teaches you such lies”! She scolded me.

“Maakkaan is like Santa Claus. They’re friends”, I protested. The entire class was laughing at me.

I cried all night. I did not have my food. School was no longer fun, as most of my friends thought I lied!

That evening, as I sat in my room, preparing my ‘vote of thanks’- I saw Maakkaan looking at me. Then I felt something. I wrote wish my on a piece of paper and placed it in front of Maakkaan.

The Christmas day arrived. It was more fun than I had thought it would be. Everyone looked wonderful!

And finally, Santa Claus came. He was so huge! And he spoke-

“… Just before I woke up today morning, I met up with an old friend. He had a request, for me that came to him from one among you”.

There were excited murmurs.

“… He told me, that one among you requested him, to get all of you gifts. But since he could not meet everyone else he sent over the gifts that he got for you to me and asked me to give it to you all…”

“My friend who got you gifts- is Maakkaan. The one who wanted him to get you all gifts is- Mittu”, he finished.

Everyone was clapping. Gitu even came to me and said sorry. Everyone got their gifts, except me! I went near Santa. He said, “Alas! You did not ask him for any gifts for yourself, did you”?

I had indeed forgotten to write that down in that little piece of paper! I was a little unhappy. But everyone appreciated me for my ‘votes of thanks. I even got a little pat from Sister Margret and a bag of chocolates from her.

We returned home. And as we neared our home, I saw a very huge package tied to the Neem tree. I ran towards it and took it to my room. And in it- was a brand new remote controlled toy car! A little note in it read, "To Mittu, who truly understood Christmas"...!

PS: 'Maakkaan' is very real... This story is-- well not entirely a fiction... :)

Image Courtesy- Google Images...

OH, SIGH!

2011-03-07T23:02:00.005+05:30

Days and nights had been just the same,
There is not a word I would not like to say.
Miles ahead are the shores I would reach
Sighing, I wait- to say it all your way.

Of trees, you say; Of birds, not a thing
Of pebbles, you say; Of ripples, you never may.
Of seas, you do and oceans, no not
Sighing, I wait- to see it all your way.

Sighing, I wait- to say, to see
I wait for a life, not mine ever to be.
Off I leave, off away- I fly
Out comes my words, all mine- Oh Sigh!

Picture Courtesy: Google Images...

IN A NUTSHELL…

2011-02-13T12:00:00.007+05:30

In an old shack of a building- on the walls there hung beautiful painting of two men playing a game of chess. Their shadows extended showing that it was night, and the light only came from an oil lantern lit beside one of them. There was also a painting of children going to school in a rickshaw, while the man who was pulling the rickshaw- was actually a boy, almost the same age as the other kids who were in the rickshaw.

May be I did not realize what these paintings were about actually- back then. I was busy copying my drawing homework. I usually had to draw a painting off the memory. That part was my nightmare. I was never good at drawing what was in my mind. Not that I wouldn’t try. But it usually made people think- I ought to stop watching Horror shows on TV!

It’s a case where parents think their children can do anything under the sun! Each and every parent believes that their child was a gifted one- that has been a painter, singer, dancer, scholar, a scientist and many other things in her previous birth. They are not to be blamed. Perhaps I’d be just the same when I have a daughter of my own. But the point is I had no real talent in drawing. I admired the paintings. I admired painters! They are such wonderful people. But me- I was not one of them.

Whatever made me stop going to my drawing classes, I do not remember. They were wonderful teachers. But deep down- I wished that if only I could draw! If only I could paint! What a gift it was to give a shape to whatever that you think! I’m trying to think of so many things. Some of those things just exist in me as just a memory. Something only I’ve seen. If I try to explain a huge iron container with one opening at the top to pour in the rice grains and the other- at the bottom to take rice out of it- I wouldn’t be able to explain it. But if I could draw it…

There are just so many things that one wishes to do. Like kids in school dreaming wild about their future! ‘Doctors’ are so out-of-place. I once heard a 6 year old say that she wants to be an Ornithologist! Why- even I have told so many people- I had always wanted to become a bus conductor! The dreams, these kids soon realize are just inane dreams. In fact, it is worse. They begin to believe that having such dreams is a mark that you have not grown. A grown-up knows what he wants. Ornithology becomes a silly dream that a six year olds mother once dreamt of when she was six!

I have silly dreams. Or rather- dreams that people think as silly. Now that would not qualify me as a grown up! I dream of taking off. Just board a bus and go. Carry nothing else but a pen and few sheets of paper. Take a bus- having no idea about the destination and be off! I wish to spend my days amidst sounds closer to Earth. Croaking of frogs, rustling of leaves, pebbles thrown into water.

Sometimes, there are dreams that I think am not meant to have. Rather- dreams that aren’t like me. In this dream, I reside on the 18th floor of a building. The room has a huge window that gives a terribly beautiful view of the world beyond. And I sit on the edge of the window- smoking. There is rain. But no matter how I try to wet my cigarette- the fire won’t go. And I mock the rain- as I pat off the ash.

Crowded autos to work, black and white monitors, coffee at the cafeteria. But somewhere along this humdrum of reality, I have lost myself to my dreams. And no matter how I try to ‘return’, I still prefer the painting of two men, both tired after a day’s work- playing chess while the light from the oil lantern, lengthens their shadows- far and long…

PS: Images used- my Doodles...

A WELL OF MOLTEN GOLD

2011-02-06T20:28:00.005+05:30

A sack of wheat
A bag of rice
And a well of molten gold

All I need
Is just these there
Taken, stolen or sold!

A bottle of wine
Neat and fine
Mind, it better be old

All I need
Is just these there
Taken, stolen or sold!

Happy and gay
Party all day
Hugging desires, bold

All I need
Is just these there
Taken, stolen or sold!

