Synopsis of New post 9/11 Thriller

Undressing of Emperors

2011-08-30T02:55:00.001+05:45

It is a new age typical Indian revolution with out a shot being fired, with out streetlights, fiery war cries and wide spread bloodshed, The misty eyed devotees of age old class wars and conflicts can only make plethora of eloquent snide remarks and blissfully go back to their perpetual day dreaming of illusive bloody revolution.

Why cant people be celebrators of this much delayed focus of corruption? The Jan LokPal Bill or any other bill will not completely eradicate the corruption but would certainly diminish it to some extent.
But why even that possible dream is deemed to be so pathologically unacceptable, unpractical and unrealistic?
Further is indeed amazing that it is being presumed that this agitation does not have grass root support. How such a support is ought be judged and accepted? Perhaps only when the old age cast iron dysfunctional narrative is repeated in lackadaisical manner with out the kind of passion seen across the whole spectrum of people, cutting through demography of caste, creed, region, religion and economic strata.

The pained cynics and angry critics might say any thing, but the current celebratory turmoil will eventually lead to better democracy and lesser corruption.

Look at the political compulsion and naked realities of shameless bartering of support .in age of commercialized coalition politics.

There have been no easy solutions and all the imperfections you have so dramatically and eloquently detailed will not go at once, only because a new anti corruption law has been passed. The real world will still be teeming with hordes of rapists, thieves, looters, criminals, swindlers and other dishonest human beings.

As if the people at bottom of pyramid, eking a livelihood at twenty rupees a day will not be benefited in some way if the fat monster of corruption will become less monstrous?

It must be pertinent to remind that this monster of corruption was seeded and took birth under the nurturing patronage of lofty Socialist Ideals and related practices of license permit raj of yesteryear's..
The willy rulers have finely honed faculties to smell the impending doom, or else they would have never given the space, as they did. Not that they did no try to obfuscate and derail the new script of agitation and its actors, by whatever they had at their power fueled demonic command of legislative privileges.

The angst ridden ridiculing of the hated middle class and their powerful internet enabled tools of communication and utter hatred for televised events tells only the part of fractured and twisted narrative. That noble job is done by harping on and pandering to the total rejection of unfolding events along with the ideals of ancient tribal mistrust and distrust of the wider freedom.

Understandably Andre Beteille still neck deep in pits of caste conflicts, treats India as an utterly fragile nation, which can not bear the agitation against corruption.
Perhaps he has not experienced corruption and hence , does not care to even acknowledge that it originates from the monumental governmental apathy and faulty governance.

Being member of holy National Advisory Council along with his own ideological obsessions, he can only lampoon and deride the anti corruption agitation.

Diva of Factoids Arundhati Roy: Kashmir and Beyond

2011-08-08T12:49:00.000+05:45

It is true, that a democratic country must not silence it writer, but the writers and artists also have a huge responsibility to tell the truth with balance and not dramatize selectively for personal benefits alone. The news that sedation cases may be slapped and the possibility of Arundhati Roy arrest spread, the world got ready to see, If a democratic India is about to do a communist China on her.

But she and her supporters were left deeply disappointed by the benign decision of a neo Nazi Indian state. She remained free to continue her repertory of the Marxist theater of an absurd, out dated script teeming with half-truths and twisted beliefs.

Can Roy explain how a neo Nazi, suppressive police state and a fake democracy can install women in four top positions; the President of India, the Speaker of the Indian Parliament, the UPA chair person, and the Leader of Opposition, along with the Prime Minister from the minority Sikh community?

Further how can an allegedly obscurantist Hindu state catapult two Muslims, a Dalit and a Sikh to occupy the chair of the President of India?

Will the gays and lesbians be given freedom by law to be what they are, in primarily an allegedly regressive society? The long awaited reform was easily done against feeble opposition from not only from Hindu hardliner fringe but Muslims and Christians as well.

It is ironic; when half the globe away in Cuba, the ailing revolutionary war horse Fidel Castro has belatedly accepted that the communism has failed to help poor, still the unconcerned Indian foot soldiers of the blood soaked ideology and misty eyed supporters like Roy, continues to mislead the poor and tribal on path of violence and destruction.

Arundhati is also known so far as a “one- book wonder” that has drifted to controversial issues. Her education and training as an architect, forays in films and later as an aerobic trainer, hardly prepared her to understand and articulate complex telescoping issues of national and international politics, economics, social development and related myriad matters. Her oversimplified vision of black and white world of wrong and right is a pointer to a total lack of disregards and understanding of complex developmental processes and conflict resolutions in such dicey endeavors.

She has been described as a Champagne Socialist, who loves flirting with controversial issues to enhance her market value to primarily the western media.

Those who decry about stifling voice of a writer must know that it’s not her book, which is under attack or has been banned. She is freely moving in India and abroad; sharing what ever are her views on India. She has acquired a role of a political activist with rabid leftist leanings, which is her right too. But her statements would naturally go under robust microscopic scrutiny. The old religiously fanatic friends of the cause have been in fore front to protest against an obscure cartoon or a book and force ban by indulging in violence and destruction.

Should a political activist who has written a best seller be given more freedom than those who have not?

Her accusations of suppression of writers in India are part of another blatant attempt to enforce falsehood and half truth, as far as Roy herself is concerned. Her supporters can gleefully quote MF Hussein episode and the recent Rohington Mistry case, which are part of Indian story too. Both events are representing actions of regressive fringe elements in the melting pot of India. But Hussein and Mistry never don the mantle of political activism and neither had they tried to piggyback on their fame to make disjointed statements and complicate delicate social and political issues.

A best seller is a cleverly marketed product, an out come of convergence of various talents, tools and opportunities. Roy writes devastating prose while telling a story, which got her a booker prize. The booker prize does not bestow on her self any more knowledge and enlightenment than she has. But that prize does set her apart from other political activists in India, who are unknown to the world at large. Having a keen eye for the hated market, she had been very quick to identify a vacant lucrative slot and got her self entrenched to manifest the balance sought to counter the emerging positive Indian story.

The important point is that Roy herself is a product of the market, the very corporate, she hates, derides and lampoons on 24x7 basis. The accentuated attention and space given to her by corporate controlled media, negates the rabid criticism of the entity, which has created and still feeds her.

Interestingly the negligible growth rate during socialist era was termed as Hindu rate of growth by economists, who believed the blissfully contended nature of Hindus was the real reason of their lack of economic initiative.

Her dreamy obsessive love with era of stagnant socialism and anger with India opening up to the world market tells own story of strongly unjustified fixations with small economy of class conflicts, low incomes and multitude of shortages.

But that did not stop her from going ahead to get her book published by international publishing house, a part of expanding predatory body of corporate. Her fake pulsating hate for the word “corporate” manifests the inbuilt strategy to reject modern business models, even while enjoying the accrued benefits. Or perhaps more likely wish to swim along with rabid anti market, self loathing angst of western intellectuals like Noam Chomsky, her ideal.

It would be interesting to see if she has guts to withstand a scrutiny of her ideals and beliefs by likes of Shashi Tharoor and Gurucharan Das in a televised discussion. So far she has been treated with kid gloves by the interviewers who never put counter questions, and let her babble. The interview by Karan Thapar was too soft for unexplained reasons, but her vulnerabilities were apparent.

What Arundhati Roy said about Kashmir, with out bating an eye lid would be difficult for any one knowing the back ground even in cursory detail.

But she has never cared for details to show responsibility and opined that “Kashmir was never a part of India.”

She spoke about justice for the people of Kashmir who live under one of the most brutal military occupations in the world; for Kashmiri Pandits who live out the tragedy of having been driven out of their homeland; for Dalit soldiers killed in Kashmir whose graves she visited on garbage heaps in their villages in Cuddalore; for the Indian poor who pay the price of this occupation in material ways and who are now learning to live in the terror of what is becoming a police state.

True to her style, Roy failed to accept that the ethic cleansing of Pundits from Kashmir has been done as per designs of fanatic shade of Islam exported, aided by Pakistan Army/ISI along with other terror outfits. Roy points accusing finger at Indians largely developmental as well as strategic role in Afghanistan but never believes Pakistani role in creating trouble and mayhem in India.

She defines and delineates Pakistan as a poor country being ravaged by capitalist west where as India is neo Nazi Hindu police state, suppressing poor and minorities at behest of market forces, along with perpetuating conflicts all around. It does not matter to her that Pakistan is a theocratic Islamic state busy prosecuting and killing minorities and liberal sects with in Muslims and bombing their mosques on weekly basis.

She further tries to establish extraordinary exploitative collaborations between Hindu hardliners and market forces by coincident of liberalization and rise of militant Hindutva in late eighties.

Simply put in comparison to these two hated regressive entities; the Jihadists and the Maoist are the real forces of future, the acceptable, true harbinger of just and equal society.

Now, let us try to go over the defining past events to judge the validity and fairness of her recent uttering along with her world view and vision or lack of it.

In August 1947, like other princely states, Kashmir also had the choice to accede to its preferred dominion - India or Pakistan, taking into account factors such as geographical contiguity and the wishes of their people. The Maharaja delayed his decision, attempting to remain independent.

In their very first major foreign policy decision, the rulers of Pakistan decided to attack and take Kashmir by force. The Pakistani soldiers in the guise of tribal Pathans and mercenaries entered Kashmir on 20th October 1947.

When invaders reached outskirts of Srinagar, the Maharaja had to ask India for help and finally joined India on 26th October 1947.

The agreement which ceded Jammu and Kashmir to India was signed by the Maharaja and Lord Mountbatten of Burma. The Jammu & Kashmir National Conference volunteers worked shoulder-to-shoulder with the Indian Army to drive out the invaders.

Pundit Nehru’s deep faith in effectiveness of UN, forced him to seek help of the international body in no way diluted the facts of Kashmir being part of India. Pakistan never retreated from the forcibly occupied area, the basic precondition of the plebiscite, which could never be held. While article 370 forbids any one to buy property in Kashmir, Pakistan changed the demography of the part under its occupation, rendering possibility of a plebiscite remote.

After 1989 departure of the Russians from Afghanistan, the Pakistan army/ISI decided to push the battle hardened Jihadists in to Kashmir. That led to sharp revival of separatist forces and religious fanaticism.

Till 2001 terrorist groups in Jammu and Kashmir (J&K) have killed more than 30,000 civilians and 6000 defense personnel. The political parties have not been spared either. The National Conference has lost 205 members, Congress 49, Janta Dal 10, BJP 9, CPI (M) 5 and the Awami League 5. More than 350,000 pundits have been rendered homeless, forcing them to live as refugees in their own country. The terrorists have attacked 45 security forces’ establishments in the last year. Between 1990 and 2000, the security forces have recovered 20,365 AK rifles, 8,825 pistols, 959 UMGs, 308 sniper rifles, 615 rocket launchers, 1,687 rocket boosters, 75 LMGs, 757 assorted weapons and 25,000 kg of RDX.

The rulers of Pakistan have never shied away from their gleeful acceptance of providing support to so called Kashmir freedom fighter.

Obviously why the Diva of factoids would care about these facts, before saying what brings her more notoriety based on sensationalism?

In a TV interview, she strongly decried India opening two rusted locks in late eighties, the Indian market and Ayodhya dispute. Her opinions are full of large gaping holes and with out any valid cause and effect analysis. To her the terrorists of religious and ideological variety have valid reasons to attack and kill and there must be no any reaction to these much justified acts of retributions against the old exploitative forces. Her extremely leftist stand along with hobnobbing with religious fanatics points to the inherent lack of Impartiality and quest for solutions, which is too evident to be missed.

According to many observers her provocative statements could only give handle to the hardliners, who are never part of any solutions in trouble ridden developing societies, grappling with many serious issues.

Fanatics of every variety have no other options but to strike at the prevailing imperfections, dramatize the effects by sensationalism, to build their cases of radical solutions. In case of India, the overriding strengths are never mentioned but they are severely lampooned by quoting suitable instances to accentuate the dramatized weaknesses only. Fanatics and their misty eyed supporter love to extend the real and imaginary conflicts between the have and have not.

The forests having mineral riches in parts of India have come to fall under control of Maoists, still having strong beliefs in Marxists ideology. The tales of grave suppression and intimidation by the ultras do not bother the misty eyed Champagne drinking, hard partying, Maoist supporters based in metros, dishing out apologies and justifications.

The Maoists have targeted school teachers and doctors by killings and intimidation for much needed isolation. Nearly half of teachers and doctors have preferred to be away from serving in inhospitable terrain, leaving thousands of school going children and those who need medical attentions to go with out the much needed services.

With in the mineral rich jungles forming the red corridor, the Maoists indulge in most brutal oppression and sexual exploitations of females with in their ranks and elsewhere. The violent raids on villages to punish government informer by acts of grave intimidation, rapes, summary trial and executions by kangaroo courts have never been criticized by the Maoists supporters.

Taliban employ same tactics of violence and intimidation by blowing up schools and repression of women in their area of influence too.

While speaking at the Karachi press club, Roy decided to dwell on the mere facial beauty of a Kalashnikov toting young Taliban soldier. She deliberately avoided to comment on the inherent human right violation, brutalization in recruitment and activation of child soldiers by the zealots of the faith. The overriding compulsions and motivations were clear; how rabid leftist supporters can criticize the Islamic fanatics!

Her hate is reserved for only Hindu hardliners, Jews and the west along with capitalism. Like a true Marxists-jihadist supporter, she knows her permanent enemies well enough and does not waver from her focus as each and every imperfection is dramatized to be used as ammunition.

While Roy uses Maoists, Kashmir separatists to periodically make noises, few Sikhs espousing cause of Khalistani separatism are toying with idea of facilitating and use her celebrity status fueled reach to drum up support for their ill conceived cause of a religion based tiny nation. It is sad that for so long a hard working and risk taking community has got itself under spell of insular clerics and others who have no other ideas but to use religion and bad past events to enhance own power and hold on the community.

Militant Sikhs have created hundreds of sites on social networking platforms spewing hate against amorphous Hindu community and are especially targeted against Gandhi - Nehru family. Their pathological hatred for Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi still persists with dangerous portents. The signs look ominous as cash rich foreign based militant Sikhs and their Indian foot soldiers may be giving final touches to some gruesome acts to further their cause and reestablish prominence.

There is great convergence on the views expressed by militant Sikhs and Roy, like her they too believe that India is a neo Nazi Hindu suppressive police state, responsible for every conflict with China, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka.

But it will be some time before the market savvy Roy decides to mouth Sikh angst, as she appears on stage after well separated intervals. Meanwhile she may go through the militant Sikh propaganda material to prepare for the event.

In past, her distasteful expression of terming Maoists as “Gandhians with Guns” was insanely outrageous.

It is the peculiar and reprehensible mindset of some one, who could be so intellectually arrogant, aloof and unaffected enough to justify Mumbai killing of 166 innocent civilians in a gruesome attacks by terrorists from Pakistan, with well known supporting structure and covert state role.

The world is not perfect and neither is India, which has a long way to go before many scourges, conflicts, gender discrimination, biases, opportunities, regional and income imbalances are even out to a better state of harmony.

But the radical solutions supported by likes of Roy have never worked towards better societies any where in the world.

It is 2010 the year when the wizened Fidel Castro has also accepted the futility of communist ideals and violent means.

Cuba is busy dismantling state control and moving towards a market economy by encouraging private enterprises, foreign investments and integration with the connected world.

Earlier, the growing religious fanatics and dwindling ideological hotheads believing in violent means, see the writing on the wall, better it would be.

Sharmaji, Richard Burton and Gandhi

2011-08-08T12:45:00.001+05:45

The bell rang.

I tried to get up, but Mr. Agarwal signaled me to keep sitting and slowly hobbled to open the door.

Sharmaji was visible with a large bouquet, leading to an awkward silence.

“Oh Sharmaji,…what a surprise….please come in…” I could sense a suspicious welcome

“Get well soon, Agarwal saab…and don’t be surprised…its my duty…” Sharmaji bowed and extended the bouquet. I was taken aback; not expecting him to be there so fast, literally following me.

“Oh, thank you..Please have a seat…” Mr. Agarwal hesitatingly took the bouquet and painfully wobbled to the settee. Sharmaji too made the scene surreal by his limping. Holding his beloved lathi, he looked around closely and thoughtfully sat down. For some mysterious reason my presence was completely ignored. The shinning, oiled lathi, extending over his head was held lovingly by both hands, as he keenly inspected Mr. Agarwal and his bandages.

“What happened to your nose?” I was aghast at the crude tone of an insulting inquiry.

“Oh, that bastard rubbed my face against wall...” The host painfully mumbled his shame.

“But good at least your nose is saved...aap ki naak kati to naheen na...” Sharmaji roared with his typical staccato burst of coarse laugh, like a country made gun painfully firing. I saw face of Mr. Agarwal flinching on unexpected crudity, but he kept his cool. He too perhaps dreaded the consequences of the guest sermonizing against his private life.

To me, Sharmaji looked liked a doughty Punjab village headman visiting his troubled subject. The differences were ample too; the dress, headgear and the paraphernalia of a British upper middle class home. His trademark ruffled mane and stubble gave him a menacing aura of an East European Mafioso.

“You must report to the police…don’t be afraid…” He got down to business fast.

“I can’t even move few steps…but thanks to my neighbor Juliana, who drove me to the medical centre..” Mr. Agarwal protested, fearing an immediate visit to the police station.

“Don’t worry, that stupid ape is coming here to record your statement…” Sharmaji started rolling the lathi between bony palms.

“What…who is coming here..?” A confused Mr. Agarwal gave an angular look painfully.