I take it, I steal it
I buy it, I do-
But still I rot out cold

Left out to decay
Amidst smiles, so gay
In my well of molten gold…

PS: Image., Thank you, Google!

SRI PANDI VILAS

2011-01-26T15:44:00.004+05:30

As I came out of the hall, I was trying to take in the things- moving and still all around me. Work tags, new goodies safe inside branded plastic bags, hand bags, coolers and tri-colour battered and pinned on shirts. For some reason these things did not enter into me. Something bigger was occupying my mind. A bigger question. Was I in it? The place around, the world around me?

When I saw the tri-colour on people- I wanted to have one too. My mind went back to the school grounds where I stood fourth from the first, singing flag songs and the National Anthem- waiting rather impatiently for the distribution of toffees. I used to get hold of the entire stack of tri-colour that was left over. The stack would find its place inside a big bag, along with other broken toys and tiny pieces of pencils and erasers where it would remain for the next few years until the entire bag would be chucked into the trash.

I wanted to ask one of them- from where they had got the tri-colour? I don’t know why I did not ask. I was just watching around and trying to take in the blur of colours around.

Be it the rain pouring down outside the window or a Baai’s daughter reciting Tennyson’s ‘Brook’. Munna insisting on his photos being taken in a studio or Arun washing the silver ring left behind by a house wife- Yasmin. From Shai’s photographs, Munna’s ‘Salman’ bracelet to Arun’s painting and Yasmin dissolving into light in her video letter to her brother. The fifth character in the film, Mumbai- left me with a bigger question deep down in me. Was I the sixth character in it?

The auto ride back home was all thoughts. A sun-lit Chennai had become a part of my life for the past two years. Its different shades never escaped my thoughts throughout. Yet, I’m a stranger trying to identify places around. The city was a part of me- but never became mine.

As the auto tuned in with the rocky roads beneath- my eyes were searching for tri-colour s around. School children and a teacher leading them around. A man making ‘parotta’s outside Sri Pandi Vilas hotel. An old man whose knees came in together while he bent back- waiting for his bus.

I did not get my tri-colour today.

Oh… and ‘Dhobi Ghat’? Of course… Please watch it…

SIMIYON

2011-01-19T19:47:00.005+05:30

A point on paper. I sat there, leaning against the cold, hard wall- imagining myself to be that single point over that sheet of clean white paper. That was what I was. An atom. Years of life had taught me finally, to define myself. Place myself into that frame of life's camera. An atom. A closer shot, perhaps might give you an idea of how I look. The length and breadth or may be, even the depth!

He, however always believed that we spread out! We take shapes. Forms. "What do you mean"? I remember, asking him once. He would not know. But he was more than an atom. He believed it. Simiyon.

Villages. Now that I think about them- provide you spaces deep within- that later expand within you. Spaces- so vast, that the valleys in our heart- begin to fill with memories of the dust from the first harvest of the season. The bunch of Neem leaves in the hands of the temple priest. Bangles from the fair. The statues of silver and bronze in the temple. They held life in them. A life that came out of thoughts, beliefs and hopes of people- who believed that tomorrow could be a day that would end all their sufferings.

The music in the school bell. The era of black or white; no grey. Careless. Unafraid. An age characterized by its innocence. It’s a pity that the beauty in innocence is only realized after losing it. I now would wonder at times- "I was all that"! Some people, I've seen, are born old. Old granny says, ".. remains of the gone lives..". I don't know. I would imagine myself dying and being born. In flashes. A splash of colours. Cockeyed. But wonders, back then!

Our school was quite big. Children from neighbouring villages would also come in there- to learn. Just before the bell rings at four in the evening, we’d hear the coconuts, being broken and offered to the Lord, in the nearby temple. There begins a race- the first race of my life, the winner- collects the maximum coconut pieces off the ground. A rush of life, straight towards the temple, where the broken pieces of coconut awaited the tiny little hands to pick them up and dust them.

“Krishnaa….”

I turned to my left. Dark- yet his eyes, sparkling like diamonds- his forehead, sweating hard- his eyes knew joys unknown to others. His words, his voice, his thoughts- were all unlike those of the boys of his age. The shirt was torn- yet it held, in it- a small bundle, which he held close over his upper abdomen- his prize!

"Didn't you get any? Here.. Take some..", said Simiyon and offered me a few of those coconut pieces! He gladly shared his prize, with me.

A hero is someone who inspires. Kind, helpful and efficient - the one, everyone looks up to! Simiyon, I could tell, was one. His bright eyes- always looked for new paths to tread, new tasks to try. Often, between classes, he told me stories of his “work”.

“Giving shape to a piece of wood”- he would say. “You would see the shape grow in front of your eyes- it’s as though you create! Like God”! He would say. “Fetching the fallen vessels from the bottom of the well…”! I would ask him- in wonder- “But how would you go into the well? Aren’t you afraid? My granny says, there are ghosts down into the well”! “Afraid?” he would reply, “Why should I be? It’s a very simple job! And believe me; I have been there many times. There are no ghosts. Besides- the well is a step closer to Earth. Don’t you feel so”? I remember very well- how I could not sit for a week, after I was beaten up by father for trying to get down our well!

A pocket full of coins! A rarity. A symbol of richness. Especially for a school boy. When he showed me a hand full of coins, I could not help but wonder at his achievement. Simiyon was my Hero! He said he “worked”. He can do anything. He can be anything! I remember the autumn fair- in my village that year. I was a crying little boy- named Krishna, craving for the unaffordable sweets and cotton candies! And there he was- actually selling them! I secretly prayed that night- “Oh God! When I grow up, I want to be like Simiyon”!

May be it was my thoughts- that had outlined my life. Limiting my transformation- to an atom! Thoughts have been my hobby! I used to wonder, what he sought. I used to ask him- what he wanted to be. “Oh.. Many things..”, he’d say, smiling. “How can you be many things? You can be just one thing”, I would say. I wanted to prove, at times, that I can be impressive to him. But he’d just say- “Oh yes, you can be”! Just that. Nothing else.

Years had re-written my life into the pages of the city. A life I had not imagined back then as a small boy. A life away from all my friends- yet a life that gave me new friends, a better education, a job and a new family! But I wanted to look back- see the reflections of a boy Krishna, whom I had left behind. And last summer…

Simiyon knew me the moment he saw me. His eyes reflected the same joy as mine. He was just the same. Dark- yet his eyes sparkling like diamonds- beads of sweat upon his forehead. Yet, his wrinkles could pass him for an older man. His face was that of a man who had endured wrath of the Time. A family to support and money scarce- he worked round the clock- on jobs, countless. The hero in him lived, still young- though I realized that this time, it was my eyes that failed to see the hero in him.

Heroes- I realized for the first time- are a fantasy that kept human minds alive. My present eyes saw him as a kaleidoscope. An ever-changing pattern of colourful images, blurring the eyes with beauty beyond imagination when seen in light. Yet, deep down, they are, but broken pieces of glass. Heroes are just the same. The big screen shows only the white. No Black, no Grey.

I needed the eyes of a little boy named Krishna, whom I had left behind, long ago- on the sand and rocks of a small yet beautiful village. I had left him behind, hoping that he’d live there, forever- unblemished by the burning rays of a stubborn rat race. He, I knew would certainly to see things the way they are- uncontaminated by the ego of intelligence. I looked into his eyes and tried to see my friend again, to see him in the light, to see my lost hero, my Simiyon.

PS: Picture courtesy- Thank you Google!

NO ONE KILLED JESSICA

2011-01-14T12:20:00.003+05:30

I don’t wish to write movie reviews here! Let’s say- I just want to be a part of it, as I too am one among the thousands, who signed in my name in the forwarded e-mail petitions for the cause “Justice for Jessica”!

The inspector says-“Maine bhi liye the sattar lakh, uspe haath na utaane ke liye”…

I saw a man there, who was totally crunched by the system- helpless and angry at himself for being so. I saw a man afraid of what example he could be to his son. I saw in his eyes, a cold, raw hatred for a murderer- who murdered a woman who had refused him ‘a drink’, even after he offered a ‘1000 bucks’! The helpless inspector, bound by money- forced not to raise his hands at the man- for whom a life was cheaper than a ‘glass of drink’!

A performance, in its best, nevertheless- it was for me, very real. I imagined myself in front of ‘Manu Sharma’ or ‘S.P.S. Rathore’ or ‘Amarmani Tripathi’ or ‘Santosh Kumar Singh’ or ‘Moninder Singh Pandher’. How would I react to their presence? How would I feel if there were people threatening to kill my family if I reacted in front of them? It was suffocating.

A high profile lawyer discusses what all needs to be ‘taken care’ of. The ‘bullets’ at the Forensic lab needs to be altered. The man assigned the ‘task’- says nothing- gestures of complete understanding- which just conveys- “I know what to do. Forget about them…” Makes me wonder in awe at the power of ‘Power’! Is it that simple? All the hue and cry, ‘aam junta’ hoping that things will all be fine someday- it that all bogus?

300 witnesses saw nothing. Sitting there, at the cinema hall and watching the scene, which was very much what had happened during the actual Jessica Lall trial- made me think of SPS Rathore, smiling as he walked out of the court after a 19 year trial’s verdict was announced- 6 months prison (though he had the bail in hand in minutes) and Rs. 1000 penalty?! Is this the judiciary system of this country? Is this what we call “Mera Bharat Mahaan”?

I wouldn’t call this a movie. It was very much the fact- just the names of people changed. For someone who had followed the case ever since the ‘Justice for Jessica’ cause came into motion- at least for me, it all looked very much real! Be it Shayan Munshi.. that is, Vikram Jai- in the movie- a Bollywood actor who claims in court that he does not know Hindi! It was very much real!

“Justice for Jessica”- prevailed. Candles may have melted, but the fire still burnt deep down in the minds of thousands of ‘aam junta’ who were only waiting for something such as this to happen. Often times, the older generation accuses the younger ones of being ‘irresponsible’ and ‘callous’. They say- during their times, in our age, they were ‘fighting for a cause’!

Youth today are fragile. More than that- they are not aware! When I was talking to a colleague that there was a movie based on Jessica Lall murder case, I got a reply- “Who is Jessica”? They can’t be blamed. Youth today have so many other attractions/distractions. There is a media that glorifies glamour and entertainment becomes the ultimate quest! There are malls and disposable income. There is ‘Munni’ and ‘Sheila ki Jawani’! The older generation had none of these. Their youth was filled with ‘partition’, ‘unemployment’ and ‘Emergency’! There was a radio, perhaps. That’s it!

‘Give us a cause’. We don’t know what to do. ‘Lead us’. That’s all we say. There was a ‘cause’- and we did what was right for it. Media proves it’s might throughout the Jessica case! There have been allegations that “media has been acting judge”. There was even a scene in the movie that portrays this aspect. Sure it does. We just saw an instance of “media acting judiciary” in the Arushi - Hemraj double murder case! Yes, media is over-enthusiastic. Yes, it is intruding. Yes, they can stoop down to ‘get stories’ (Yes, yes- I’m talking about the ‘Radia’ tapes). But despite all that- media has become a medium to help our voices be heard. We appreciate media for that. We do.

Not even 50% of the cinema hall was full. But sure, this was a movie that re-ignites the minds of the people for a girl ‘who was shot for refusing a drink’. Watch it, people. It may not be as good as ‘Sheila ki Jawani’- but again, if that’s all what you like, this is not a movie for you!