“That racist policeman…I call him an ape.. a langoor…Any problem?” Sharmaji explained and inquired in his deadpan voice.

“Well, what can I say…You know things better…around here…” A wide eyed Mr. Agarwal threw a deep inquiring look at me. But I carefully maintained my stony presence; keeping the suitable noncommittal, fence sitting neutrality of a thick skinned Indian politician during a crucial no confidence vote.

“Good, I called and gave that ape my piece of mind…must be here any moments…don’t be afraid at all, I am with you and so are all other Indians too…” Sharmaji looked at his watch, still ignoring me. I decided to become a piece of furniture to watch the old foes getting close. Sound of a car made Sharmaji get up and limp to the door, signaling Mr. Agarwal to lie down.

“You pretend to in great pain..”

“I don’t have to pretend any thing…the pain is unbearable…” The host protested angrily.

“Good, then try to feel double pain.. And don't worry...and take it easy…it’s his damn duty…the langoor is not doing us any favor…Okay?” The inappropriate use of ‘good’ was stupid and his dubious ignorance of my presence was agitating my mind along with crudities. Mr. Agarwal again looked at me curiously and did as ordered so decisively by his old foe. His mounting discomfiture was visible on being ordered around so coarsely.

“Hello inspector Bartan..” I felt myself craning my neck to fulfill desire to look at the apelike policeman.”

“Hi, it’s Burton...”

“Sounds great but makes no difference to me…” A mocking Sharmaji ridiculed the English objection.

My disappointment was evident; he was the same policeman whose dramatic arrival saved me from thugs. He shook hand with Mr. Agarwal, looked deeply at me and smiled. I got up, shook hand and introduced my self. Richard Burton sat down, swiftly opened his notebook with English efficiency and started questioning. Mr. Agarwal haltingly narrated the incident. I could see that he was following the instructions of Sharmaji who sat close to his apelike foe and let the story unfold.

Feeling unwanted and bored, I decided to make some contribution by preparing tea and moved to the kitchen.

“Oye Gal shun yaar…that’s not right…how and where you met this langoor Bhanda Bartan?”

The familiar accusing baritones made me spin, seething with deep anger. The horrible braggart had been callously ignoring my presence, even forgetting my defining role in softening Mr. Agarwal’s dislike for him! Enough was enough, my revulsion mounted and exploded.

“You are impossibly crude and mad…and where I met this ape? Well, for your info, he just saved me from getting mugged up on the way here…Okay?” My retort was befittingly rebellious and vengeful.

“That’s good…was that a black gang?” Unfazed by my tone and anger, his eyes sparkled.

“What the hell you mean by that’s good…?” I nearly chewed the words to keep the angered voice down. It was close shave to be mugged badly and that is good for this horribly unconcerned idiot!

“That must be a black thug…right?” With out waiting for an answer, he thoughtfully decided the culprit.

“That was a black thug, who tried to rob..Okay? He repeated his assumption.

“What do you mean…and okay to what?” My anger was boiling over, just like the hot tea foaming violently in the pot before me.

“Don’t apply your fhaltu mind…let me handle it…you just act shocked and nod to what I tell him…Okay?” The Mafiosi whispered the order, turned and limped back to the living room. I felt myself under strange stupid feeling of colluding in his unknown sinister plan. I could guess he was up to some thing. When I went back, holding a tray, the questioning of Mr. Agarwal was over.

“Thank you very much…” Richard Burton picked up a cup and smiled. I immediately felt indebted to him and wondered what Sharmaji was up to.

“You folks not doing enough to control crime in this area…mostly by black thugs and junkies..?” Sharmaji picked up a cup. He never cared for any niceties; so expectedly, didn’t thank me, nor smiled and neither even bothered to look up. The receding anger boiled back with vengeance and I was about to pour hot tea on my tormentor.

“These thugs are all kind..Happen to be black… whites and Asians too…” Burton was evasive.

“I know your problem…you don’t like admitting few dirty facts…” Sharmaji leaned on the lathi to convey his anger.

Burton turned thoughtful and sipped tea, almost ignoring the open challenge thrown to him. Now from close I was happy to at last see some resemblance to apelike features. His jaw outline protruded a bit, and that must be the defining reason for Sharmaji to term him an ape.

“Well, it a difficult area…Sir, were boys troubling you?” Burton suddenly turned and addressed me. I felt too happy to be involved in the conversation at last.

“It was a black gang …you folks are doing nothing…” Sharmaji was quick to push me out.

“Well, both white and black..”I interjected but let it tapered off as steely eyes bore in to convey an order aligning with his anti black line.

“They were demanding money…but ran away seeing you approach….” Sharmaji looked at me closely and spoke as if, I had told him about the incident in finer details.

“He is still too shocked and afraid…just look at him…” I felt myself shriveling into suitably panicked posture. The performance must have been good, because it forced Richard Burton to put down his cup and swiftly jotting down detailed belched out by Sharmaji. He gave hazy description of a black boy threatening me with a knife. I wondered about his motivations to accuse blacks of rampant mugging but found myself still groping in dark.

“I find your walking stick very interesting…and intimidating as well!”

“Inspector Bartan, this very stick was used by Mahatma Gandhi!” Sharmaji looked at stick with due reverence and touched his head on it. Mr. Agarwal seemed flabbergasted and painfully turned his neck towards me. I was taken aback at the audacity and looked closely on the freshly emerged historical connection with mounting curiosity. Sharmaji had meanwhile leaned back, closed him eyes, leaving us all hanging and panting for me. But the ape was charged, he edged forward.

“Really, Mr. Sharmaji…but how could you get it....don't tell me you are related to Mr. Gandhi...are you?”

Burton’s eyes bulged and looked deeply fascinated at the object of great historical relevance.

“That is a long story inspector…some other time…and one more thing..” The deep baritone made the ape look up.

“What’s that Mr. Sharmaji..” We all waited coiled in mounting suspense. The shinning lathi kept rolling between the bony palms, as we found ourselves inching to the edge. Sharmaji suddenly opened his eyes and looked at his rival with deep pity.

“Gandhi was never intimidating, inspector..”

The policeman turned serious and stared at his tormentor with admiration.

A bored Mr. Agarwal shifted uncomfortably, looking enquiringly at my shriveled frame. Like a trapped unwilling accomplish some how I was still awaiting for a signal to unlock myself. The ape leaned and tried to touch the lathi with care and a somber face, Sharmaji swung it away.

“I am sorry, you have to wash your hands first..” The apelike face fell a little but nodded understandingly.

“We will have good opportunity to talk about Gandhi a lot, tomorrow...let me tell you more about these black thugs…”

Sharmaji was still focused on issues of black gangs creating a big every day nuisance. He let out a vivid trail of unreported violent incidents; unsavory scum’s roaming freely on streets and mugging people. In no time Richard Burton started to agree with the formidable evidences and valuable first hand information about the mounting menace. Sharmaji would often ask Burton to stop, close his eyes, as if thinking hard and after some time start sharing more. I could see the ape too had same deep traces of racial biases; the British have been accused of quite often. They talked animatedly on the subject like old friends and suddenly Burton got angry.

“I get so fed up and I want to shoot these scum dead right there...but could not...you know the shit laws…”

Sharmaji fell silent judging him closely.

‘Are you sure, you want to do that?”

A charged up Burton repeated his desire loudly.

“Are you serious...better you folks learn it from Punjab police?”

“Yes, you may be right..but sorry Punjab police is too violent…we have a different system…but you know I am really fed up..and one of these days...”His voice trailed off, perhaps belatedly realizing the foolish indiscretion. He got up and shook hands.

“We have invited the press and others to discuss the crimes in area...it will be good if you are there. Sharmaji got up and walked with Burton to the door.

“Okay...well will see and talk to superiors about it.” The ape turned distant again.

“Oh, I though, you are the boss around here?”

The policeman skillfully avoided the mocking question, smiled, shook hands and went out.

“Was this lathi really used by Mahatma Gandhi?” Mr. Agarwal could no longer suppress his mounting curiosity.

“My grand father never told a lie in his whole life….but I do, when ever needed.”Sharmaji gave a broad smile to a confused Mr. Agarwal.

“Get well soon Agarwal saab…come on lets go.” Sharmaji suddenly addressed me, turned and walked out. I found his abrupt escape uncivil and felt bad leaving a troubled Mr. Agarwal alone but was curious about many unexplained things. I let Sharmaji wait for some time and talked to Mr. Agarwal, who was sure about the false claim of the lathi used by Gandhi. I agreed readily with him and took leave with a promise of a visit along with grocery in the evening.

Sharmaji was contentedly humming the theme song from “Mukkadar Ka Sikandar”. I wondered about his change of mood but asked nothing. He screeched to a halt after bypassing my place. It was a curious behavior for him, and I was sure he was on to do some thing important.

“I better ran…you see….got many things to do…and don’t forget to attend the community meeting…you know the place…right….be there on time to see destruction of my enemies and their criminal supporters.”

The community hall was teeming with English, Black, Hispanic Indian, Pakistanis and varied specimens of the greatly mixed neighborhood. The Indian entourage looked formidable in its strength and the sheer variety; the turbaned Sikhs, Punjabi, Gujarati, South Indians, Bengali and others, less distinguishable. The media was in attendance with their paraphernalia. A fat, black spokesman was skillfully harping on the blatant discriminatory attitude of British police, punctuated by cheerful boos and clapping. Richard Burton listened pensively along with two others who were trying hard to look important. One was a thin Pakistani doctor with dark glasses, who had been very short and diplomatic while sharing his experience with police and problems in the area. Obviously Burton was happy and smiled at him repeatedly. Other, an Englishmen, who spoke first, had talked philosophically on great British values of welcoming and respecting the vibrant multi-cultural ethos.

I looked around but Sharmaji was not visible and the seat on dais with his name was vacant. He had asked me to be present on time to witness the exposure and destruction all the horrible plotters and their vile supporters. The old foe and challenger of Sharmaji, Thakkar and his glamorous wife sat in first row. I could feel some silent communication going on with the policeman, or may be my biases were making me see things. The long acrimonious battle between an aggressive Punjabi Sharmaji and astutely calm and scheming Gujarati Thakkar was representative of their distinctive communities. As the speaker concluded with loud clapping, a murmuring commotion broke out. I was sitting some where in the middle and followed every one's amazed look at the back entrance.

I blinked many times to make myself realize, if it was reality or a dream.

A figure resembling Mahatma Gandhi with two girls on sides, stood at the entrance. The trio moved ahead swiftly in the isle towards the stage under continuous glare of flashlights.

It was Sharmaji dressed as Gandhi.

He might have looked different to those who were familiar with diminutive, thin figure of real Mahatma Gandhi. But Sharmaji dressed to perfection in dhoti, his stubble and head shaved, matching spectacles and the trademark Lathi, looked like a healthy and taller version of the real. His audacity to play a limping naked fakir in the biting British cold was admirable.

While everyone was still trying to decipher the drama to react, Sharmaji had reached the podium.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I am Tilak Raj Sharma, the disciple of Mahatma Gandhi.”

The flashlights blazed again accompanied with clapping, cat calls and whistles by his boisterous supporters. A fascinated Richard Burton got up and clapped. Others on the dais followed too, the black spokesman; perhaps a South African was overwhelmed. He promptly decided to bow before the healthy avatar of Gandhi. The reaction of Pakistani doctor was visibly muted but the English philosopher was greatly amused by the unfolding drama of vibrant multi cultural colors. A stunned Thakkar was shaking his head in disbelief but his egalitarian wife seemed lost in the unfolding drama.

“This is my grand father’s walking stick and was used by Mahatma for one whole day during historic dandi salt march. When faced with suppression and discrimination, Mahatma always reacted by peaceful means to make his point and guide the toiling masses of India”

The shinning Lathi was held high for benefit of cameras. After ample exposure, he lowered the historic connection to the revered figure and continued in more somber tone. Every one listened; the nuggets of history and Gandhians wisdom narrated skillfully by Sharmaji.

“Ladies and gentlemen, like my ideal Mahatma Gandhi, I too humbly try to fight the discrimination and suppression through peaceful means by telling only the truth. And now let us all hear the truth about what is happening in our beloved neighborhood. I must make it clear; that I feel no enmity for any one and my actions are solely guided by the concept of common good.”
Sharmaji took the shoulder bag from one girl and silently produced a cassette player and switched it on.

Angry voice of Richard Burton boomed, expressing his deep frustration against the stupid law bound inability to kill the black miscreants. The black speaker turned to look menacingly at the dazed policeman. A dark cloud descended on the face of the English philosopher; feeling devastated as his dream was turning in to a disastrous mess. The Pakistani was trying hard to stay neutral and unaffected by the Gandhi inspired turn of events. But the media was greatly pleased by unexpected windfall of sleaze and high drama.

The cassette player continued to belch the uncomfortable truth with Gandhian detachment.

“That shameful thug Thakkar has laid his wife as bait before that racist policeman Richard Burton to harass and pin the devoted social worker Sharmaji.” An unknown English voice told more explicit truth about the dubious alliance with sinister objectives.

An agitated Thakkar got up made wild gestures angrily and tried hard to stop Sharmaji. His wife covered her face and raced out, frantically followed by salivating cameras and microphones.

Curious Case of Dr. Binayak Sen: Smoke of Mysteries

2011-08-08T12:40:00.001+05:45

A person, apart from what he is and does, is further known for what kind of friends he loves to keeps. While work of Dr. Binayak Sen as a devoted doctor serving poor tribal in a difficult and inhospitable environment is impressive, but his close association with committed Maoists busy waging a bloody war with Indian government does add certain elements of valid concerns. The highly secretive Maoists ideologues are not known to socialize with all and sundry, being so concerned and eager to lift poor out of their miseries as soon as possible. Working with Swiss clock like precision, they abhor wasting precious time, energies with people who don't agree with their agenda or have no ability and will to help them in attaining their lofty objectives.

There are many in India, who have chosen to erroneously compare Dr. Binayak Sen with 19th century French army officer Alfred Dreyfus, who was wrongly convicted of passing on sensitive information to Germans. If these intellectuals and social scientists are so impressed by the Dreyfus affair, than there is a more than thirty years old, Samba Spy Scandal crying for their immediate attention and prompt action. Perhaps they do not know or care that more than 50 young officers of Indian army were wrongly accused, tortured and convicted for being Pakistani spies. Unfortunately, there are no Indian avatars of Emil Zola's, Poincare's, Clemenceau's and Anatole France’s to speak aloud and diligently fight for these destroyed and broken families, for their extreme plight and shame heaped by an insensitive Indian army and top politicians, who never helped them.

But certainly whatever happens at least the highly selective and focused PUCL would not be helping these unfortunate army officers. As their office bearers and world wide net work of learned leftist intellectuals afflicted with dreams of impending revolution along with deep sympathies and unflinching support for “Gandhians with Guns” would not be impressed by plight of mere soldiers, the lackeys of a fake democracy.

On numerous occasions, Peoples Union for Civil Liberties has received valid criticism for its cozy closeness with Maoists. The conviction of Binayak Sen, its boss in Chattisgarh, based on statements made during the trial by more than sixty witnesses had only added to allegations of a deep nexus. But being packed with known Maoists apologists and closet communists, the lofty entity does not care for any bourgeois criticism.

The democracy is continuously vouched and its power is being challenged to save Dr. Sen, who chose to closely hobnob and help a person who has professed his deep disdain for the same democracy and strong beliefs in violent struggle.

To his credit, Dr. Binayak Sen has been able to accumulate an impressive army of very influential friends and supporters, the world over. Right from Nobel laureate Amartya Sen, the redoubtable lover of dictatorships and Marxist hegemony Noam Chomsky, historian Rommila Thapar and the well known, rabid Maoists apologist and supporter Arundhati Roy along with former chief minister of MP, congressman Digvijay Singh-the new mascot and mouthpiece of minority vote bank politics. More than eighty luminaries from various walks of life have strongly advised for his immediate release.

Indian police and various investigation agencies are not known for their professional ethos and practices. They have shown their sheer incompetence repeatedly across length and breath of India. But they are very careful in what they do and hardly touch a well known and influential personality, in spite of his or her crimes, because of real possibility of extreme pressures from all possible corners. More over, state boss of PUCL is not a small fry by any standards and is prone call media honchos and a press conference at drop of a hat. The canny police officers do fear bad press for various internal and external reasons. These over worked and presumably corrupt policemen and their ancient apparatus are no match in playing the clock and dagger game against highly motivated and savvy Maoists ideologues. The lower bureaucracy and some policeman are said to be in hand and glove with ultras, who pay or push them with their deep pockets and intimidation.

But if, some senior policemen or their right wing political bosses were out to implicate Dr. Sen, they have certainly created a huge mess by resorting to classical bumbling acts.Otherwise Indian policemen have also been known to employ very effective means to harass, implicate and even exterminate the hated person, with out even a trace left. The pathetically novice bungling and shoddy investigations of the case, however do not point to any well organized campaign to implicate Dr. Sen. Or, perhaps their nefarious designs were defeated by “democratic tools” of corruption at lower levels, so graphically explained by the doctor himself.

But then, as Ernest Renan had said, the human stupidity is the only thing that gives an idea of the infinite.
According to government figures violence by Maoist rebels in India peaked in 2010, leaving a record 1,169 people dead which started on a bloody push with the massacre of 76 policemen by rebels in the insurgency-riven state of Chhattisgarh. The death toll for year 2009 stood at 591.

It is apparent that the Maoists have not only spurned the offer of peace talks but have also chose to escalate the conflict. Mineral-rich Chhattisgarh remained main theater of Maoist violence during 2010 with 306 murders, including 142 civilians and 164 security men, according to latest figures, published by the state government.