THE PICKLE JAR

2011-01-08T10:29:00.003+05:30

It was as somewhere in a land, foggy with dreams and memories- I remember a day when I got caught stealing the fresh lime pickles off the porcelain pickle jar. Those were such strong hands that turned my ear and made them red. I was teased for almost a week for having red ears. How I hated going to school with my red ears! And all for a pickle?!

My granny made the best pickles in the world! I am sure all grannies make the best pickles in the world. Just the taste and the smell of those pickles! You can’t wait until it is time for you to eat. You just need to have it, all the time! Besides, there’s always this secret pleasure in thieving. We were raised with stories of God stealing butter for pleasure. I mean- what the heck? If He can, so can we!

All those years there has been something down there- churning out a man or woman from deep within ourselves. Looking back- we seem so strange to even ourselves! Almost every individual has an “Eat Pray Love” moment in his life. The self discovery sometimes leads to nothing! While at times, it breaks down every shred of belief you had ever held dear about yourself.

We make friends- we see them part ways. We meet people. We see them left behind. All the dreams that we had dreamt once- we see them fading away. As though it was not ours’- estranged! We see ourselves changed. Sometimes for good too! All that and more!

We have all grown older in the same manner. Well, almost. I have heard a friend say- that she wishes to skip a few years and reach the future. We have all felt it at some point of time in our lives. But as I thought about it- I felt that it is just a red ear- that won’t last for more than a week!

But the pickle jar still- is out there. It now stays behind the curtains of cobwebs. No one knows how old it is. No one has taken it out for a long time. It had been there- behind those thick curtains of cobwebs, looking exactly how it had looked the first time I saw it. Did it have my grandmother’s lime pickles in it still? Or maybe my grandmother had made something very special and kept it in there and forgot all about it!

All it requires is a touch! It requires your guilty, tickling fingers to touch it. To see what’s inside. For who knows? May be it holds in a hidden family treasure- if not pickles? Or a Genie- that would grant you whatever you need, perhaps? For all I know- it could hold anything! Gems and jewels or a mighty Genie- you only need to look in once. It might even contain a self that was lost once- to time!

LOOKING BACK...

2011-01-02T18:25:00.007+05:30

I have been staring at the ceiling for nearly 45 minutes now, trying to think of “memorable” events that had happened in my life this past year- 2010! I haven’t come up with many. Year 2010 had just been another year- uneventful and wasted.

But then, all of a sudden, I remembered a few things that not only made me eat my own thoughts but also made me think about a few other things, as well!

I began with my Tamil blog this year- ‘Maiththuligal’ which means ‘ink drops’. Even after a year, I have no idea how this blog came about and how it has been sustaining for this long with almost 31 posts in the past year! What began as my ‘idle-play’ to while away time on 25^th Dec., 2009- trying to write my name in Tamil on a bit of paper, just to check if I knew the language, for I never had formal training in it- ended up as a blog with genres ranging from abstract essays to day-to-day ‘blah-blah’s to a peep into my life through my mother’s eyes! This has sure been an ‘unexpected journey’, a very pleasant travel, nevertheless.

‘Thuppaandi’- the cat. 2010 had brought him home one sunny evening- and before we knew, he was jumping up the open window, crawling beneath the sofa and stretching himself on top of my dad’s just pressed shirt! With his curiosity and laziness, he had kept us all engaged; a show-man who enjoys all the attention he gets- this chap had managed to get a smile on all our lives and helped us all to like him with all his naughtiness! I had never had a pet in my life, though I had always wanted to have a cat. I am scared of dogs. I was never allowed one. But Thuppaandi, took us all by surprise. And now, he’s not just our pet- but family!

‘The Banyan Trees’. Nivi from the e-zine thebanyantrees.com had mailed me in 2009., Nov about the new venture that was on the rise and had invited contributions. Back then, I had no idea on what I would write in there- considering the fact that I happened to read her ‘highly inviting’ e-mail during an especially ‘boring’, ‘depressing’- weekend afternoon at office! But then- ‘The other son of Ganges’ took shape- and I had been contributing to the magazine- my first ‘series’ since around May 2010- ‘The other son of Ganges’. It was an experiment- and is still. And sure enough, my year 2010- ended with me becoming the ‘featured writer’ for the month of December 2010!

No matter however hard I kept thinking, I could not find anything else to go on to make up that list up there. It made me think that- there are a lot of things that we say, we do and things that happen to us and also happen due to us. But there are only a few of them, that we remember- or put it even more abruptly- that actually ‘matter’ to us! Whatever they might have been- in some way or the other- they have made me feel happy about them! But that ‘short’ list made me think- this year comes to me with its hands outstretched. But before I embrace it, I must keep in mind what exactly I must take from it!

Hoping for a great year ahead and a New Year resolution- “to be happy!” in hand- I travel once again through an unknown path towards, destiny, perhaps?

Have a very happy new year, everyone…

MY HERO OF THE YEAR 2010!

2010-12-04T16:21:00.002+05:30

A year on the wane- and I sat looking back at the gone days- thinking about that an incident that had an impact on me this year. It gave me my Hero of the year 2010!

Traveling by bus is something that had I learned to enjoy with much difficulty. If I can avoid it, I would. Fact however remains that I had aspired to become a 'Bus Conductor' in my 1st standard (Trust me- I did not know then that Rajnikanth was a Bus Conductor before he became an actor!). I felt and still do feel that it's almost Magical- for at times- a conductor of a crowded bus almost defies gravity and still manages to cut the bus fares! His 'Balancing Act' is that something that attracts me the most! The second thing that attracted me about the Bus Conductors was the Bag- Full of money!!! The clink and clank of coins, the rolls of paper currency held in his hand like a Japanese Hand Fan and bright colored ticket papers! I used to think that Bus Conductors are the richest people around to have got so much money!

But then- as I was growing up, I found that my views about the entire 'Bus Travel' had changed. This happened- to me precise, my 12th standard. I usually avoid crowded buses. But one day- it was very late and I probably had some test or something (else I could have done a “suffering from fever”, of course!) And I boarded this extremely crowded bus at 8:30 AM in the morning. No one would budge and I was hanging out on the foot board of the bus- with only the people hanging behind me to support me! Until then, I who had always admired the heroics of Kamal Hassan in a tamil song- 'Valai Osai' from movie 'Satya' (where he hangs on the steps with the heroine) felt that he should seriously consider a romance inside the bus! Safety first (no pun intended)! I was terrified. I had almost fallen off, whenever the driver felt like pressing the brakes. I got down almost two stops before my bus stop, and walked all the way the school from there, only to stand outside the class for the next 45 minutes for coming late. And, I had missed my test!

As the years rolled on- I had had further unpleasant bus experiences where I had to stand for almost 2 hours when I had to take the public buses to get to my college. And even worse were the exam days- when I actually stood in a crowded bus trying to study a year's worth syllabus in 45 minutes! I had lost my liking for buses since then.

This incident, where I found my Hero happened about a few months back- in a bus. Under unavoidable conditions, I get home by bus. That evening the crowd was unbearable. A group of college students boarded the bus. Almost all of them were trying out various heroics typical to their age. One of them- who looked very determined, did a Kamal Hassan in 'Satya'- paying no heed to the conductor who kept shouting at the top of his voice, asking these guys to get inside the bus. He kept throwing wise-cracks at his friends, holding the bar with just one hand and all the other circus stuff. Suddenly, there was a trouble on the road and the driver applied brake. This clown had lost all his balance and fell right in the middle of the road, amidst the traffic! The Rickshaw-walas and two-wheeler drivers abusing him had absolutely 'no effect' on his thick skull and he boarded the bus once again, now a complete Hero, with all his dumb friends cheering for him!

There was this lady. Sitting in the seat adjacent to the door- fat, dark and her hair tied up high into a thick bun. Her Bindi covered almost her entire forehead. Nobody saw her rising from her seat- and she slapped him real hard on his back with such a force that the fellow was thrown off balance once again! Now looking totally confused and speechless, he silently moved into the crowd and became invisible throughout the rest of the journey!

Kudos to her! I felt like getting her autograph!

It's never too late to tell these 'Roadside Romeos' that heroism is not risking your life! A Hero is someone who values his life! If a Hero has no idea about the value of his life, how can we expect him to value another's? It's a feeling that almost most of us have deep down- to give a good thrashing to these guys, make them behave better for their own good. She had the guts and the heart to do it. She did it. And I am sure- almost everyone who had been on the bus on that day with me would agree- that she is my HERO of the year 2010!

26/11- THE NUMBERS

2010-11-25T22:59:00.008+05:30

Two years ago- this day, I had realized something. I had realized that the term "Terrorism" was not just a term used by politicians almost everyday of their term in or out of office. It is not just a term that could grab you a prize when used appropriately in say- a debate or essay-writing contest in schools. It is not just a term used in lazy chats along with tea and biscuits. It is a term, very real. And its reality is something that you realize only when you feel it. Not read, not talk, not think- but feel it. You feel it- when those Numbers- 200 or 300 on the television screens cease to remain mere numbers. You feel it when you dread the ringing of your phone. You feel it- when you see a family lose a father, or a husband or a brother or an uncle- in a mere moment that you had never thought you would see soon. People are born and are dead each day of the year. But on a few of those days, the birth or the death mean something to you. Not numbers on television screens or the newspapers- but an invisible rope tying up something tight deep down in your mind.

The two years have faded in time. And every now and then, during this time- when media runs out of stories or when celebrities “Tweet” about it, the episode emerges out from its ruins like some ghost of the Christmas Past! And as all the “dutiful” citizens do- we usually tend to stop doing- whatever that is, we do and listen to what the media has got to say. Even though we are all the “all-knowing”, “cynical”, “true-citizens” of this great Nation- we still like to believe that justice prevails sometimes. It’s a real word that means something outside the dictionary too. Even though we are realists, our thoughts, still tend to get influenced by fantasy. We try, earnestly, to be the “unintelligent”. And it is with all these fantasies crowding our thoughts- we pause to live our lives and listen to what the media has got to say. Sometimes- rebut, or denial at times or sometimes it is about how the “sole-captive” enjoys singing old Bollywood numbers! With a secret pride whooping the conquest of intelligence and realism over fable and fantasy- We, the Citizens, go back to our “peaceful lives”.

Two years the candles had burnt with their flames fueled by the souls of the lives gone. And let’s say, twenty years from now- something does happen. Something close enough to “Justice”. But when that happens- this great nation would have lost those citizens who would have cared for this “Justice”! Twenty years from now- from being “Acts of Terror” or “Loss of loved ones”- the invisible knot suffocating us now- would cease to do so. What was felt now- would go back once again to be “Numbers” in the pages of history. Just like Jallianwala Bagh Massacre or Hiroshima/Nagasaki. The children of the future would have to remember these “Numbers”- as they would become answers to questions on the question papers. They would mean nothing. It would feel nothing. It would remain “Numbers”- black symbols on the white pages, its existence not felt though, real.

Is this what we want? Let Lives be valued as lives- not mere numbers. And I shall wait for that to happen. I shall wait...

Older Articles on this: "Home" Calling... , A Reason, to Cry...

THE LONELY FROG

2010-11-15T15:50:00.003+05:30

Amidst the blissful lotus pond
Moon and water shared a bond
There, lay a frog with watery eyes;
In search of a friend from land or skies!

Days and months, he waited in vain,
His heart grew weak and brittle with pain!
"A friend would come"- hoping, he stayed;
And one spring day, his prayer got paid!

Along came a buzzing, a tiny figure in sky,
Landed beside him there, a cute dragon fly!
"Here is my friend", the little frog thought,
And went along there, for its friendship he sought!