Before dwelling on the well known plight of Dr. Binayak Sen, and world wide clamor for his immediate release, it is important to know about another lead actors in this curious real life drama. Like a suspense thriller, the story is teeming with shadowy actors, sinister intrigues, secrete parlays, jail breaks, armed attacks, dubious traders, bungling policemen, jungle hide outs, guns and stench of death.

Narayan Sanyal, is the well known ideologue of the armed struggle and one of the leaders of Naxalbari movement. He was one of the members of the CPI (Maoist) central committee and chief of its central-eastern regional bureau monitoring the revolutionary affairs in Orissa and Chhattisgarh.He had joined the party while working as a senior bank employee in Siliguri in West Bengal in 1966. Working diligently under late Charu Majumdar, he was instrumental in spreading the tentacles of the party far and wide. Sanyal was jailed for five years after his arrest at Ranchi in 1972 and rejoined the underground cadres, after jumping bail in 1977.

He was alleged to be the lead planner of the Peoples War Group attack on former Chief Minister N. Chandrababu Naidu at Alipiri in Tirupati in 2003. Other audacious revolutionary ventures include the Jehananabad jail break that resulted in liberation of 340 prisoners, including several Maoist activists, during 2005
Sanyal has been reportedly involved in more than twenty serious cases of Maoist-sponsored violence in different eastern States, including the attack on the Police Superintendent’s convoy in Bastar in January 2005. He was also involved in the attack on the police headquarters in Korraput in Orissa in 2004, also described as an able strategist who helped bring about the merger of various Maoist groups since 2000, a hardliner who believes in armed struggle rather than parliamentary democracy. Narayan Sanyal had insisted that the party must operate underground and had differed strongly with veteran leader Kanu Sanyal, who over the years had become disenchanted with the violence resorted to by the Maoists.

In the distance past, Kanu Sanyal had angrily differed with late Charu Mazumdar’s line of swift class annihilation to create a proletarian society. He believed in building mass organization to lead the struggle against the Indian state.
But in a successful coup, a zestful Narayan Sanyal and others made Kanu ineffective, regrouped and launched the next phase of armed class struggle in dense jungles of Dandkaranya

A disheartened, broken and ill Kanu Sanyal, eventually committed suicide on 23rd March 2010.

So here we have the most prominent figure in the Maoist Terrorist movement ,responsible for years of bloodshed and destruction. The Government’s case against Binayak Sen rests on his close links with Sanyal. Curiously most of commentators have blissfully ignored the personality of Narayan Sanyal and his well known role in violent struggle, thousands of deaths, destruction and mayhem unleashed for myopic radical changes in India.
Sen met Narayan Sanyal in jail for 33 times between May 26 and June 30, 2007, allegedly carrying seditious letters and passing them to Piyush Guha.

Piyush Guha is another convicted actor in the drama, is a tendu leave trader from Calcutta. He was supposed to be carrying the letters written by Naryan Sanyal, which were allegedly passed on to him by Dr. Binayak Sen.

According to government assessments the estimated annual income of the Maoists is around a whopping Rs 1,400 crore (Approx 300 Million US Dollars), largely sourced through extortion. Maoists have been targeting the forest produce and mining industry, besides road contractors operating in the area.The Maoist-infested regions of Chhattisgarh are abundant in forest produce like tendu leaves, sal and timber. The ultras force the contractors and the transporters to pay up in return for “protection” of their businesses. The businessmen are left with little choice but to comply with the extortion demands. The state-run companies.do not have to directly deal with Maoists, as the extortion levies are forced on contractors and transporters. Similarly, industries and businesses in Maoist-infested areas have to pay protection” money.

These helpless traders, transporters and businessmen are left with no option but undertake various clandestine assignments for the Maoists.

Its very likely that the tendu trader Piyush Guha was acting as a courier to pass on letters written by Sanyal to other comrades waiting for important instructions and information.

The frugal Maoists, keep the operating expenditure low to fund the central military commission, R&D wing, arms procurement wing, information and publicity wing, state committees spend big money to buy sophisticated Chinese arms.

The market hating ultra are careful enough to spend a good chunk on marketing of the violent cause, public relations and publicity, both through the Internet and in-house publications. One of their publications has a good circulation amongst thousands of cadres and many urban sympathizers. It is very likely that some part of the bounty is shared with their influential supporters and mouthpieces, to fund their wining, dining and wooing of sundry jet hopping, Scotch guzzling, caviar greedy opinion makers in India and abroad.

It is also believed by some commentators, that when Binayak Sen was arrested, the event ended up giving a huge boost to the Maoists. As they strongly advocate violence to achieve their ends, it was a big bottle of oxygen for them, every time the bumbling state committed a grave travesty of justice.
However, It is accepted even by the Maoist apologists that armed movements have only succeeded in autocratic, dictatorial and monarchical states, but never in democracies.

If there is one major reason why communists have failed in contemporary times, it is because they do not know how to function in a democracy. They were successful In Russia, China, Cuba and elsewhere, because the democracy was missing. This observation holds true not just in the case of Maoists , but for all those who advocate violence as a political weapon and their misty eyed, fashionable supporters.

The Maoist movement, which started in late sixties, primarily fed on land disputes, police brutality and corruption. Due to these reasons, it has been strongest in the poorest and most deprived areas of India, many of which are rich in natural resources.

Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, has labeled the insurgency the number one threat to India’s internal security, and repeatedly urged state administrations to speed up pro-poor welfare measures specially in Maoist-hit regions.

The moot question is, was Dr. Binayak Sen, who is presented as, and believed to be a peace loving Gandhian, unaware of what has been going on the jungles in name of revolution? Did he not know about the important role played by Narayan Sanyal during decades of gruesome violence, deaths and destruction?

In an interview, he has softly debunked the notions of Gandhian romanticism and expressed his dormant discomfiture about Baniya origin of Gandhi. His sardonic comments on Indian state, tribal poverty and plight of young prisoners jailed for patty crimes, though true but do betray his leftist leanings.

Interestingly he has commented about the well entrenched corruption in Indian jails as the great leveler and a “democratic tool”, in hands of the helpless inmates to strike back at the heartless state, to live a better life behind high walls of prison. As a strategic lip service for public consumption, Dr, Sen reaffirmed his aversion to violence. But at the same time, did not feel any thing wrong in hobnobbing with one of the most dangerous man responsible of thousands of death and mayhem.

When asked by a journalist, if he now looks back and feels, was it wrong for him to meet Narayan Sanyal?

His swiftly responded by saying, he was only trying to help Sanyal by giving medical advise and legal help.

In a published statement, Dr, Sen, has said, “I submit that my prosecution is malafide; in fact it is a persecution. I am being made an example of by the state government of Chhattisgarh as a warning to others not to expose the patent trampling of human rights taking place in the state. Documents have been fabricated by the police and false witnesses introduced in order to falsely implicate me.”

With in the prisoners hierarchy, Narayan Sanyal is sure to exude and carry an aura of important inmate, may be the most important and dangerous one. Similarly a regular visitor Dr. Sen, involved in taking care of poor tribal, boss of an entity, giving sleepless nights to seats of power, must have been given due respect. Its likely that these two great men were left alone to confabulate regarding, the professed medical and legal issues. Mere exchange of few pieces of paper wouldn't have been a very difficult task, when they met 33 times. As explained by Dr. Sen himself the democratizing corruption and influence makes life easy by providing personal stove to cook delicious and nourishing “Daal” by beleaguered inmates. It has been very clear, that any thing is possible with in portals of Draconian Indian prisons.

Secret written communications of shadowy Maoists are never addressed, nor carry burden of date but are coded. Further, it can be presumed that the careful couriers will exchange their prized wares only in total privacy with no other soul around.

Ilene Sen may be rightly worried about his heart problems, needing immediate medical care, which is allegedly being denied by Raipur jail authorities. She further fears for life of her ailing husband, which is supposed to in danger. Its however highly unlikely that such a high profile inmate can be subjected to such foolish and questionable treatment, in 24x7 glare of media attention.

The weak arms of fake Indian democracy and highly influential civil society has helped him before and surely would provide further assistance to Dr. Sen.

Maverick politician and legal luminary, Ram Jethmalani had secured him a bail in past and he is set to help again with his legendary legal skills. According to the Mr. Jethmalani, the higher court would throw this weak case out with in minutes. It is again an enabling paradox that the feared lawyer belongs to the right wing political party BJP, governing Chattisgarh and alleged to be the real tormentor of Dr. Sen. But Mr. Jethmalani has strongly asserted his right and resolve, to never discuss his professional assignments with the party.

Eventually, Dr. Sen would perhaps emerge stronger from the isolation of imprisonment. He has been and would rejoin the expanding army of luminaries articulating defining weaknesses of Indian polity, governance and the underlying imperfections.

Even after his freedom, few troubling questions would never be answered and remain buried under weight of several contradictions and misty idealism. It will never be known, if Dr. Sen did courier secret communication from Narayan Sanyal, and how many people had died as result of any related action by ultras?

Maoist war is inherently political with deep rooted and complex commercial interests along with large money to fuel it ahead with more bloodshed. Their concern for poor and tribal is fake , as they neither have will , resources and nor any skills to lift poor out of their plight. Some of it flows from brutal intimidation and total disregard for any sort of developmental activity and related job creations. There are also several reports of forces perennially engaged in inflicting deep wounds on India are helping Maoists by funding, supplying sophisticated arms and supposed to be planning joint operations to strike terror in Metros.

Further, it will never be known that In his noble venture of helping poor and Maoists, how much Dr. Sen had been privy to, about the deep secrets and well known violent going on in deep jungles?

Dr, Binayak Sen, with his dreamy eyes and beard resembles an older version of late Che Guevara, also a doctor. Dr. Sen, just have to grow long hairs and put a beret.
But certainly the Indian Doctor does not seem to be so colorful, restless and full throttle, trigger happy revolutionary, as legendary Che was.

Its ironic that the ailing Fidel Castro, the tallest living revolutionary has belatedly confessed, about the abysmal failure of communism to help poor.

But, it will be perhaps, take few more tormenting years and bloodshed, for the Maoists and their misty eyed supporters, to agree with a wizened Castro

Days of Victory and Rage: Egypt Effect and Beyond

2011-08-08T12:33:00.000+05:45

The most iconic visual image of a Chinese protester, still frozen in memory in recent decades: a single unarmed Youngster standing defiantly in front of four tanks, daring them to run him over.

The revolt in Tunisia was sparked by the suicide attempt of an unemployed 26 years old graduate, Mohamed Bouazizi, a road side vendor, who patience snapped after the police took away his cart, the sole means of livelihood. An event which could have gone unnoticed before, aided by technology, ignited the desperate people.
The leaping flames of freedom are now spreading across the region and beyond. Despots and dictators sitting on top of brutal regimes, billions of dollars, bevies of mistresses and fawning courtiers are increasingly getting nervous. But the impatient masses are seized of their new found freedom and dreaming for long desired changes.

People at large are delighted by 24x7 internet access and ability to share reactions to the world at large. With each technological leap forward, barriers fall, dictators’ control lessens, ignorance decreases and people can take ever more informed actions. And that is the real good news for widely desired freedom and openness.
During April 1989, angry students in China converged on Beijing’s vast Tienanmen Square. More than 100,000 assembled to mourn death of a liberal, pro-democracy communist party member Hu Yobang. The demonstrations spread to other cities, turned in to dreaded pro democracy movement and lasted about seven weeks. Communist Party hardliners were divided and worried as the public support grew across the world, for the movement aided by modern technology. Eventually they ordered the Army to clear the square, but Soldiers faced substantial resistance from people.

On the night of 4th of June, 1989, People’s Liberation Army with tanks circled the peaceful demonstrators and opened fire; they had to meet an early morning deadline, to clear the square. Exact numbers were never known, but more than 3000 demonstrators believed to have died, dreaming for democracy. The Chinese government had blocked TV and radio but missed the new communications technology called the fax machine. These machines kept churning out images of repression, bravery and words of support from across the world.

The mighty Berlin wall was eventually pulled down by people in November, 1989, by emotive forces unleashed through the images of satellite television, delivering a final crushing blow to weakened entity of the draconian communist regimes.

The misty eyed bands of die hard communists, across the world, still go through rituals of yearly breast beating by bemoaning the hated fall of their beloved wall by devious capitalistic mechanization, while strongly justifying killing of young counter reactionaries in Tienanmen Square.
Technology has stuck again in North Africa and Middle East, after 22 years of those tumultuous events of 1989.

Youthful emotive forces unleashed by expanding internet and vibrant social media, made a despot in Tunisia flee. With in days, the seismic waves traveled east, by passing 40 years old Col. Gaddafi regime of Libya and in no time the decades old dormant anger in Egypt exploded. The Tahrir Square in Cairo got filled with men and women seized of deep desires to change their lives or even die in their pursuits. Young men and women, students, professors, artists, housewives and kids, Muslims and Copt Christians fought and celebrated together in the large square. They valiantly resisted and suffered violent onslaughts by thugs riding speeding trucks, horses and camels, leaving about 11 dead and many grievously injured.

The Egypt effect, signifying crumbling of a well entrenched despotic empire, has encouraged people in the Middle East and Main land China. Demonstrations have been growing in Algeria, Jordan, Yemen, Morocco, Kuwait and Bahrain. The nervous rulers of Syria have already made some relaxations to placate the people.
The bearded Mullahs heading theocratic regime in Iran have been gleefully watching the events in Cairo with a different perspective-a kind of heady replication of Iranian revolution leading to a theocratic state. For the Iranian opposition, which has been absent on the streets in more than a year, seems to ready to reassert its presence after facing relentless oppressions. Tens of thousands of protesters assembled and clashed with security forces on Tehran’s main boulevards, which were immediately shrouded in clouds of tear gas, leaving one civilian was dead.

Iranian theocratic regime has detained the son of opposition leader Mehdi Karrubi. He was arrested after security forces raided his home. Many members of the Iranian parliament issued death threads against the opposition leaders and former presidential candidates. Some have been wildly chanting “execute Moussavi, Karrubi."
Let us try to dispassionately go over the past and present to conjure up a possible vision of future.

In Egypt, the top commanders, all with strong political ties to age old Mubarak regime, must have decided to break with him for the sake of their own legitimacy. But they still have a vital stake in maintaining the status quo, not just politically, but economically as well. Egyptian authorities have frozen assets of Hosni Mubarak and his family. Some ministers have come under corruption investigation in Egypt, but how far and wide spread these actions would go, is still to be seen.
In a well entrenched crony capitalism alliances forged through decades , Egyptian military officers own shares in just every industry and businesses in the country, from construction to automobiles companies to the cash cow- tourism.

The scenario holds true for most of the countries in the region. This could eventually lead to a serious clash during expected arbitration trying to bring an end to corruption and related trials.

According to some Middle East watchers-"To even think about the investigation of the transgressions of the regime has to take it directly into the military economy, as military leaders have less than zero interest in having an investigation of that."

Egypt is in the early stages of a leadership succession that could possibly swing the country toward greater openness and political competition or even towards the often dreaded consolidated authoritarianism. The military command has proposed extensive constitutional amendments that would shift some powers to the legislative branch and revise rules for presidential and parliamentary elections, but observers are concerned that many of the changes may prove to be cosmetic.

Crises in Iraq, Palestine, and Lebanon have hindered the democracy promotion, yet these developments present a unique opportunity to urge meaningful reform in Egypt, perhaps without endangering stability and key regional relationships. In such a welcome eventuality, the waves of democratic reforms would unfold with diverse out come, elsewhere in the region and beyond.

The major implications of Egypt’s current political climate and presents four key issues: presidential term limits, greater freedom for political parties and movements, independent election oversight, and limiting executive powers.

For a long time in the Arab world, Islamists have assumed the role once played by national liberation movements and the leftist. They are deeply embedded in the social fabric, and are thus able to mobilize considerable influence. Their ideology prescribes a very simple and easily understood solution to the persistent crises of contemporary Arab societies—a return to the fundamentals, or the true spirit of Islam.

Indeed, “Islam is the solution” has been the longtime slogan of Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood and others. Islamists have been able to distill and promote for long, a complex philosophical tradition into simple slogans that have quickly supplanted the Pan-Arabism and socialism that dominated the region until the 1970s. As a result, in most countries in the region; the Islamists represent the only viable opposition forces to existing undemocratic regimes, till now.

Islamic thinkers like Hasan Al Bana and Sayed Qutab of Muslim brotherhood along with Syed Abdul Ala Maddudi of Jammat Islami of Pakistan had laid foundation stone of hereto visible fissile shade of religious fanaticism. Al Azhar University of Cairo too had espoused the similar strains of Islam. The well known Amir of Jihad Abdullah Azzam was an Al Azhar scholar and guru of Osama Bin Laden.

But now, the incorrigible optimists have few good reasons to believe that the Egypt effect has created ripples of unstoppable waves to rewrite the future of democracies and individual freedom in the Middle East. A keen regional analyst has echoed his enthusiastic sentiments, “Each place will interpret the fallout from Egypt in their own way and in their own context.’’

The seismic waves, which had bypassed Libya in January has bounced back with greater force.

Brutal Gaddafi has reacted predictably, by ordering his air force to fire on the foreign inspired “Rats” swarming out on roads. His bald Mafiosi resembling son Saif Gaddafi has threatened to unleash rivers of blood and fight to last bullet. How many people have died there, is still not clear, but death toll seems to be mounting, as unrest spreads widely. Libyan Ministers and diplomats are resigning and distancing themselves from the mad regime. Several opposition groups in exile called for the overthrow of Gaddafi and for a peaceful transition of power in Libya.