"Stay away from me", said the dragon fly,
"For I’d soon end up being a dessert in your pie"!
"No!" said the frog, his eyes filled with tears,
"Say not such words, for in my heart they pierce"!

"Don’t cry Mr. Frog", said the fly, touched,
"For I accept your friendship, and adore it, as much"!
And so, they remained friends, true to their words,
And no more was the frog lonely, from that day onwards!

PS: My attempt at a story poem!

LET THERE BE LIGHT!

2010-11-04T19:14:00.005+05:30

Happy Diwali people!

See you soon with my next post.. Until then...

PS: Doodles done on MS-Paint

WHAT THEY CALL- “THE PASSING CLOUD”…

2010-10-18T12:45:00.000+05:30

It is something that the elders in the house call- "passing cloud". There are so many things that mean so much more to us and so less to them. No complaints. This is not going to be about the generation gap and the little tantrums. It was the festivities around that made me open up my MS- Word this morning. Festivities- the first thing that comes to my mind- is slow background humming number by Lata- The Mangeshkar, mother holding the ‘Arthi ki Thali’, ‘Me watching’, sour faced, and someone says to me- ‘Why so serious’? Ok. I got carried away.

Yesterday- the Vijayadasami day- was just another day in a 365 day calendar. I work up late. I brushed my teeth late. Just a usual holiday business! The one good thing perhaps was- I put a nice big Thika on our cat- Thuppaandi (doesn’t mean anything. Mom named him. Thought it was a nice and funny name). He was quizzical about the entire ordeal- couldn’t understand why the entire ‘family tree’ was surrounded around him and laughing! The surprise and innocence in him- made it funnier!

But the Yesterday made me think. I am beginning to think that this line is such a cliché! In the past 4 years since I began blogging, I might have used this "made me think" line on countless occasions. Sometimes I "think" that all this "thinking" has left me with so much more to "think"- that the entire "thinking" in the process had ultimately yielded nothing worthwhile! All the philosophies and principles I had formulated inside my mind- had stayed there safe and sound- untouched by the practical world! Thanks to the "thinking".

Well, once again- the Yesterday made me think. As a young girl- I had always been enthusiastic about buying new dresses or celebrating something! But out of the blue- there is this new me- who has not only stopped thinking about the festivities- but there is something else- a strange dark evil force- stopping me to be happy about going out and shop, celebrate etc. A holiday- these days- mean just another day when I can stretch myself and do nothing!

With Diwali around the corner- I am seriously thinking about a ‘make-over’!

ACCIDENT

2010-10-15T13:08:00.001+05:30

55 Fiction

He should not have spoken to her that way. He was sorry. He knew he was doing the right thing now.

Waiting for the Gynecologist, Dr. Sheila- he thought about the first moment they met. Everything had been so perfect. But now- this accident!

“Mr. Sharma”?
“Yes”
“Abortion? Patient”?
“Yes. Leela…”
“Mrs. Leela Patnaik”?

NEWS ON THE MOVE?

2010-09-30T14:26:00.003+05:30

Today- 30th Sep, Chennai, Tamil Nadu: The news channels hyping up the Ayodhya Verdict to a fairly predictable effect. Certain organizations have closed down their office premises. A good thing- on the whole. While a certain poor, unlucky souls, such as yours truly, are still inside the office building, trying to predict if the office would be closed soon or not. The time is 2:00 PM- and the big people here have no intention to stop working. May be they have decided that there is not going to be much hue and cry, after all? Personally- I think all this anxiety in me is due to the news channels. One Burkha Dutt can make your pulse rate reach the sky! Imagine what a prize this is! A verdict after ages! Now this is just me- post my "news-reading" phase!

I used to think that the verdict was never going to come out. Not before the Common wealth Games at least. The game has had enough trouble so far- and the government does not need another communal riot- especially in the face of the Games! I can imagine how that would be! An end to all that "Athithi Devo Bhavah" campaign of our tourism department! That’s again me- post my "news-reading" phase! I wonder why we read news!? Don’t we have enough trouble already getting on with our own lives? Besides- there is nothing good there- happening in the news channels. It’s all a "Peepli [LIVE]" over there- a media that loves disaster! And to think things like "Commonwealth Games" just land in their lap! Amongst all this shrieks about "uncovering" corruption- a small bit of news did make me happy. Mary Kom- 5 time world champion boxer, returning home after her 5th victory!

The time is 2:11 PM and still no announcements about letting us go. Well my office and I have this in common. Neither of us thinks that anything was going to happen! Besides- c’mon! This is just High Court judgment! Whichever party loses- is sure to appeal! Big deal! Now that would take another, what- 50 years?

Thinking about this- leads me to another thought! Will my kids know who Rama is? Will they know Babar? Most of my friends have no clue whatsoever about Ramayana or the Mahabharata! Most people- friends I have known- take fancy in saying that they are atheists. To think that this is an issue that has been going since the 1800s!

Well I don’t have any view about the whole issue. I, like the media here- am awaiting the verdict. I also believe that this verdict could change a few things. Change many things. Like letting us off work? Nah! 2:20 PM… Now that’s not going to happen is it?

SAILING NOWHERE

2010-09-27T14:30:00.004+05:30

The sea was wide- so blue and cold

I needed to land before- I grew old

Not a pint of anything was still sold

Neither rocks so bright, nor the shining gold.

Birds filled the sky-and fishes, the sea

There was no land- to where I can flee

In the winking waters- I felt its glee

Show me a land where- I can be free

Such a weary travel- To where, I knew not

All was litter- What I'd now got

Oh! Please tell me sea! Is this what I sought?

Such a tiresome battle- But for what was it fought?

The sea was wide-so blue and cold

I needed to land before I grew old

I might never land, may never be bold,

It's now just a life here- With rocks and gold...

CUP-CAKES AND BRONZE BELLS

2010-08-31T18:48:00.003+05:30

There is a certain shop- a certain cake shop. The best one I have ever been to. Of all the varieties of cakes in there- there was a time when I would only want to have cup-cakes. I never liked anything else. It’s not the same anymore.

Sugar- is something that I prefer not to have. I don’t like the sweetness in it. Dolls- I like the ones that actually do something. Not just be. I have always hated the Barbies! I love the monkey dolls that have clangs in their hands- and would clap their hands once you key them.

Noise, crowd, maniac laughter, boredom, sunny afternoons- there are just too many things that I do not like.

Sometimes- all that you seem to need is silence. Sometimes- even Rahman’s tunes fail to bring your smile back. Sometimes- the tinkling of a tiny little bronze bell is all it takes to inspire you. Sometimes- there is just so much around, yet you only seem to need a little piece of woolen thread to make you happy.

I have always had weird needs. I found joy in playing with the “aluminium balance”- the ones used by vegetable vendors!

“Lighter Side” has given me joy. It has made me smile. It has helped me be me. It has designed my life.

This is one of the very few things- that makes me happy. And it has been a part of me- my life since 2006, it completes 4 years this year. I have never had blog anniversaries. It never occurred to me that I must write an anniversary post. But this time- I felt that I must. For not only that this is going to be the fourth anniversary, but this would also be my 100^th post! Strange though it is- 4 years and just 100 posts!

I would like to thank each and every one of the readers who have kept me going all these years! It’s a great feeling to see myself here- where I am. I would like to remember a few of the posts here- that had marked the change in me- the growth in me.

Rajanigandha - This was something that helped me realize that I could write.

Masterji - A story based on a true incident- as narrated to me by my father.

Death of Hate - My first try at abstract writing.

Anonymous- A story- that surprised me. I ended up writing a 5- part series!

The Other end of a Cigarette - My best, till date. Also- my 50^th post.

A little dream called hope - Inspired by true happenings around. This was a white light in a dark room.

The Marble Game- It depressed me.

Diya - A style I had tried for the first time.

Old man under the Tamarind tree - Point of view story.

Goddess of sin - An abstract. A surprise.

There are a lot more to come along. For now, dear blog- a very happy 100 to you!

PEEPLI [LIVE]

2010-08-22T12:42:00.005+05:30

This is not a movie review.

There is Earth. There is life. There is soul. All this makes Peepli [LIVE]- not just a movie but life itself. I felt as though I have steeped into real lives of those people on the screen. As though all that was happening in front of me. None of them in the movie were acting. They were living.

Natha and Buddhiya, two brothers, who are about to loose their land- happen to hear about a scheme that pays compensation of Rs 1 Lakh to the family of farmers who commit suicide. Budhdhiya and Natha discuss and Budhdhiya plants into Natha the idea of committing suicide so that his wife and children can benefit by the money!

It is a serious theme. Very serious. But the plot had been handled in such a hilarious manner- Kudos to Anusha Rizvi, the director and the team of Peepli [LIVE]!

“Coming back after the break- Shilpa Shetty confirms that she did not have an affair with Prince William”!

Says a news bulletin report in the movie- that makes us feel- Is THIS the kind of news that we watch all day long? A female news reader- who does a perfect Barkha Dutt, says to her superior- “You know all these TRPs are fake numbers”! And he replies- “They are real for our sponsors”! This is what the news industry is built on. The scoop. The hype. And news? Sadly no. A competitor channel meanwhile gets another scoop- “Saif Ali Khan kisses a classmate in his 8^th standard and the girl is still madly in love with him”! India Shining- really!

A local reporter- Rakesh, who accidentally comes across Natha’s suicide plans, publishes the news in the local news paper- and there begins the whole drama!

News reporters flock into the quiet Peepli like hungry jackals, in search of story- pandemonium!

As the quiet and timid Natha slowly moves around the house the camera follows him all the time- we see reporters inside his house- everywhere. A reporter says- “As you can see, we are standing RIGHT inside Nathaji’s house, and we can see here his clothes hanging…”! Is THIS the kind of news we watch all day long?

Natha, his brother Budhdhiya, his wife, his kids, his mother- they are all real some ones, who make news each day on TV- yet they are just nobodies! We see there- how a story evolves through the journalists- out of scratch and the real characters of the story are just silent spectators of the entire drama happening around- the characters who have nothing to say, while the narrators never shut up!

A politics that is real. Minister who relies on P.A s for schemes that can make Natha take back his decision- and P.A s who are- bureaucrats. I was so reminded of BBC’s “Yes Minister”! Couldn’t help laughing! When the opposition gets the clue- they land there with a huge garland for Natha and a colour TV. A scene shows Natha’s irritated wife complaining about TV and other “gifts” occupying space unnecessarily in the house.

Journalists who can stoop down to any levels. Politicians who want to make issues out of non issues and play cheap politics. People- blinded by the media glitz and glamour go out on candle light marches with banners reading “Brave Natha”! This is what is making news!

Budhdhiya as Natha’s brother is remarkable. Natha’s irritated wife! I especially loved the scene where she beats Natha and Budhdhiya black and blue and chucks them out of the house and locks the door- when she finds out that they have lost the land! Natha’s mother- too sick to even get out of her bed- but never leaves the opportunity to emphasize that she’s a mother-in-law!

There were no actors. There were just people.

Sarcastic, dark comedy that makes you laugh at what you have been taking seriously for so long! It’s truth. It’s life.

THE ETERNAL BELIEVER

2010-08-14T18:37:00.004+05:30

Vasco cat stretched himself- in and out. Lazy cat! Doesn’t give a damn for anyone. He behaves as though he owns the place! My mother tried driving him away with a stick. He caught hold of the stick with his two front paws and started chewing it! Seeing that my mother’s expressions had softened, he rolled on the floor, mewing like a cute little movie-cat, scratching the nothings! I like cats. But I felt that- he needed to be restricted. Can’t blame my parents! They brought me up the same way as Vasco!