But stark differences exist between worldly, commercially integrated Egypt and definably insular Libya. There are no well entrenched bureaucratic and administrative structures in Libya, which has been ruled by groups of armed thugs and tribes loyal to Gaddafi. The isolation and suppression of Libyan people is formidable and unimaginable, according to experts.

Now, as protests are growing widely in Middle East, a key question is if the Chinese communists dread it surfacing again in their own country?

The economic power house of China has stark similarities to Tunisia and Egypt.

First similarity, the Chinese regime is not democratically elected and rules only by brutal force.

Second, the food inflation is soaring. According to official data, food prices soared about 10 percent from the previous year in December 2010 and jumped 12 percent in November 2010. Many economists believe these figures are rigged and inflation is actually much higher.

Third, the growing discontent over low wages had been gradually manifested in a string of migrant worker suicides in Guangdong. The suicides prompted worker strikes, which were resolved after factory owners gave sizable wage concessions.

The 1989 protests were politically motivated. After the uprising was crushed brutally, people consented to the communist rule, all these years because of unfolding economic development.

Now, for the first time in 22 years, university graduates, even from prestigious ones, had trouble finding gainful employment. They are called 'ant tribes'. The vile term loosely lampoons and describes- growing army of educated young Chinese people forced to bear sordid living conditions in Beijing, Shanghai and elsewhere.

The fate of migrant workers remains greatly oppressed, as the soaring food prices during 2010 have affected them brutally.

If, the hereto suppressed “Jasmine” unrest were to rebound and grow lethal in China, later during 2011, it would be predominantly based on economic disparities as opposed to political discontent of 1989.

New Indian Muslim Leaders: Plights and Possibilities

2011-08-08T12:28:00.001+05:45

The Fortress of the Faith, Darul Uloom Deoband, has decided to remove Gulam Mohamad Vastanvi, the controversial rector.

Vastanvi and his supporters have termed the findings of the inquiry committee incomplete along with allegations of internal politics, pressure and interest groups using the opportunity to maintain the their hold over the respected seminary. His supporters are taking legal advice to approach the court as the institute has to comply with the established rules and procedures as per Societies act.

“I have been absolved of two allegations of Modi and Moorti, but they have not investigated who were responsible for the incitements of students and hooliganism.”

When asked about his past controversial comments, he replied by muttering, “No comments please.” He further explained that Draul Uloom is a seminary and there was no possibility of him ushering a new curriculum and modern education.

The controversy has mobilized the community on hereto untouched issue of new approach, like never before, as Vastanvi started getting support of the community at large throughout the country

The moderate leader and an accomplished educationist hailing from Gujarat was appointed in January as Vice Chancellor of Darul Ulooom, Deoband. He immediately found himself in midst of acrid controversies after praising the development underway in Gujarat and its accrued benefits to all including the Muslims. He had also advised Muslims to get on with important issues of education and jobs, rather than living forever under dark shadows of 2002 riots.

One of the primary reasons for Vastanvi's appointment as VC of Darul Uloom, was his ability to get along, as he turned out to be the candidate acceptable to both warring factions. His exemplary track record as an educationist, who might have brought in the fresh air could have been largely an unintended benefit. He has been associated for a decade and been a liberal Donner to Deoband too.

Starting with nothing apart from his zeal and vision from a thatched roof hut with 6 students, he gradually built the huge education infrastructure in 30 years because of his positive approach and hard work, benefiting over 250, 000 students, half of them were provided free education. Unfazed by the controversies, he has gone ahead with his fund raising campaign in west for a new medical college and hospital.

But in highly politically correct, lip service prone India, such achievements and merit have always been immediately scarified for well entrenched political expediencies. If an assessment of response about Vastanvi is made on the basis of online comments made, he has less admirers with in his community, while the appreciation is wide spread amongst the non Muslims.

Echoing the majority views prevailing in the Urdu press, displayed extension of well entrenched biases, some Muslim commentators have even responded with angry criticism of his fund raising in west, and denounced it being an anti Muslim venture. His net supporters have been severally abused and heaped with strings of unprintable names, laced in abrasive religious, caste and racial prejudices.

The critics have lost no time in calling him a pathetic sellout and stooge of BJP, a political party, pursuing right wing Hindu agenda, along with unacceptable behaviour of a Muslim distributing idols of Ram and Krishna in a function. Interestingly, in recent past, even the noted Marxist leader from West Bengal was severely criticized for offering puja and accepting prasad from a Hindu priest, during last parliamentary election.

Boldly combining modern education and ethos with religious teachings, thousands of poor students benefit from scholarships for higher education, under his leadership. Vastanvi has been personally behind construction of about 4500 mosques across India.

His, brainchild Jamia Islamia Ishaatul Uloom plans to double the intake of students in all major courses of management, engineering, teaching, medicine and pharmacy. About 15 institutes being ran in Akkalkua alone are modern campuses of swanky buildings with international look and Internet connections. A 100 Cr (about 23 Million US $) Medical University is coming up in Jalana.

His supporters are convinced that, he is also being punished for displaying a new vision and imparting modern education to the student, an age old anathema to old guards of Indian Muslims Leaders, who abhor changes and love old ways.

Other the other side, even during last January when the controversy exploded, influential old boys' forum of Deoband announced that they would come out in strong opposition of the Shura Council if it decided to press for Vastanvi's resignation.

Deoband has never been free from such fierce inner wrangling, but a new bench mark has been established. During the controversy, dissensions were also hotly debated among the ordinary’ Muslims, unlike in the past, when these issues had remained largely limited to the insular clerics themselves. His appointment and removal is internal matter of Darul UIoom as well as an indicator of how the Indian Muslim community is grappling with the visible change in the leadership.

If we view the related events and discourse in the larger prospective, a welcome shift is indeed visible. The new breed of Indian Muslim leadership is bursting out and trying to redefine, the popular but highly dysfunctional, divisive, age old cast iron narrative built and nurtured on perennial angst, conflicts and pains of past.

If his elevation as rector, a consensual candidate, though part of an on going internal power struggle, was seen as significant development, signalling the belated arrival of new leadership. The eviction showed that the old guards were deft in exploiting the opportunity to revive their hold. Elevation of Vastanvi was also seen as result of an attempt to deftly blunt and gradually remove the six decade hold of Arshad Madani and his family.

Being the first outsider to head the important institution, liberal Vastanvi is also the first non north India, non Sayed and non Shaikh person to head the seminary. Many students, who remained his silent supporters, were hoping that he would some how be revamping the old, uninspiring syllabus and make it more in tune with demands of time.

Many Liberal Muslims intellectuals, have reported to have privately lambasted the well known political mechanization, intrigue, culture of malice and antagonism of Arshad Madani to maintain and regain the hold over the institution; he fancies as his own family heirloom.

The struggle is with in family too, as he is closely related to Arshad Madani. With out naming his relative and rival, Vastanvi has expressed strong views against treating a community asset as own for personal benefits.

The Urdu press has vehemently opposed Vastanvi for the unpardonable, cardinal sin committed by praising the on going development in Gujarat and its accrued benefits to Muslims. The collective print media onslaught is believed to have been engineered by supporters of Arshad Madani.

Few Urdu newspapers who praised Vastanvi are being severely ridiculed for their Qadiyani behavior, and his supporters are termed as Saffron minded moderates.

Veteran journalist M. J. Akbar has called Vastanvi a remarkable person, who has demonstrated ability and skills to address problems of the community.

Ameer Raza Husain, the noted theatre director wanted the freedom of speech be respected and appealed for a reasonable response.

Barbara Metcalf, writer of Deobandism and author of the brilliant A Concise History of India, opined that arrival of Vastanvi on stage signals a ‘breath of fresh air’ to counter the traditional scholars, or the ‘old guard’. She has acknowledged his credentials and skills in addressing what the new generation of Indian Muslims have been saying are their real interests: education, employment and integration into the mainstream.

Anwar Ali, an advocate has expressed his support in followings words on Milli Gazette:

“The importance of ‘difference of opinions’ and ‘principled or constructive opposition’ is something else but dirty and stinking politics based on selfishness and malice is distasteful to every one. The words and sentences too that are used for Vastanvi Saheb are below the level of decency. They are in negation of all canons of civility and ethics. As a lawyer, I would advise Vastanvi Saheb to file a criminal case of contempt against all those people in a civil court. Those leaders and ulama who are collecting wealth from within and outside the country and monopolizing Darul Uloom Deoband do not want to see Molvi Vastanvi as its rector.”

Rehan Ali and his brother Mavi Ali scions of an old zamindar family from Deoband , said they will file a Public Interest Litigation in the Supreme Court against Vastanvi's dismissal and get well known lawyer and activist Prashant Bhushan to contest the case.

Supporters of Vastanvi are becoming hot potatoes for the political parties, who have played minority card and vote bank politics . As a result Mavi was immediately thrown out from Samajvadi Party after he criticized Vastanvi's rival Arshad Madni and reposing faith in the liberal-reformist Gujarat cleric.

But the well known old guards and perennially angry Marxists were quick to mouth age old angst and anger along with total agreement that this MBA-Facebookwala is not the right man to head the respected seminary.

Kamal Farooqi ridiculed the repeated mention and importance given to his MBA degree by the media and found his removal justified.

Marxist Shabnam Hashmi breathed fire and strongly denounced him and his misdeeds

Prof J S Bandukwala, president of the Gujarat People Union for Civil Liberty, welcomed the move. “I am glad that Vastanvi is no longer heading the Darul Uloom”.

Website Bismillahnews has reacted with following words::

“Heartening is the decision by Saudi Arabian Newspapers particularly Arab News and Saudi Gazzate to ignore the News of Vastanvi totally,there was no coverage in major Arab Newspapers.The main business of Vastanvi Inshallah of collecting donations from Muslims countries will also be immensely effected because of his nexus with BJP an anti-Muslim,anti-Madrasa education party. Madrasa’s in India exist with Allahs blessing and Inshallah would continue to flourish,despite the agents of Hunood, Yahood and Nasara trying their best with money power to change the curriculum of these madarasa’s to suit hunood,yahood and Nasara. May the enemies of Madarasa’s, maloon, mardoods, in the name of producing Engineer’s,Doctor’s,MBA’s be cursed by almighty Allah for distorting Quranic teachings and Allahs deen.Ameen.Summa Ameen.”

In recent past the seminary has found itself embroiled in controversies about extension of regressive beliefs and biases along with new emerging threats.

Talaq:

Last year, the seminary has been criticized for turning itself in to a fatwa Factory, promoting the most regressive ideals and thereby ruining countless marriages along with a sense of fear among women. Darul Uloom opined that even if a person has uttered the word ‘talaq’ thrice and his wife couldn’t hear it, the divorce takes place.

Ahmadiyas:

Early this month, Darul Uloom has asked the Saudi Arabian government to ban Ahmadiyas (Qadiyanis) from visiting Makkah and Madinah to perform Haj and Umrah (mini-Haj). The seminary's vice-rector has alleged that many Qadiyanis from India disguise themselves as Muslims, they are misguided and may mislead other Muslims.
Qadiyanis have been declared non-Muslims in countries like Pakistan from times of ZA Bhutto and face severe prosecution, oppression and cyclic massacre .

Tahreek-e-Taliban Hindustan:

There is an email message floating on net from a so-called Tahreek Taliban Hindustan, using the Darul Uloom Deoband insignia, circulating the following message:

“This Country ‘India’ was never a nation of Hindus. It was ruled and governed by Muslims for hundreds of years. And we the students of Tahreek-e-Taliban-Hindusthan, demand that the Muslim majority areas should be and must be ruled according to the Sharia Law. Therefore we pass This verdict from today onwards that all the non-Muslim living in Muslim majority areas should start paying ‘JAZIYAH".You have only three choices: (1) Convert to our great faith ‘Islam” and u will be safe. (2) Or pay the Jaziyah on our terms and conditions and live. (3) Or accept our challenge and fight us on the battle field.”

The seminary has quickly distanced itself and denounced the mischievous email and its lunatic message. The mischief mongers or a radicalized fringe group of Indian Muslims could be behind this attempt to create fear and communal disharmony in India.

According to an article in The Economist, These days Gujarat accounts for 5% of India's population but 16% of its industrial output and 22% of its exports. Its growth has outpaced India's and it wins accolades from business people. A recent comparison of Indian states by McKinsey, a consultancy, waxed lyrical about Gujarat. It might yet play the role of industrial locomotive for the country, as Guangdong province did for China in the 1990s. There is lots of excited talk about exporters switching from China to India. Sanjay Lalbhai, the chairman of Arvind, a textiles maker and clothing retailer based in Ahmadabad, says such a move is "imminent" in his industry.

A new age leader of Indian Muslims, has certainly arrived and sure to make his presence felt and provide the much needed balance during important future discourses or conflicts. He can not be a lone passenger in his torturous journey from obscurity to prominence and there are others with same vision and zeal to address the myriad problems.

Vastanvi has thundered, “I am not some one be taken lightly, as no one can dent my resolve to be truthful and do the right work for the community.”

Having achieved the prominence and firing the imagination, it is yet to be seen, how he conducts himself and guides his swelling vocal and silent followers towards the lofty goals.

My Friend, the Terrorist

2011-05-24T00:10:00.000+05:45

“The big Satan has forgotten 9/11 and needs some thing bigger. Last time it was a great big boom… but soon that will be the thing of past, just wait for few more day. That idiot Sahzad has complicated things… he failed being so clumsy, the bugger could not even get out in time.”

The depth of vehemence conveyed in tone and sense of commitment by Waqar alarmed Tariq. Though it was not the first time he heard such display of deep hatred. May be he was just letting his steam off and would go back to mind his religious activities. His words made Tariq more uneasy than before.
Waqar always dreaming of a fantastic revenge on USA for its despised support to Israel, invasion of Iraq, Afghanistan drone attacks. The list was long with tedious explanations conveying his deep vehemence. Though he felt indebted to Waqar, Tariq avoided him most of times. It was too much listening about crazy terror plots. His troubled wife Praveen was against meeting Waqar. Tariq was unable to refuge meeting his crazy old friend, perhaps for the last time.

“You look nice with out that god damn beard…good you shaved that off.”
“I don’t need that now. Did you hear what I said?”
“Please….no crazy revenge bull shit now…Okay?

“So you don’t want to listen?” Waqar was tipsy and eager to discuss his pet subject further.

“I don’t know what you are talking about?”

“The big Satan deserves few big booms.”

“I don’t like politics and its quite good life here.”

“No, it is lowly dog’s life, serving white blood sucking imperialists and killers.”

“Why did you come here Bhai, if you don’t like it now, go back?”

“Go back to where? They bombed most of my ancestral house in my village… killed many ….I have to take a revenge….its enough and I have developed a good plan…. No one can stop me now?”

“Are you serious?” Tariq had wished it were his usual ranting and nothing more serious.

“Well every one wants to do more in life.”

“But why you think of the crazy bull shit all times.”

“And once again I let some one else become a hero, why not me?”

“Well, I don’t waste time dreaming such crazy stuff and now I am not going to meet you ever again….you are getting mad.”
“You coward, silly, greedy, soft man, only love wads of dollars and decadent life. But ever you thought, those dollars has some ones blood?” Waqar looked with a piercing gaze

“Forget it. We were supposed to relax. Weren’t we?”

“Forget what?” An angry Waqar sat up.

“Nothing brother... Now please don’t shout and spoil the picnic. The ladies and kids are looking. Please stop this non sense. Will you?”

Waqar has always been very authoritative but it was getting too much. Tariq hated his unpredictable vicious attacks and personal insults along with stupid terror plots.

“Shut up! You have no conscience. Why you hide your face when I tell you about the injustices, sacrifices, pain, blood and death? You have been a sissy! Be a brave man and accept the reality. You are an unbeliever, not a man enough, too fond of debauched life.”

“Debauched… me… Are you crazy? You…were debauched and your crazy imagination and fascination with terror doesn’t make you more faithful or pure now.”

“I have changed completely and you have forgotten our religion. I don’t see you any more in the mosque and don’t like it.” He snarled.

“Is it some thing so wrong?’

“Yes it is. I am talking of - revenge, martyrdom; and you are telling me all this bullshit….and its not just fascination…I have been working…and now ready…for the sacrifice and glory”

“You can’t be serious!”

I am very serious and ready for the supreme sacrifice, the martyrdom. What about you?”

Suddenly Waqar sounded calmly serious. A chilled Tariq felt the depth of his belief and was curious to know more about his plans.

“I love my little family and the peaceful life.”

“A true soldier never thinks of these things during a war.” A cold Waqar persisted.

Tariq was shaken to core and silently judging him. Waqar kept looking up and nodding, slowly he began to speak.

“You must think about those unfortunate villagers being bombed. I know you don’t give a damn….but I do…every one can not be expected to offer the supreme sacrifice at once. It takes time.” Waqar’s voice was clear and calm. Just few moments before he was speaking like a drunk with no self-control. Tariq wondered whether he was witnessing subtle acting.

“I am here for job, money, better life and have no interest in the politics…hate your crazy ideas.”

They were sitting crossed legged on a flower printed sheet, at their favorite picnic spot. He could see Praveen and Jahida taking a stroll, watching children play hide and seek behind bushes. Tariq frequently changed posture to ease pressure on his back muscles, to avoid relapse of dreaded painful backache.

“I know you badly need money…don’t you?” Waqar said in low voice, intensely watching his reaction.

“I am sure you are sick and badly need counseling...”

Waqar was silently looking at ladies and children having a good time, laughing, and running after each other.

“I too have family to take care of and a sick mother back home. But I am not greedy and selfish like you. I may be caught some day, betrayed by some rascal. Then what will happen to them?”

“I am worried about you… fail to understand…why are you planning such things…what is the crime of innocent people…who will die…you have money..Take it easy…do some social work…but please stay way from those mad mullahs. ”

Waqar didn’t reply and again looked at blue sky, brooding, slowly nodding, as if listening and agreeing to some divine voice from above. He seemed to have gone to his trance once again. Tariq drank and waited patiently, closed his eyes and thought about Praveen and Adnan, his son. He firmly decided to cool off his relations with Waqar. It would do him no harm or perhaps be a better option, given to his friend’s dangerous obsession and preoccupation with the lunatic revenge plan. He wished it was one of those crazy ranting and Waqar would go back to his life as before.

“I some times wonder who I am today!”

Tariq could feel he was being exposed to some hereto-secrets hidden in recess of his friend’s tormented fertile brain. He listened carelessly as he had always done-betraying no keen interest, which he was indeed developing.

“I am an unknown banker, but who knows me back home? No body.”

“Is it that important to be well known?”

“Yes it is. I want my name remembered by every body.”

“Remembered? What do you mean?”

“I loved football and wanted to be a professional footballer. But my Abba wanted me to be a doctor. He never listened to me and made sure I missed my practice of the day, being locked up with heartless monstrous tutors of various sizes and shapes to mug up physics, chemistry and biology lessons. They would test my memory and hit a ruler on my extended soft palm. I felt humiliated and I wanted to kill those devils and thought of various methods. But could not venture beyond the planning and never gathered courage to execute the plans and prove myself, ….thought it would be different here….but here again I was made to feel small…not good enough by my asshole Jews and Indian bosses…who wanted impossible results …I told them to fuck off...and now…see where is that 150 years old big bank? In the deep stinking shit…”

Waqar took out another beer and resumed his monologue.

“Now I am sure that stage is near and with in my reach. I have some like-minded, focused and resourceful young friends with me. And they are as passionate and willing as I am… I mean…to give a bloody kick in Yankee bums.”

“And you are doing this to make your self well known back home…a hero?

A silent Waqar looked away, turned his face looking at the noisy children, his eyes becoming moist. His daughter Henna raced toward them threw herself at him and started to sob.

“Arre, what happened to my dear little darling?” Waqar wiped his tears and Tariq took his beer to save it from spilling over the child.

“I don’t like Bhai pulling and messing my hairs.” Henna increased her effort to gather tears and started to howl loudly.

“Oh, he is just a small child and does not know any thing.” Waqar made a funny face to pacify her.

“Why don’t you tie his hands?”

She stopped howling and demanded abruptly and then resumed. Her voice was shrill and effortlessly produced streams of tears from her innocent large eyes. She could rain teardrops on drop of a hat to smoother her dotting father to outrageous demands. Henna now seemed proud of running little streams flooding her pink cheeks and delicate neck. Her mother Jahida gave up completely and let Waqar deal with the little girl. She told him to find a boy for Henna, who could put up with such noisy tantrums. She would better be excused of such daunting responsibility.

She would say- we don’t know what troubles she might face in her adult life? What kind of boy would she merry, how would he treat her. Please have mercy, don’t spoil her and think of future. Nobody likes a woman who throws tantrums and behaves unreasonably.

“No need for that. I will tell him to behave.” Waqar put Henna on his lap and promised softly. Tariq could see little tears still sticking to his friend’s eyes.

“He won’t. I hate him.” She resumed her howling and threw legs violently on his chest.

Waqar caught hold of her tiny legs and made a funny face. She stops shrieking.

A flock of birds descended nearby and she sat up, wide eyed.

“Abba, see these birds, I will catch one today.” She forgot her hair-pulling brother, funny-faced father and developed keen interest in the flock and ran after it.

Waqar slowly drew his contorted muscles back in place and returned to his menacing, brooding, lamenting posture. Tariq watched him being transformed from a loving father of a little girl to a fanatic, dreaming of a grand terror strike. Which will deprive many young girls of their funny-faced fathers, loving harassed mother and hair pulling cute little brothers? They perhaps, will never dare to howl again and would seize forever their interest in flock of noisy birds.

They watched as Henna ran after birds.

Waqar had come to America as a student like him and settled down. He was a tall fair man. Lately he has shown greater interest in religious affairs and social work. His once modern home office has slowly acquired religious posters, big stick of incense spewing heady scented coils of smoke. The table and chairs have been removed and a big white covered cushion appeared for cross-legged sitting, the wall providing back support. Tariq avoided sitting crossed leg because of the acute backache. .

He drew closer and spoke in steady low voice.

“Brother, today I want to share some inner thoughts with you. I know you are a damn greedy fallow, but that’s all right with me. You are like my own younger brother. You have to promise me that if some thing happens to me you will take of my family. Repay whatever I have done for you. Money is not a problem; I have enough for their needs. What they might need is guidance and support in difficult times ahead.”

A deeply troubled Tariq listened carefully and cursed himself to meet his old friend gone crazy so completely. Waqar seems to have made a decision, and would carefully set to do the job in a systematic and organized manner. He silently nodded to abide by his friend’s wishes.

Waqar again lapsed in to his brooding posture, looking at sky, listening to some divine voice, nodding his neck and making some decisions, analyzing thoughts.

They were silent for some time before he eventually turned his fierce eyes on him. His voice disclosed a strange finality and conviction, which made Tariq nervous.

“I will try to do the job alone but if the situations demand I might have to take Jahida and Henna with me.”

Tariq froze as he heard his friend disclose the sinister plan.

“One more thing; if my plans are exposed, you take care of them.”

Tariq felt numb and disoriented.

“Don’t worry I won’t be caught alive and sure to take maximum enemies with me.”
“Enemies…who are they…innocents?”
“In a war…that happens often…It happened in Afghanistan…I was there…so I know..”
“You were where…Don’t tell me that…”
“No one knows…it was in late eighties…for about a year…seen all…blasts. Helicopter gun ships mowing down every thing that moved…blasts…blood…death. Collected and buried dismembered bodies…aged…women and small kids…killed many godless soviets…”
A stunned Tariq listened to his friend’s hidden past and present motivation.

“Forget it…it was in past..Long back…”
“I just can’t. It keeps me awake and troubled…fought injustice then and doing same now.”
“Don’t do it…and don’t involve Bhabhi and Henna in this mad stuff?”
“I will try, not to. But if there no other way left, we three will be become martyrs and they too will always be remembered. And I am sure you would do some thing about it and our sacrifices don’t go waste. It must be used to motivate more people.”

“Bhabhi knows about it?”

“No. Not yet.. I won’t tell her ...it’s not needed and I am sure she will agree. ..she will have to... but even if she does not.... she has no other option but to obey me...I would hate to put my little darling Heena in danger...but.... One must be ready to sacrifice the dearest...I hope you know that?” Waqar avoided him and looked away.

“But why are you telling me this… crazy stuff…why..?”

“I just don’t know…really…”

Tariq did not eat. Waqar showed any interest in his favorite delicacies. Jahida was disappointed and asked whether the she cooked well or not. She was not satisfied by answers she got from the men and she could sense the tension in air and curiously kept asking about their serious expressions and silent sparse eating.

“Bhai, I wonder every thing is okay? You guys are so serious today, didn’t even bother to play with kids and show them some thing interesting around?”

“Yes every thing ok. We were just discussing some old friend.” Tariq looked at Waqar and lied.

‘Some one I know?”

“No.” Waqar curtly silenced her innocent curiosity.

Tariq felt bad but was relieved to be spared of further lies and answer questions from a simple Jahida. He was greatly troubled and foxed about being exposed to the horrible terror plan.

A motivated and focused terrorist would never disclose the gory secretes to any one!

Waqar was still lost in his thoughts and avoided his gaze. Jahida tried to initiate conversation with her husband and Tariq. But she had to go back to an aloof Praveen and the noisy children and helped them eat.

Waqar hugged him closely and kissed his forehead.
“Don’t do it...Please...” Tariq whispered.
Waqar avoided looking at him and suddenly broke off; stopped for a moment as if trying to remember some thing and then thoughtfully got in to his car. Tariq waited for car ahead to move and clear his way. The tiny hand of Henna waved them good by and disappeared from their sight. A nudge from his wife broke his frozen composure and turned the key.

“What’s going on?” Praveen enquired.

“Nothing...” Tariq didn’t look at her.

He knew she didn’t believe him. His own voice seemed peculiar, as if it belonged to a complete stranger, beginning to wonder if Waqar’s fanaticism has influenced him in some way. His thoughts went back to howling Henna, throwing her tiny legs and a demure, simple Jahida serving him food.

“Abba ...Henna is going to New York.” His son Adnan spoke with a tinge of jealousy and expectation.

So the mad Waqar has already decided to take them along on his mission of destruction. He has a personal agenda; passing off as stupid jihad and all that crazy mumbo-jumbo. To be famous, is his aim; a star footballer, his father did not allow. Or perhaps lately wanted to make a mark at least as a banker, but failed. Blowing up people is easy; some explosives, a timer and boom. One can make a mark, be famous so easily.

“When will we go to New York?” Adnan was impatient to hear a promise from him.

“Abba will tell you later. Now will you please let him drive?” Praveen come to his rescue.

A crimson sun was setting in the wide horizon and the road seemed as if heading for the mighty fireball. The car ahead appeared to head for it, gradually becoming smaller till it turned in to a tiny dot and then it was gone. Tariq felt dizzy and stopped the car on side and asked for the bottle of water. He stepped out and splashed cold water on his face again and again until he felt better. He looked away from the sun, as deep feeling of helplessness took over.

Praveen looked at him with troubled curiosity. Her face hidden in a scarf she always wore so elegantly. Tariq knew she was worried and would need a proper explanation- always a difficult task.

Adnan laughed and asked Praveen to let him imitate his Abba; he didn’t wait for her approval. He come to him and extended his hand and took bottle and immediately splashed water on his face, drenching his cloths wet.

He was not happy with the result and sheepishly looked at Tariq for help in his venture. Tariq felt secure that his tears were hidden in cold water, invisible to his son, who always thought him to be a brave man: beyond such cowardice. He went to Adnan and knelt down.

“Sorry Abba.”

“It’s alright beta. Let’s go.” He picked him up.

“I will drive.” A pale Praveen has shifted to the driving seat.

Tariq avoided looking at her, but had already made a decision.

Waqar’s face was all over on all the TV channels and news papers. The former banker turn rabid religious preacher was caught few hours before he could detonate bombs in crowded places and running underground trains. About a dozen youngsters were also arrested from different cities with explosives. The police credited the success to their secrete operatives, informers and regular surveillance of suspected terror cells.

Praveen held his and hand and whispered, “Don’t feel bad…it saved so many innocent lives …”

Tariq closed moist eyes and hugged her closer.
“The big Satan has forgotten 9/11 and needs some thing bigger. Last time it was a great big boom… but soon that will be the thing of past, just wait for few more day. That idiot Sahzad has complicated things… he failed being so clumsy, the bugger could not even get out in time.”

The depth of vehemence conveyed in tone and sense of commitment by Waqar alarmed Tariq. Though it was not the first time he heard such display of deep hatred. May be he was just letting his steam off and would go back to mind his religious activities. His words made Tariq more uneasy than before.
Waqar always dreaming of a fantastic revenge on USA for its despised support to Israel, invasion of Iraq, Afghanistan drone attacks. The list was long with tedious explanations conveying his deep vehemence. Though he felt indebted to Waqar, Tariq avoided him most of times. It was too much listening about crazy terror plots. His troubled wife Praveen was against meeting Waqar. Tariq was unable to refuge meeting his crazy old friend, perhaps for the last time.

“You look nice with out that god damn beard…good you shaved that off.”
“I don’t need that now. Did you hear what I said?”
“Please….no crazy revenge bull shit now…Okay?

“So you don’t want to listen?” Waqar was tipsy and eager to discuss his pet subject further.

“I don’t know what you are talking about?”

“The big Satan deserves few big booms.”

“I don’t like politics and its quite good life here.”

“No, it is lowly dog’s life, serving white blood sucking imperialists and killers.”

“Why did you come here Bhai, if you don’t like it now, go back?”

“Go back to where? They bombed most of my ancestral house in my village… killed many ….I have to take a revenge….its enough and I have developed a good plan…. No one can stop me now?”

“Are you serious?” Tariq had wished it were his usual ranting and nothing more serious.

“Well every one wants to do more in life.”

“But why you think of the crazy bull shit all times.”

“And once again I let some one else become a hero, why not me?”

“Well, I don’t waste time dreaming such crazy stuff and now I am not going to meet you ever again….you are getting mad.”
“You coward, silly, greedy, soft man, only love wads of dollars and decadent life. But ever you thought, those dollars has some ones blood?” Waqar looked with a piercing gaze

“Forget it. We were supposed to relax. Weren’t we?”

“Forget what?” An angry Waqar sat up.

“Nothing brother... Now please don’t shout and spoil the picnic. The ladies and kids are looking. Please stop this non sense. Will you?”

Waqar has always been very authoritative but it was getting too much. Tariq hated his unpredictable vicious attacks and personal insults along with stupid terror plots.

“Shut up! You have no conscience. Why you hide your face when I tell you about the injustices, sacrifices, pain, blood and death? You have been a sissy! Be a brave man and accept the reality. You are an unbeliever, not a man enough, too fond of debauched life.”

“Debauched… me… Are you crazy? You…were debauched and your crazy imagination and fascination with terror doesn’t make you more faithful or pure now.”

“I have changed completely and you have forgotten our religion. I don’t see you any more in the mosque and don’t like it.” He snarled.

“Is it some thing so wrong?’

“Yes it is. I am talking of - revenge, martyrdom; and you are telling me all this bullshit….and its not just fascination…I have been working…and now ready…for the sacrifice and glory”

“You can’t be serious!”

I am very serious and ready for the supreme sacrifice, the martyrdom. What about you?”

Suddenly Waqar sounded calmly serious. A chilled Tariq felt the depth of his belief and was curious to know more about his plans.

“I love my little family and the peaceful life.”

“A true soldier never thinks of these things during a war.” A cold Waqar persisted.

Tariq was shaken to core and silently judging him. Waqar kept looking up and nodding, slowly he began to speak.

“You must think about those unfortunate villagers being bombed. I know you don’t give a damn….but I do…every one can not be expected to offer the supreme sacrifice at once. It takes time.” Waqar’s voice was clear and calm. Just few moments before he was speaking like a drunk with no self-control. Tariq wondered whether he was witnessing subtle acting.

“I am here for job, money, better life and have no interest in the politics…hate your crazy ideas.”

They were sitting crossed legged on a flower printed sheet, at their favorite picnic spot. He could see Praveen and Jahida taking a stroll, watching children play hide and seek behind bushes. Tariq frequently changed posture to ease pressure on his back muscles, to avoid relapse of dreaded painful backache.

“I know you badly need money…don’t you?” Waqar said in low voice, intensely watching his reaction.

“I am sure you are sick and badly need counseling...”

Waqar was silently looking at ladies and children having a good time, laughing, and running after each other.

“I too have family to take care of and a sick mother back home. But I am not greedy and selfish like you. I may be caught some day, betrayed by some rascal. Then what will happen to them?”

“I am worried about you… fail to understand…why are you planning such things…what is the crime of innocent people…who will die…you have money..Take it easy…do some social work…but please stay way from those mad mullahs. ”

Waqar didn’t reply and again looked at blue sky, brooding, slowly nodding, as if listening and agreeing to some divine voice from above. He seemed to have gone to his trance once again. Tariq drank and waited patiently, closed his eyes and thought about Praveen and Adnan, his son. He firmly decided to cool off his relations with Waqar. It would do him no harm or perhaps be a better option, given to his friend’s dangerous obsession and preoccupation with the lunatic revenge plan. He wished it was one of those crazy ranting and Waqar would go back to his life as before.

“I some times wonder who I am today!”

Tariq could feel he was being exposed to some hereto-secrets hidden in recess of his friend’s tormented fertile brain. He listened carelessly as he had always done-betraying no keen interest, which he was indeed developing.

“I am an unknown banker, but who knows me back home? No body.”

“Is it that important to be well known?”

“Yes it is. I want my name remembered by every body.”

“Remembered? What do you mean?”

“I loved football and wanted to be a professional footballer. But my Abba wanted me to be a doctor. He never listened to me and made sure I missed my practice of the day, being locked up with heartless monstrous tutors of various sizes and shapes to mug up physics, chemistry and biology lessons. They would test my memory and hit a ruler on my extended soft palm. I felt humiliated and I wanted to kill those devils and thought of various methods. But could not venture beyond the planning and never gathered courage to execute the plans and prove myself, ….thought it would be different here….but here again I was made to feel small…not good enough by my asshole Jews and Indian bosses…who wanted impossible results …I told them to fuck off...and now…see where is that 150 years old big bank? In the deep stinking shit…”

Waqar took out another beer and resumed his monologue.

“Now I am sure that stage is near and with in my reach. I have some like-minded, focused and resourceful young friends with me. And they are as passionate and willing as I am… I mean…to give a bloody kick in Yankee bums.”

“And you are doing this to make your self well known back home…a hero?

A silent Waqar looked away, turned his face looking at the noisy children, his eyes becoming moist. His daughter Henna raced toward them threw herself at him and started to sob.

“Arre, what happened to my dear little darling?” Waqar wiped his tears and Tariq took his beer to save it from spilling over the child.