I switched on my laptop, today- and I was thinking of what was the great way to waste the today? I clicked on the “Indian” movie! What great dialogues by Sujatha! Pity I never read his works when he was alive! The movie “Indian” is one of the finest movies made by Shankar. If not for the heroines or the comedy track in the movie- it completely qualifies to be an art movie! I like the modus operandi of the murders “Indian thaaththa” commits in the movie! Amazing performance by Kamal Hassan. So simple but so effective! Manorama is a great actress. One scene- and she makes such a deep impact on you. Watching someone like her perform is an out- of- the- world experience!

Then, I watched “Roja”. But only when I was watching it- I remembered that today was 14^th August and tomorrow the Independence Day!

Everyday had the same sun rising and setting on us. And it’s the same life- that dawns and wanes. I remember an old Tamil lyrics that reads along the line- “The sky is my Bodhi Tree- that teaches me a new lesson each day of my life”. It is a beautiful lyrics. But I wonder what the sky teaches me? Does it teach me not to ask questions? Does it teach me to do my duty as a respectable citizen of this nation? Does it teach me to bind myself to the society- chain myself to the system and be a silent spectator of anything and everything that happens around me?

The other day- I was returning from somewhere by shared auto. There was a limping woman, who was begging- as we were waiting for the lights to turn green. A man in a car got angry as she kept banging the glass window of his car and shouted at her. She left the signal- mumbling away all her anger- her limp was gone!

A country known for its hospitality! We are taught “Athithi devo bhavah”- when we are yet to learn to talk or walk,, by our grand parents or parents. And in the recent times, our Government too is trying to help us remember these lessons. And we do remember our lessons. We’d never forget them- would we? We have organizations like “Human Rights commission” to help sustain this valuable lesson. We are the kind-hearted masses- the largest Democracy, that believes that people change- if you give them a chance to change! We elect leaders who have criminal records- not once, not twice but many times- hoping that our belief in them would change them! Even if we are not in sync with our political leader- we simply refrain from voting. The Gandhigiri way of showing our protests. We believe in our justice system so much- that no matter how long it takes- 1 year, 2 years- 20 years, 33 years- we would wait. For we do not have any law that limits the duration of a trial! We- the dormant Democracy. The eternal believers. The kind- hearted hosts.

Vasco cat needs someone who can teach him some discipline. And to sustain discipline- one must sustain the fear of punishment. An iron rod- to stop him liking to chew the soft wooden stick. He needs to realize that the doors beyond the veranda is out-of-bounds for him. He needs to realize that he can remain a cute- movie cat, only as long as he remains outside the doors. None of his mischief would be tolerated the next time he commits it. We must stop being kind to him- though it would pain us- and help him realize that he doesn’t appear so cute when he makes mistakes. It’s in our hands to help keep our home clean. For if not now- one fine day- we would realize that there are more litters than us in our very home!

It’s time to pray again. Born the way we are born- we are believers by birth. And with that belief- that the sun sets each day and rises the next day- the belief that has clutched the core of our hearts for so long- I repeat the words of Gurudev- once more, in a prayer-

“WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high

Where knowledge is free

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments

By narrow domestic walls

Where words come out from the depth of truth

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way

Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit

Where the mind is led forward by thee

Into ever-widening thought and action

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake”...

PAPER PLANE

2010-08-11T20:33:00.012+05:30

There are questions all around! All they say is seek out the answers. There was a world- some time back- may be, a long time back- there were no questions! There were no answers either. There was life- just there- waiting for us to experience it, live it! May be that was all dream! But aren’t dreams the lessons that the other world taught us? So many years, or perhaps, so many lives have gone past us! May be it is now the right time, to revise the lessons lost!

A dragon-fly that seemed as though it did not fly on it own, but the breeze was making it move. It was such fun to feel it flutter in your hand! But why is the thought bringing a tear in those eyes, that once shone with joy! What is making us think- it is not right? Is it the questions? Or the answers? It’s something beyond questions or answers! Colours were magic! You never ever got tired of them! Whatever they may be- but it was something that was far more beautiful than anything you had ever seen before! Where is the magic now? Why is that that there are only a few of them now? Questions and Questions again!

Have you seen a paper plane?
Have you seen it soar up in the sky- just anywhere?

I have. I used to think that I could make it anytime- out of a piece of paper- and board on it and just go anywhere! I used to watch movies where pigeons and swans carried messages of love to places far and unknown! My paper plane was just the same! It would take me to planets I read about! I could try playing around the Saturn’s rings! Or perhaps, I could measure even the Jupiter! I could go to school on it! How that would envy my friends around!

Have you felt it too? Ever?
Where was that life lost?
Where was that world? It could not be here- but then where?

Questions.

Answers you’d seek- and they say- they lie within! But so are the questions! People around feel so happy and proud of you all the time- to see that you’ve grown up! Being “responsible”! And yet- you keep asking yourself- “Am I”? And you keep saying to yourself- “Someday I wish to go away from everything, for a while”! That is where, the world is lost. The moment, when you dreams cease to remain dreams and become logical! They become your future! “You make your future”, I hear them cry! Sure you do! But not at the cost of your happiness! Not at the cost of your dreams!

There is a hope- that stays alive. That someday we would learn to dream again. Someday- the dreams would cease to remain logical! Some day the sun would wake me up with a smile and the moon would sing me a lullaby! There would be white and blue balloons all around me- and I would help them fly away!

Stop questioning for a while! Stop answering for sometime! There is life awaiting to be lived! There is a world awaiting to be revived! Awaiting to dream about! There is always a paper plane, waiting out there- for you to board on- and fly away…