“I don’t like Bhai pulling and messing my hairs.” Henna increased her effort to gather tears and started to howl loudly.

“Oh, he is just a small child and does not know any thing.” Waqar made a funny face to pacify her.

“Why don’t you tie his hands?”

She stopped howling and demanded abruptly and then resumed. Her voice was shrill and effortlessly produced streams of tears from her innocent large eyes. She could rain teardrops on drop of a hat to smoother her dotting father to outrageous demands. Henna now seemed proud of running little streams flooding her pink cheeks and delicate neck. Her mother Jahida gave up completely and let Waqar deal with the little girl. She told him to find a boy for Henna, who could put up with such noisy tantrums. She would better be excused of such daunting responsibility.

She would say- we don’t know what troubles she might face in her adult life? What kind of boy would she merry, how would he treat her. Please have mercy, don’t spoil her and think of future. Nobody likes a woman who throws tantrums and behaves unreasonably.

“No need for that. I will tell him to behave.” Waqar put Henna on his lap and promised softly. Tariq could see little tears still sticking to his friend’s eyes.

“He won’t. I hate him.” She resumed her howling and threw legs violently on his chest.

Waqar caught hold of her tiny legs and made a funny face. She stops shrieking.

A flock of birds descended nearby and she sat up, wide eyed.

“Abba, see these birds, I will catch one today.” She forgot her hair-pulling brother, funny-faced father and developed keen interest in the flock and ran after it.

Waqar slowly drew his contorted muscles back in place and returned to his menacing, brooding, lamenting posture. Tariq watched him being transformed from a loving father of a little girl to a fanatic, dreaming of a grand terror strike. Which will deprive many young girls of their funny-faced fathers, loving harassed mother and hair pulling cute little brothers? They perhaps, will never dare to howl again and would seize forever their interest in flock of noisy birds.

They watched as Henna ran after birds.

Waqar had come to America as a student like him and settled down. He was a tall fair man. Lately he has shown greater interest in religious affairs and social work. His once modern home office has slowly acquired religious posters, big stick of incense spewing heady scented coils of smoke. The table and chairs have been removed and a big white covered cushion appeared for cross-legged sitting, the wall providing back support. Tariq avoided sitting crossed leg because of the acute backache. .

He drew closer and spoke in steady low voice.

“Brother, today I want to share some inner thoughts with you. I know you are a damn greedy fallow, but that’s all right with me. You are like my own younger brother. You have to promise me that if some thing happens to me you will take of my family. Repay whatever I have done for you. Money is not a problem; I have enough for their needs. What they might need is guidance and support in difficult times ahead.”

A deeply troubled Tariq listened carefully and cursed himself to meet his old friend gone crazy so completely. Waqar seems to have made a decision, and would carefully set to do the job in a systematic and organized manner. He silently nodded to abide by his friend’s wishes.

Waqar again lapsed in to his brooding posture, looking at sky, listening to some divine voice, nodding his neck and making some decisions, analyzing thoughts.

They were silent for some time before he eventually turned his fierce eyes on him. His voice disclosed a strange finality and conviction, which made Tariq nervous.

“I will try to do the job alone but if the situations demand I might have to take Jahida and Henna with me.”

Tariq froze as he heard his friend disclose the sinister plan.

“One more thing; if my plans are exposed, you take care of them.”

Tariq felt numb and disoriented.

“Don’t worry I won’t be caught alive and sure to take maximum enemies with me.”
“Enemies…who are they…innocents?”
“In a war…that happens often…It happened in Afghanistan…I was there…so I know..”
“You were where…Don’t tell me that…”
“No one knows…it was in late eighties…for about a year…seen all…blasts. Helicopter gun ships mowing down every thing that moved…blasts…blood…death. Collected and buried dismembered bodies…aged…women and small kids…killed many godless soviets…”
A stunned Tariq listened to his friend’s hidden past and present motivation.

“Forget it…it was in past..Long back…”
“I just can’t. It keeps me awake and troubled…fought injustice then and doing same now.”
“Don’t do it…and don’t involve Bhabhi and Henna in this mad stuff?”
“I will try, not to. But if there no other way left, we three will be become martyrs and they too will always be remembered. And I am sure you would do some thing about it and our sacrifices don’t go waste. It must be used to motivate more people.”

“Bhabhi knows about it?”

“No. Not yet.. I won’t tell her ...it’s not needed and I am sure she will agree. ..she will have to... but even if she does not.... she has no other option but to obey me...I would hate to put my little darling Heena in danger...but.... One must be ready to sacrifice the dearest...I hope you know that?” Waqar avoided him and looked away.

“But why are you telling me this… crazy stuff…why..?”

“I just don’t know…really…”

Tariq did not eat. Waqar showed any interest in his favorite delicacies. Jahida was disappointed and asked whether the she cooked well or not. She was not satisfied by answers she got from the men and she could sense the tension in air and curiously kept asking about their serious expressions and silent sparse eating.

“Bhai, I wonder every thing is okay? You guys are so serious today, didn’t even bother to play with kids and show them some thing interesting around?”

“Yes every thing ok. We were just discussing some old friend.” Tariq looked at Waqar and lied.

‘Some one I know?”

“No.” Waqar curtly silenced her innocent curiosity.

Tariq felt bad but was relieved to be spared of further lies and answer questions from a simple Jahida. He was greatly troubled and foxed about being exposed to the horrible terror plan.

A motivated and focused terrorist would never disclose the gory secretes to any one!

Waqar was still lost in his thoughts and avoided his gaze. Jahida tried to initiate conversation with her husband and Tariq. But she had to go back to an aloof Praveen and the noisy children and helped them eat.

Waqar hugged him closely and kissed his forehead.
“Don’t do it...Please...” Tariq whispered.
Waqar avoided looking at him and suddenly broke off; stopped for a moment as if trying to remember some thing and then thoughtfully got in to his car. Tariq waited for car ahead to move and clear his way. The tiny hand of Henna waved them good by and disappeared from their sight. A nudge from his wife broke his frozen composure and turned the key.

“What’s going on?” Praveen enquired.

“Nothing...” Tariq didn’t look at her.

He knew she didn’t believe him. His own voice seemed peculiar, as if it belonged to a complete stranger, beginning to wonder if Waqar’s fanaticism has influenced him in some way. His thoughts went back to howling Henna, throwing her tiny legs and a demure, simple Jahida serving him food.

“Abba ...Henna is going to New York.” His son Adnan spoke with a tinge of jealousy and expectation.

So the mad Waqar has already decided to take them along on his mission of destruction. He has a personal agenda; passing off as stupid jihad and all that crazy mumbo-jumbo. To be famous, is his aim; a star footballer, his father did not allow. Or perhaps lately wanted to make a mark at least as a banker, but failed. Blowing up people is easy; some explosives, a timer and boom. One can make a mark, be famous so easily.

“When will we go to New York?” Adnan was impatient to hear a promise from him.

“Abba will tell you later. Now will you please let him drive?” Praveen come to his rescue.

A crimson sun was setting in the wide horizon and the road seemed as if heading for the mighty fireball. The car ahead appeared to head for it, gradually becoming smaller till it turned in to a tiny dot and then it was gone. Tariq felt dizzy and stopped the car on side and asked for the bottle of water. He stepped out and splashed cold water on his face again and again until he felt better. He looked away from the sun, as deep feeling of helplessness took over.

Praveen looked at him with troubled curiosity. Her face hidden in a scarf she always wore so elegantly. Tariq knew she was worried and would need a proper explanation- always a difficult task.

Adnan laughed and asked Praveen to let him imitate his Abba; he didn’t wait for her approval. He come to him and extended his hand and took bottle and immediately splashed water on his face, drenching his cloths wet.

He was not happy with the result and sheepishly looked at Tariq for help in his venture. Tariq felt secure that his tears were hidden in cold water, invisible to his son, who always thought him to be a brave man: beyond such cowardice. He went to Adnan and knelt down.

“Sorry Abba.”

“It’s alright beta. Let’s go.” He picked him up.

“I will drive.” A pale Praveen has shifted to the driving seat.

Tariq avoided looking at her, but had already made a decision.

Waqar’s face was all over on all the TV channels and news papers. The former banker turn rabid religious preacher was caught few hours before he could detonate bombs in crowded places and running underground trains. About a dozen youngsters were also arrested from different cities with explosives. The police credited the success to their secrete operatives, informers and regular surveillance of suspected terror cells.

Praveen held his and hand and whispered, “Don’t feel bad…it saved so many innocent lives …”

Tariq closed moist eyes and hugged her closer.

Kill Me Mother, but Let Him Live

2011-03-03T10:19:00.001+05:45

“Kill me, but let him live..”

That’s how a dying Asha Saini pleaded to the dehumanized killers. But it was in vain; she and her lover Yogesh were brutally beaten and even electrocuted to agonizing deaths, to make sure they do not live. She has known her killers for since her birth. Asha saw them nearby from the very moment she first opened her eyes and looked around. The killers did not listen and kept beating lovers with thick sticks and rods. Like many other before her, she was killed by her own parents and uncle.

Their innocent young blood burst out and faithfully gushed, flowed like a fountains of fresh tomato ketchup, seen in colorful television commercials. As if the gruesome acts were conceived by one of those morbid creative heads and their able henchmen, out to make a high octane impact, catch eyeballs, fiercely motivated to sell plethora of oils, soaps, shampoos, silk, cars and undergarments.

Umesh, a friend of Yogesh , witness to the horrible crime, tried hard to get help. But his mobile was not working and no body else was ready to make him call police and others. These facts further reinforce the tactic collusion and support for the murders by the neighbors.

According to the boyfriend's older sister, Renu, Asha wanted to marry my brother, but her family forcibly fixed her marriage to somebody else. Her mother had come to our place and threatened dire consequences if Yogesh did not stop meeting her.

Sadly, perhaps Asha too believed that she was at fault, by disobeying the family and choosing a boy on her own.

That could be the reason of her dying pleadings to spare the boy.

Asha and Yogesh were one of five couples killed in one week in north India in June. They were in love and wanted to get married. But Asha's family did not approve of Yogesh, a mere taxi driver. For her parents he did not have the right kind of job. But more importantly for them, he was from a lower caste. It was a shame that their daughter was having an affair and that too with a low caste boy. For some parents, it’s deemed to be the matter of ultimate shame, dishonor, and sense gets accentuated by suffering gleeful taunts from others with in close society.

Despite their strong objections and threats, Asha, kept seeing Yogesh.

"We killed them because we were totally against their sordid relationship. What else you can do if someone comes to your house to meet your niece at midnight?"

Her unrepentant uncle, Om Prakash, with out any remorse told reporters in televised remarks outside a police station in Delhi after his arrest. He actively helped his brother and sister in law, to kill their way ward daughter.

The Meghla case is latest in a series of such attacks on women in the Tamilnadu, dispels the popular notion that 'honor killings' are merely confined north India. Now there are cases from even southern states, such as Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, witnessing similar gruesome incidents. Many of them are sparked off when educated single women walk out of their homes and choose their own partners, sometimes from another community or caste.

What influences turns loving parents in to such dehumanized killers, apart from the age old ones?

Why this distorted notion of honor is traveling and seeping across regional boundaries?

What could be the reason for spiraling, so called “Honor Killings”, which are in fact “Horror Killings?

Is media unknowingly or carelessly being guilty of marketing sordid concepts of family honor and its horrific ways of redemption?

Media coverage of horror killings does seem to influence in some way the angered and conflicted parents to take such extreme steps. The banal generalization and pathetic dramatization of sensitive issues do lead to reinforcement of wrong societal stereotypes and their unintended multiple negative influences.

Is there a link between one such killings, its dramatized reporting, terming it as honor killing, leading to next blood letting by girls parents?

The careless last moment competitive spicy packaging of these events and high powered selling of these sordid bloods letting as events of expected and eventual honor savings seems to play a crucial role in chain of murders by family members.

It is for experts to find out how much covert role is unwittingly played by 24x7 high power media by dramatizing the sense of so called concept of family honor and how it was saved or avenged by killings of unfortunate young lovers? The dramatized propagation of age old concept of honor by still to mature media, its profound loss and redemption by killing tells an unmistakable link.

It is not that these tormented parents suddenly got wind of their sibling’s love affairs and decided to hound or kill them? Their tribal sense of honor and its perceived dilutions by females of families has been claiming lives of girls since ages.

The explosion of media has played its role in various ways.

Many oldies and saviors of traditions get upset and bemoan the young boys and girls hands locked, thronging the markets, cinema halls, multiplex and parks. The blame is placed on media for pushing the shameful openness, daring female outfits and their greater mixing with boys than what was possible a decade ago. Explosion of higher education and jobs creations across country has created much more mixing and socializing between sexes than what was possible twenty years ago.

In north Indian there have been about 20 horror killings in 80 days. The weight of honor of a family traditionally resides in its daughters, and when the girl goes against their wishes, it is seen as the ultimate disrespect.

There’s a growing feeling, given the fast pace of change in modern India that parents are now in no position dictate who their children will marry. The village councils in Haryana, near Delhi, they have ruled that couples cannot marry within their gotra or lineage, or sometimes within their village or a group of villages and they have come up with death sentences parents have to implement”.

Sociologists opine that “the murderous intensity is in itself an indicator of a feeling of losing control in some rural parts of India. The mere word of an elder is no longer enough to deter a couple from taking certain actions”.

In some villages bordering New Delhi, families are ostracized if they cannot make their children obey local marital tradition. But the killings have emerged in big cities, like New Delhi, and are making headlines across the world.

It is not clear if there has been an increase in these types of killings or a rise in reporting of them. India's Supreme Court is pressing the northern states where these killings are more frequent to take action and to specify what they are doing to curb the problem.

The Government of India is busy discussing and formulating stricter punishment for those involved in "honor killings."

A group of ministers aided by experts are considering changes to criminal law that would make groups that order these killings liable for murder charges. The changes would attempt to rein in traditional village councils that have been brazenly holding summary trials and order punishment in cases of inter-caste marriages.

Sadly, the renowned sociologists, intellectuals and opinion makers are still seeing the cases as extreme examples of the clash of modern India versus the strict interpretation of ancient traditions. It is still not known if they are also aware of impact of powerful marketing of traditional concept of family honor, its loss and redemption by murders.

Asha and Yogesh were not the first couples nor would they be last, exterminated to save the so called sense of family honor.

In another case during May, of such killing, Ramesh Choudhury, brother of the local BSP MLA, was arrested for allegedly killing his daughter and her lover in Hamirpur district. He confessed that he strangulated his 20 year old daughter Priyanka and her lover Santosh Kumar, 30, with the help of two servants. Santosh used to give tuitions to Priyanka and the two had been in a relationship for quite some time.

Apart from other well known social factors the media influences involved in these killings must be properly investigated to formulate related reporting policies standards.

Agonies and lives of few more such unfortunate couples can be saved by responsible coverage. The all powerful media, busy judging others, must now have a deep look inwards to introspect. The greatly sensitive nose of media personnel is on look out on 24x7 to scoop worthy news. The harassed and worn out editors collude with their TRP seeking marketing honchos to paddle commerce. Their uneasy relationships swing wildly between conflicting to telescoping postures, personal egos and unavoidable personality clashes .

It’s amazing that there are hardly any systematic and organized efforts, funded by cash rich big boys to do some serious social audit, the time of which has come long back and still being overlooked. At the same time, Government’s apathy or lack of awareness about these issues is cause of worry.

Wielding a Lathi in London

2011-02-28T22:55:00.001+05:45

Tilak Raj Sharma, an ex footballer from Punjab had migrated to England years ago. Obviously he went through whatever a strong willed sturdy migrant does in an opportune foreign land. I never asked much as he was a fiercely private person, yet occasionally prone to bouts of bragging, telling bits and pieces of his story.

Sharmaji adored his two well built sons and two perky daughters. The younger son, a budding kick boxer could kick a steep six feet high with a powerful muted cry of Jai Hanuman and would send an imaginary opponent repent his misdeeds forever. By mid eighties, when he was my host in London, a sizable rent from hard earned properties made his life comfortable at fifty plus. But it was not an easy life either, dealing with ever changing shady tenants from various continents. They didn’t mind him paying what he asked, with out being inquisitive.

Further he loved to devote his considerable time and resources to help Indian friends in midst of any serious crisis.

While the boys had freedom to attend late night parties with fast changing girlfriends, the grown up daughters were a constant source of grave worries. He repeatedly asked me to find good matches for them in India fast. I lamely assured him to do just that back in India. But the girls secretly disapproved of his weird plan to get them married to unknown boys from India. Behind his back they requested me not to look for any boys.

“Papa is so impossibly weird and he will never allow us to mix with boys we want to be like any other girls and experience life, don’t want to get married so early, there is so much to see and experience. He controls us so closely… and look...brothers Ronny and Mony have all the freedom they are allowed night outs with girlfriends and we have nothing he is still stuck in some lousy Panjabi village I am friendly with few boys. Can’t help it, its so natural and not a big deal here.”

The rebellious Richa poured her worries when Sharmaji went away early one morning.

“Don’t try to compete with your brothers. We are Indian and have different culture than these corrupt English people.” Mrs. Sharma softly reminded Richa.

“Oh yea different of course I know we are a bunch of horrible hypocrites and what about the many secret affairs of so called honorable Indian couples? Don’t tell me, you don’t know who is sleeping around with whom.”

“None of your business, you have no shame Richa, and we parents know what is good for you, isn’t it Bhaisaab?”

A troubled Mrs. Sharma feebly tried to defend her draconian husband and looked at me for support. I had to a give a small nod but preferred to be silent; devouring tasty butter soaked spiced paranthas.

“He has no right to insult my friends. Patrick only come to see me when I was ill and you know how he was insulted. Its awful and I hate it, my friends think we are weird.”

“He is your father and has every right how many times I have told you not to let any boys visit home. Pratibha knows this and obeys papa, why can’t you be like her?”

Mrs. Sharma tried to reason and seemed quite peeved at her younger daughter discussing her boyfriends in my presence.

“You mean discreet? I am honest and don’t hide and you know she is friendly with few boys too, I know when she lost her virginity and to whom, it’s so natural, but she is a real sissy and terribly afraid of papa.”

“Shut up Richa, that’s enough. How dare you called me dishonest.” An angry Pratibha tried to stop her rebellious sister.

“I didn’t say any thing like that sis…”

“No, you did, horrible bitch…”

The verbal dual fast deteriorated to the extent of the combative girls using forbidden four letter words. A helplessly ashamed Mrs. Sharma was in tears.

“Shut up both of you if your father comes to know about such shameful things he will kill you. I wish you shameless girls were never born but it his own fault to let you both live…”

“And what do exactly mean by...we were never born…haan…tell us mama..” Richa was in tears.

“Just shut up you know what I meant and you are living and hell bent on making me feels so much of shame leave me alone now…”

Richa pushed the chair back violently and rushed upstairs. Pratibha was immobile hiding her face, weeping silently.

I had already lost the appetite and was feeling uncomfortable and uneasy by sudden disclosures of family secrets.

“Bhai sahab, please don’t tell any one these are the hidden torments we suffer here foolish girls. I am so sorry I know they will go away with one of these boys they have no feelings for their father who loves them in his own way. He wont be able to bear.”

I nodded and silently slipped out to avoid further embarrassments.

Oblivious of the simmering discontent and secretes of his dear daughters, Sharmaji along with few equally motivated souls did impossible and dangerous tasks to save the brittle honor of bewildered and helpless Indian parents shocked by elopement of their teenager daughters with those devious Firangs of various back grounds and colors.

He kept one well oiled Lathi in each of his four cars to confront any miscreants in his not so honorable neighborhood and elsewhere. His limp came handy in explaining presence of the weapon to any curious policeman, as it also doubled as his walking stick.

“This is my late grand father’s hundred year old walking stick and through it I feel him nearby, any problems about that, officer?”

The suspicious policeman would nod, force an understanding smile, wave and turn away.

“You see this is the way to deal with these foolish

Englishmen. Give them emotional and historical garbage and they turn soft but not all, some are really mean bastards too happy to trouble us endlessly.”

His popularity and respect cut across among the regionally and linguistically divided Indians of the city. He some times did give me exclusive permission of witnessing some of his not so legal activities. That made me roam through markets, pubs and take nap in his parked car for hours, while he was busy helping Indians in difficult situations. He and his gang of young Indian boys would keep an eye and thrash any miscreants during community Diwali and Holi celebrations.

A south Indian doctor couple was in tears explaining how much they trusted their daughter, pursuing doctorate in anthropology and how they were deceived by her. She went missing with her African boy friend and had not even bothered to inform them. May be it was their misfortune to have a daughter in this permissive land of butter and honey and to experience the horrible trauma she had just subjected her unsuspecting loving parents.

Sharmaji was furious and severely reprimanded them for allowing an unholy friendship to grow with an African and now bothering him with their misery

The couple repeatedly appealed with folded hands, touched his feet and begged for the help, as the police would not interfere in the matters concerning two consenting adults.

Sharmaji asked me to be on my own as he went about discharging his responsibility with zeal of a true savior of Indian honor. After few days the girl was back with her parents after the adventurous African was suitably thrashed to repent his folly of seducing a demure Indian girl. A proud Sharmaji later told me how he had used his well oiled Lathi to overpower the well built suitor. His son was helpful in delivering a hard kick to the unsuspecting African and the girl was freed with out much trouble.

For Sharmaji and his gang, dealing with the demure African with an expired visa was a cake walk. He happily described the events in great details enabling me to visualize few important scenes. The African, a scholarly loner not having any links with gangs of his tribe was petrified by threats of him being linked with dreaded drug trafficking.

The gusty tall girl threatened Sharmaji with dire consequences as she would report the matter to the police.

“You fucking dog asshole. How dare you?”

An angry Sharmaji sprang up and gave her few hard slaps.

“This is shameful, a girl abusing elders, I will kill my daughters if they utter such filthy worlds.”

Sharmaji was livid with anger as the couple begged him to forgive the stupid girl.

“Don’t forget to keep an eye on and marry her off fast. You have only one day, better you hurry up and take next flight to India.”

“I hate you guys, how could you allow this brute?”

The girl stopped speaking as Sharmaji raised his bony hand again to hit her. He brazenly brushed off girl’s threats and asked the parents to keep her locked in a room with out a phone and arrange to marry her off fast before she would bring more dishonor to them. The relieved couple thanked him for his help.

I secretly despised what he did to that girl and many others before her, but could not even dare to stop or discourage him at all. Any such foolish attempts of mine would have surely invited his deep anger laced with volley of choicest Panjabi gaalis. I also dreaded as a consequence, the sure termination of his much needed comfortable hospitality in a foreign land. The small window he provided to view life of some of the Indian Diasporas was also of great value. So I willfully resigned myself to being a silent privileged witness.

When I asked wasn’t it dangerous to use strong arm tactics in this law abiding country, his answer was typically Indian: Jiski Lathi Uski Bhains.

He practiced this universal truth and his good connections within the police saw him through these small problems.

The girl was some how cajoled, persuaded to get over her infatuation, drugged and transported to madras to be married off to a New York based green card.

Later she divorced the green card and joined her lover in Canada. They lived together for few years and gradually parted away.

True to her independent spirits Richa, dated and married her Shri Lankan classmate. Sharmaji was deeply hurt but gradually manage to forgive her. Pratibha didn’t mind an arranged marriage with a bright Panjabi doctor, produced by her loving father.

Last I heard of Sharmaji, he was in some real deep trouble with the British police.

The Girl Who Lived

2011-02-28T21:45:00.002+05:45

It was a hot and humid afternoon.

Indra knew the expected outcome of their relationship was near, as Prerna looked tense and forlorn as never before. She had avoided meeting him and messages sent through her cute little brother Pintoo to her remained unanswered.

They were sitting silently in his room; the door was left wide open to make them visible to any passerby in the inner gallery. It was advised by a fiercely independent Prerna, Indra found it to be very convenient and seemingly acceptable in the building. Some knotted souls were curiously uncomfortable gleefully whispering malicious gossip around. But adventurous Prerna was not perturbed at all and these meetings were held to discuss pressing matters. Being a bright young government officer with individuality, she could afford to be dismissive of such silly concerns.

His suggestion to meet in a nondescript, usually deserted restaurant was mercilessly vetoed by her.

She did confide in him the growing interest shown by a batch mate from same caste. His parents would be too happy to add one more power centre in their household. Prerna was not content being a state government officer and had set her goals higher. A marriage would be a big hindrance in her scheme of things. But she had been quite elusive and unresponsive for a long time, a big change from her unusually independent and straightforward persona.

He wondered if she would meet before his departure to pursue his dream.

“Didi is not talking to Papa and Mummy…. sleeping all day and I can tell you some thing more if you give me two chocolates.” Pintoo had deftly negotiated a few days ago.

“She was weeping whole night and didn’t’ tell me any new story. I really wanted hear that story of Pari she promised, but got a slap…she never hit me before… can you see it here…this red mark?” Pintoo disclosed with a sad face and cutely pointed to his pink cheek.

“Can you tell her not to hit me again or I will not sleep with her ...and won’t give your messages too…I will throw them away.”

“Sure, I will tell her and she will not hit you again.” Indra had pulled him near and made a promise.

“But Didi will not talk to you…how can you promise me that?” Pintoo was unusually sharp and argumentative for his age.

“Aap jhoothe ho…katti.”

Lost in thoughts, Indra let Pintoo, run away, and sensed his tender hurt.

His heart sank further in despair. So the greedy parents have prevailed over a bright girl, pushing her in an unwanted alliance to get one more officer in the household. He presumed.

Suddenly she materialized and sat brooding before him. Pintoo was reminded of the pending homework and skillfully dispatched to earn a big chocolate in lieu of it.

She looked too depressed to be probed, almost fragile. Indra waited for her to speak and give him the bad news. He would not remind her of those promises made and would accept her decision. He would never forget her ever and felt the growing pain. Perhaps they were not made for each other and this would have happened sooner or later.

She set her dream to get in to Indian civil services and his, a fragile and uncertain acting career in Mumbai.

“Do you know Indra, why I have three cute sisters?’

Surprised at the question, Indra couldn’t answer. He stared blankly at her swollen eyes and rarely sad face.

‘Because, they didn’t have a machine, so I am sitting here with you.’

‘What machine?’

‘Oh! You ignorant fool.’ She said in a mock surprise.

That was good she was recovering, getting normal and arrogant as before. Indra decided to react as nothing abnormal had happened.

‘Yes... I don’t have to cram irrelevant shit to pass those bloody exams.’

‘Defeated?’

‘I know you love to hear that… want to see others defeated? You people are trained to make common people like me…. feel and think defeated.’

‘It’s a non-sense.’ She said.

‘I just don’t want to know that. Is that clear, madam? But please tell me why do you look so sad? Where were you all these days? What happened…some office problems perhaps?’

Prerna become silent again and didn’t reply. He waited and braced him self may be now she would disclose her decision to obey her parents and dump him forever.

Their raised voices immediately attracted attention of an alert Shanno, reclining on sofa, languidly chewing a pan. She rose and lifted the gaudy curtain to make herself visible in her usual finery. Sound of her anklets alerted Indra and Prerna to lower their voices. She looked at them with a mischievous smile and proceeded to hang a towel on the balcony railing, taking her time, smoothing the wrinkles of the puffy cloth, turning it over many times. Her numerous bangles making clinking noises, ears tuned and hungry for any exciting sound bytes.

The gang of five was about to visit her, to watch some exciting film together and indulge in floating malicious gossips. She was excited by the prospects of her tidbits being the juiciest. She was a generous host and the ladies were addicted to her tasty pakoras and tea. Further her deaf mother in-law was greatly envied by all the visiting ladies. It gave them freedom to enjoy video films, loud music and unhindered-uninhibited exchange of notes about their own vicious mother in law and their wicked ways. She loved being envied for her bulging purse, no kids to look after and a fawning husband.

The bewildered gang members were astonished at the tales of her premarital raunchy escapades with a variety of lusty rustic lovers. They sighed with envy and excitement as she shamelessly unfolded each episode with great explicit details. Some were repeated often on demand, and Shanno loved to tell a juicy tale.

Prerna silently went on looking at him.

“Okay. I am going...If you don’t want to listen.’ She hissed, her eyes betraying deep feeling of hurt.

‘I am sorry… if you feel that way.

She turned her eyes away.

“It’s okay…what it is?’ Indra knew there was no escape and he would have to bear the brunt of her discontent and listen.

'It’s is that sonographic machine……… the doctors now use to detect…’

‘Detect what?’

‘Don’t you know?’

No! I said I don’t know. Didn’t I?’

‘They detect the sex of the child by this horrible machine.’

Indra was silent. Didn’t know what to say and how it is connected by to her woes.

‘Oh that?’

She remained silent, her face clouded further.

‘You look sad.’

‘Yes I am sad. But should you bother?’ Prerna didn’t look at him.

‘I am sorry….I did try to….’

“Don’t be, please. It’s okay..’

Indra avoided her moist eyes, waiting for her to unburden herself, still foxed by a machine and its role in her plight.

‘I shudder to imagine, if they had that machine in those times my all sisters might have all been aborted… killed. Why only my sisters! I too might have been… sucked out of the womb…bundled and disposed off... thrown away to be eaten by hungry dogs.’

‘Please Prerna, why are you thinking like this?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Let’s change the subject…please.’

'So you don’t want to listen. I am going.’ Prerna got up.

‘No. It’s not that. Please stay…. I mean…. please tell me... and ...unburden your self.’

He waited.

‘I feel bad Indra. Being a girl, really bad.’

‘Don’t say that. And of all the girls you are saying this? I am surprised.’

‘Surprised? Are you, why do you think I am monster with no emotions?’

Both were silent. It was getting unbearable.

‘Those girls may have been fortunate they perhaps didn’t hearand if they did might have not felt as bad as I do. They don’t take these things the way I do.’

‘Please calm down.’

‘I heard all this... my self.’

‘What? Heard whom?

Prerna remained silence for long, tears slowly broke free of and hurried unrestrained downwards on a torturous journey. Indra held her hand and made her sit near him.

Shanno watched them from her vantage position, craning her long neck to see the unfolding action.

"I heard the killers...how they aborted three times...after my birth and before Pintoo was born...they killed three girls to get a boy.."

‘Don’t tell me. You mean... your parents?’

‘Yes.’ Her shaking voice betrayed her practiced self-control and dignified poise. She put her head on his shoulder and sobbed silently.

‘Oh my god....please hold your self, Prerna. You are too strong a girl to take such things to heart. May be they didn’t mean…what you have been thinking…. may be you misunderstood.’

‘No. I did not…’

A sense of heavy gloomy helplessness filled the .hot afternoon air. She regained a semblance of control and wiped her tears, moved little away from him, aware of the gossip queen Shanno watching them, spinning a juicy tale.

‘They were discussing the huge finances needed to marry off... all of us...and how unfortunate they are to have four girls…they.... never ever wanted...they wished that ghastly machine had arrived earlier..."

Indra listened, unable to say any thing further.

"How my father went on finding more ways to make money for impending marriages involving huge expenses, you know? They were loudly wondering what sin they might have committed to deserve four daughters...it surely must have been a great sin.’

‘When was this?’ Indra asked cautiously.

Shanno tried hard to catch the whispers, but the low voices assured her further of a rumored affair; a promising attractive young woman officer falling for a handsome scoundrel. She sighed with envy, trying hard to decipher the focus of the seemingly intensely private lovers’ argument.

Her fertile brain raced to decipher hidden meaning in girl’s tense bearing and boy’s alarmed stance. Then it hit her with surety and prospects she loved. Shanno smiled broadly, now sure to score in the ladies gang by divulging the piece of the hottest scoop.

‘It does not matter, when they said it. But the fact is that they did say such horrible things so calmly.... and I was unfortunate enough to hear. I.... do.... try hard.... to forget. But those whispering, repenting and angry voices haunt me every moment…and hit my self-esteem like a sledgehammer. It's even more painful, when they tell me how wonderful they felt when Pintoo was born after four girls. They aborted three unfortunate unwanted girls. Though, I love Pintoo...but now some times I see him in a strange way. I can't explain it... I mean. You know I did hit him…. I feel so bad.’

‘I know that, Prerna.’

‘Do you think you know?’

‘Please, for god’s sake... I mean... I didn’t mean any thing... offending

‘I know that you don’t mean any thing.... you never do. You are just listening to what I am saying now, because you don’t have any opinion. And why should you bother about it...and. if really you do, I suspect it’s just an idea for you... a good plot... for a new lousy play?

“You don’t know how I am feeling. How helpless I am... when I go over.... those horrible utterances of my so called loving and caring parents….killers of three unborn babies.'

They remained silent for a long time and Indra decided to wait.

“I am sorry to have burdened you with all this….but I had to talk to some one….and I have only you...”

“I was worried….you locked your self in room and didn’t reply.”

“Now it’s out…but not fully out…hey can we meet tomorrow evening?” Prerna said, she looked little composed.

“Oh sure ….why not…I will be waiting…here only?”

“Not here dumb boy….you mentioned a restaurant…didn’t you?”

“Yes is it okay with being seen there with me …as you said…”

“Forget all that now…. I am a different Prerna …a free bird…don’t give a damn…let them gossip and spread rumors…will be fun really. Go ahead and tell any one that I am your girl friend. … I know you will feel good about it…” and she was gone, leaving Indra puzzled and yet happy.

They arrived in the restaurant and heads turned to Prerna was becoming a popular public figure in the city due her crusading zeal in solving people’s problems.

“You do know the rumors about us…don’t you?” She sat facing him in her elegant finery.

Indra looked at her happy face.

“I think Shanno has already declared me pregnant.” She laughed and Indra joined in a little warily.

“What about your proposed marriage?

“No marriage…you are out too…. as of now… ...know about your other girls…may be I will meet a suitable person some time…I don’t know…Hey actor, when is your train?”

‘Next Sunday afternoon so that you can see me off... if you want to...”

“Oh so sweet…what about your stay there…could you do some thing?”

“Nothing as yet, will manage some how…”

“Don’t worry; you will see what I have done.”

“Prerna are you ok?” A troubled Indra asked her the nagging question at last.

“Do you think I have gone mad? Don’t you… I know what I am doing…. I have freed my self from pains of being good to all at the cost of my own freedom and desires…and don’t worry, okay? I can take care of myself…”

They drove around in her car and talked as they used to when ever they got a chance. At last Indra tried to kiss her and she didn’t resist…but no further, she set the limit and restored order.

“Stop it…nothing further…not now…when I am ready for it …you will know.”

The sparse luggage was stowed and they sat down in the train. Indra felt heavy and disoriented. Prerna gave him a packet.

“The Keys of your flat in Mumbai… all the details are in there. Call me if there is a problem…now be good and make me proud one day.”

Indra sat numb looking at her.

“This is too much…. how can you be…so…how will I repay you Prerna?”

“Make me pregnant one day…. I may be married or unmarried…it won’t matter…. only I will decide whose seed to nurture…. I am a girl and it’s my privilege and my choice.”

A stunned Indra heard silently, unable to respond in any way.

Prerna stood up.

“The train is about to move now…best of luck and call me when you want too…” She bent down to kiss his temple and was gone.

The train whistled and started to move. A dazed Indra ran to the door…. she waved…he could see her tears…his own self-control broke down…and those long held tears found their journey to dissolve and slowly evaporated as the train sped away.

Maulana Vastanvi:New Face of Darul Uloom, Deoband?

2011-02-14T13:39:00.001+05:45

"Please, don't start your politics of Pakistan from India," Mahmood Madani had bluntly told Musharraf after the latter claimed that Muslims in India were alienated and suggested that this was one of the reasons for terrorism here. Virtually retorting the former Pakistani military ruler, he had said, "Population of Muslims in India is more than that total population of Pakistan. You should be knowing this.”

An unsuspecting Musharraf had turned somberly silent under the spirited attack beamed live, across the world from New Delhi. Madani, member of Rajya Sabha and leader of Jamat-e-Ulema-i-Hind, made it clear to the visiting Pakistani leader, that he or his country need not bother about the condition of Muslims in India.

Currently, Madani is locked in a fierce political battle for control of Darul Uloom, Deoband, the century and half old most respected Muslim seminary. His rival and relative, Maulana Ghulam Mohammad Vastanvi, the newly appointed rector is under blistering attack over his controversial statement praising Gujarat Chief Minister.

An MBA and businessman running many educational institutions with more than 200,000 students, Vastanvi had only taken up the assignment on January 10. He has established himself as a great pioneer in madarsa education, by linking modern education and Islamic teachings, and has transformed lives of hundreds of thousands of Muslims in western India. Coming up a hard way, by starting 30 years ago, a small madarsa from a hut in the tribal area of in Maharashtra’s Nandurbar district, Maulana was able to make it one of India’s top madarsas, known as Jamia Islamia Ishaatul Uloom in Akkalkuwa. It has 15 colleges equipped with most modern facilities besides running engineering, medicine, teaching, pharmacy and information technology courses. The madarsa runs schools in Gujarat and Maharashtra along with 30 well equipped hospitals.

According to some observers, his institutes have grown much bigger than Darool Uloom Deobabd, as far as the number of students, their much needed modern education and jobs are concerned. He has been honoured with the Maulana Abdul Kalam Azad Award by the Maharashtra government.

His fate will be decided in a meeting of the supreme governing council on February 15. He will attend the meeting and until a decision is taken, the Maulana will continue in his post.

Vastanvi was appointed rector following the death of his predecessor Maulana Marghoobur Rahman. But soon after, he sparked a grave controversy, frankly expressing his views on Gujarat by saying that Muslims too have benefited from the development initiative of the Gujarat Chief Minister.

Maulana Vastanvi belongs to Surat in Gujarat and happens to be also the first non UP person to head the institution. He has a long association with the Darul Uloom and as well as, been a liberal contributor. Perhaps the highly politicized and polarized environment of UP politics is also contributing to the perennial insider-outsider twist to the controversy and still there is much more hidden that what meets the eye in the unfolding drama.

But visibly encouraged with swelling support with in the institution, the community and Media focus, Vastanvi seems ready for a fight to finish.

However, there is another source of conflict between Madani and Vastanvi over the central government proposal to improve and modernize the Madarsa education in country. While Madani is looking at the proposal as an attempt to take away the fiercely protected autonomy of the institution, Vastanvi has more accommodating and fresh approach, far away from old, rigidly insular mindset to such issues.

It is reported that only around 2-3 dozen students of seminary have been greatly agitated over his open appreciation of on going development in Gujarat. In the fiercely politically correct, lip service afflicted environment of India, Gujarat and its feisty chief minister Narendra Modi has been a persona non-grata, since 2002, being under dark clouds of suspicion to be a willful accomplice in the massacre of minorities.

Taking a bold approach, Vastanvi has advised the community to forget the black episode and move on with the important issues of life with an open mind , accepting and appreciating the new unfolding realities. It is reported that the majority is out to supports Vastanvi inside the institution, outside with in the town of Deoband and as well as across India. He has a very clean and unblemished image of a cleric, who is open to modern education and has already achieved a lot for the community individually by creating modern institutions of learning..

In a meeting of motivated Vastanvi supporters, Maulana Madni was blamed for the ongoing crisis in the seminary. All those present in the meeting openly charged the Jamiat with playing a dirty game to retain power.

After death of Maulana Marghoobur Rehman, Maulana Arshad Madni group had become very active as they saw a bright chance of getting the controls of the seminary in their hands. But instead, the council, being seized of the matter, opted for a modern and progressive Vastanvi, thereby annoying Jamiat old guards.

Terming the tirade against Vastanvi the handiwork of Maulana Arshad group, Badar Kazmi, the Vice President of the Muslim Majlis in UP, said the regressive hardliners did not approve of the modern and progressive people’s association with the seminary

Being young and progressive Vastanvi emerged as a popular choice in the meeting of council and he was the one who faced least opposition. Many members of the council are pained and even surprised by the controversy over his appointment. Interestingly, the deputy vice-chancellor of the seminary Maulanan Abdul Khalik Madrasi has out-rightly resisted any Jamiat politics inside the seminary.

In many televised interviews, Vastanvi confidently challenged the old hardliners by sticking to his views about Gujarat development helping Muslims. He further advised the community to leave the matter to the courts and get on with education and jobs, the most important issues of life. When asked to rate the performance of Modi, he was quick to give him 5 out of 10 and expressed his inability to accuse the Chief Minister of a state of any crimes, as it for courts to decide, not him. Till recently, barely known to the Muslims outside Gujarat and Maharastra, his initiatives and defining contributions has been recognized and replicated by many madarsas across India, earning him admirers and supporters.

Apart from the internal politics of the seminary, the well known faces representing Muslims have left no time in strongly criticizing the despicable statement of Vastanvi and asked him to resign. Being the first Muslim leader to go against the well known cast iron narrative of discrimination, anger and bad past, he must have been certainly aware and prepared for the possible negative consequences. Making a somersault in last few days, Vastanvi even tried to attempt a damage control mode, by criticizing Modi, perhaps betraying a politician in him as well. The well entrenched old guards with age old script are still not ready to give space to difference of opinions to exist and be debated in a rational manner.

But the confident bearings, unhurried demeanor and bristling pragmatism can not be, only his own make over, and might as well represent waves of growing confidence with in the community. Being risen from grass root activism and entrepreneurship, he must have been aware and even an important part of the awakening pragmatic forces, uncomfortable and at odd with the prevailing age old breast beating-antagonistic mindset.

Lately, Vastanvi has tried hard to communicate that he never condoned the Gujarat carnage and like every body else, wants those guilty punished. But he never fails to insist, it is time for Muslims to emerge out of the shadows of past and move on. They must not fail to educate their children so that they do not take to crime or religious extremism and strive to flow within the national mainstream.

His, is a very bold move and conciliatory message and not just to Gujarat's Muslims, who were displaced during the riots. It goes across India and wherever the 2002 events have cast a dark shadow.

There have been a slowly emerging far reaching welcome change with in madarsas to align with the rising needs of Muslim boys and girls. Many madarsas started teaching science, engineering and IT. There by got busy in the much needed development endeavor, refuting the perceptions, heightened post-9/11, that Muslim seminaries have been only stoking fundamentalism and militancy.

In past, Deoband seminary has also been demonized by actions of few belonging to the fringe, who tried to turn it in to a regressive Fatwa Factory, ridiculing any attempt at change and modernity. The number of Muslim seminaries in India are estimated to be over 30,000 and not all of them are controlled by the school of theology that Deoband propagates.

Whatever happens, Vastanvi along with his growing ilk, will now be a force to recon with, during any future discourse and negotiations regarding issues concerning Muslims in India. Even if, he is forced to move away from Deoband, the hereto unknown pragmatism and confidence articulated by him will continue to enforce moderation and rationality, rather than die hard rigidities solely based on emotive tentacles of past conflicts.

To his credit, Mahmood Madani has maintained a silence and so far refused to comment on the on going controversies. He may be representing the old guard mindset, but his familial linkages, eventually might help Vastanvi, thereby strengthen the new forces of moderation and reconciliations.

Blogs at Chowk

2010-05-27T17:38:00.000+05:45

Articles at Chowk

2010-05-27T17:37:00.000+05:45

Outsourcing Wombs

2008-02-23T09:17:00.000+05:45

Want to rent a womb, come to India

Increasingly NRI are flocking to India to find a womb on hire in India.

Many couples in India see it as an opportunity to cash on and have some nice kitty in bank.

I don’t know how to respond to the trend. Indian women who are ready give womb on rent get about $ 15000 to $ 25000 and seem to be happy about it.

Some couples are so much sold on the idea that they have moved out from joint family and taken up the venture.

There are stories that parents do not know about it, it’s a secret shared between husband and wife alone. Then the time to deliver the baby comes they will move to other city. After delivery of child its handed over and couple goes back and announce delivery of a dead child or some thing of that sort.

There are few families where whole fertile women folks have taken to hiring wombs.

Foreigners are lining up to rent a womb in India. But they will soon have to face legal regulations being planned by the ministry of women and child development (WCD).

Surrogacy, an area unregulated till now, meant that childless couples from abroad as well as in the country could get away with renting a womb at terms often to the disadvantage of a needy women who stood the chance of being exploited.

Women and child development minister Renuka Chaudhary said that the ministry was considering a law to regulate the business of surrogate motherhood and sperm banks on the lines of similar laws in other countries.

Women's organizations have long been demanding a law on surrogate motherhood and hiring of wombs in India.

"The sensitive issue of surrogacy in the absence of laws or regulations has become a free playing field for unscrupulous intermediaries who lure and push uneducated and poor women into surrogate motherhood," a WCD ministry official said, emphasizing the need for the law.

It is argued that there was every possibility of misuse of children born out of surrogacy for terrorism, prostitution or unethical genetic engineering research as the foreigners who pay for the child would not have any emotional bonding with the kid.

India is emerging as a major destination for surrogacy as childless couples from US and Europe are lured by the prospect of a surrogate child for around Rs 100,000 ($2,250) to Rs 225,000 ($5,060) each pregnancy compared with some $40,000 or even more in the US. Many say the country can become a centre of "reproductive tourism".

Surrogacy is an arrangement in which a woman agrees to carry a pregnancy, which is genetically unrelated to her, to its full term. She delivers the child and hands it over to the genetic parents. Since couples fear that strangers who act as surrogates could pose legal problems, they often rope in relatives or friends to carry the pregnancy.
In one case, when a couple needed a surrogate for their child, it was the man's mother who carried the pregnancy. Strange and inconceivable but true as such things do happen in various parts of India.

There are some unbelievable incidents too, a woman in labor was brought to a hospital for the delivery.

But a couple who accompanied her informed the hospital that the pregnant woman was only a surrogate for their child, so her name should not appear on official records.

The ICMR clearly states that a woman, carrying a child biologically unrelated to her, must register as a patient in her own name and mention that she is a surrogate mother.

http://www1.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/msid-2503791,prtpage-1.cms

Recruitment Mayhem

2008-02-23T08:58:00.001+05:45

So it has happened again and will continue to happen across India. Two people including a tourist got killed in mayhem created in CISF recruitment drive at Jaipur. It seems authorities never learn and organize such recruitment drives totally unmindful of these horrors. I still remember horrific events witnessed during an earlier Army recruitment drive few years ago. They come from all over, from distance towns and villages and spilled over around army area. All the rattling buses to city had to bear large burden of hopefuls with out tickets occupying the roof top and no one could dare to object.

The fate of trains was no different with large youthful crowd singing and sitting on the curved dangerous roofs. The moment these trains entered the city limits the youth took out stones from the pockets and bags and bombarded the houses near railway tracks. The glass panes got shattered, earthen pots vanished with bangs and few child, aged and women got hurt. The crowds in our Mera Bharat Mahan have mind of their own and reaction pattern feared by all, larger the crowd heinous crimes go unpunished forever. It has become too safe for many to let out the boiling prejudices, thrash and even kill any one and do collectively whatever one could not have guts and opportunities to indulge in alone.

The large crowds confer the coveted unanimity which propels some to indulge in unimagined violence and gore. Its is very disturbing that how simple, otherwise docile people get attracted to such violence, some of it reserved for young girls and women. The new recruitment for men was scheduled the next day. The army area near by was surrounded by the eager, starry eyed young men looking for a career in Indian army, one of the coveted occupations for many of the sturdy youths. But there has been stampede and deaths resulting for the huge unmanageable crowd. But the lesson has been not been learned and the area of city was slowly filled by large number of youth. They come with one Rexene bag, a leaking plastic water bottle, and papers.

For more compelling were lots of dreams and hope to make it and change their uneventful life for ever. Being a solder in India army remains one of the best career options for so many. The allurements are heady and dreamy aura about being a part of a glorious occupation, defending the nation, being able to wear a dashing uniform, postings in faraway exotic places and other material benefits pull the strings. The residents of the area were rudely shaken by crowd of boys occupying the space of both sides of the roads. The space to walk, park vehicles was gone with boys sleeping there and singing mournful ballads. Early morning jogger many of them women hurried back home to escape the loud leering, whistles and cat calls. Come hot afternoons and the boys opened gates and perched under shed of drive ways and cool lawns. The lame objections of the residents were ignored with contempt such city bred indifference deserved.

They banged doors and asked for cool refrigerated water again and again till such supplies were no more possible. The girls and women of the house were imprisoned in back rooms, far away from being able to hear the bawdy rustic jokes and lusty songs they sung with clear purpose to make their intensions as naked as possible. The air got fouled as the crowd eased themselves sitting on high walls of many empty plots. There were no solutions in the offing as the crowd grew large and every open space was filled by these harassed boys. The police was not foolish to try to restore any order in the huge unruly mob. The vendors smelled business and converged to sell refreshments and sundry merchandize sought by the hungry youth. Few greedy vendors were given a befitting thrashing because of over the rampant pricing and rudeness shown to would be defenders of the borders.

The large administration teeming with highly educated snooty officers was blissfully unaware of the havoc being played in the capital. News papers reported that the long awaited recruitments were due next day but forgot to tell the whole story. They some how had no idea of the inconveniences experienced by the residents of the area. Most of the people were forced to stay indoors as the dangers were so large and it becomes impossible to walk or take vehicles out on roads. Every inch of space got filled with swarm of young hopefuls spilling in every hour. They ransack the small and big railway stations, looted whatever comes their way. The vehicles got turned; people got beaten by the surging and rampaging mob with patriotic objectives. The interview time neared, the fences were pulled down, and barricades were run over.

The recruitment drive to Indian Army was now in the full patriotic glory. Out of blue two young girls riding a scooter materialized from a side lane and stood still, undecided. They were shown the way to enter the crowd and assured of a safe get away. They were too naives. The hungry crowd pounced on them, their cries lost in the shouts of young men eager to feel, grope and maul female bodies. People watching from nearby house tops were too stunned to react. An army officer noticed and took out his gun on the hoodlums and shouted them to leave the girls. The cowards trying their luck to defend borders just ran away. They loathed leaving those two young girls crouching on tar road, every piece of cloths they wore were gone, stripped naked by the large demented crowd. They had blood oozing from nose and scratched flesh all over. Only a few yards away a young woman driving a car was also incited to enter the crowd and she met the same gruesome fate.

Her sari was pulled away making her turn in the car surprised with mortal fear. They pounced on her with naked depravity and she too turned it to mass of blood and bruises. A rifle aimed from a retired army man from rooftop made the ruffians ran away. These were too gory sights to forget but were never reported in news papers, reasons still unknown. Fate of a school bus filled with deaf and dumb children was no different only the occupants were helpless kids barely able to comprehend what was happening. The school management and parents perhaps misjudged the depravity of the crowd and made a big mistake their wards will not forget easily ever. The bus was made to halt and hungry young men boarded the bus with clear objectives in mind. They snatched away the tiny Tiffin boxes of wide eyed challenged kids with ferocity reserved for enemies of Mera Bhara Mahan. They looted as the teachers and crew sweated in fears, the lady attendant was groped with intense severity. All these people will never forget the scars of these beastly behaviors ever. Do the army top brass is aware of severity of these repeated incidents across country and have the lessons have been learned? Why can't they plan the small recruitments aimed at cluster of villages and towns? I do not know but do read such incidents repeatedly and go over those horrific moments witnessed.

Creative Smoking

2008-02-23T08:33:00.000+05:45

Creative Smoking

So at last Mr. Shah Rukh Khan has decided to quit smoking.

But he might continue to use his so dearly held creative freedom to smoke on the screen.

He may not even smoke a real cigarette during film shooting and yet will surely influence his teen aged fans to imitate him in real life.

How ever there are few important points to be noted:

1. The Health Minister is not wrong in suggesting to Mr. Amitabh Bachchan and
Mr. Shah Rukh Khan to avoid smoking in movies.

2."Creativity just cannot escape public scrutiny and even admonishment, if it tantamount to social evil. In this case, it is an unadulterated invitation to death itself," Shekhar Salkar, General Secretary, National Organization for Tobacco Eradication (NOTE), said reacting to Shahrukh's contention.

Shahrukh, had earlier responding to Union health minister Ambumani Ramadoss's appeal to Amitabh Bachchan and Khan to stop setting bad example by smoking in public and in films citing that children have their first puff due to celebrities, said that actors could not be asked to curb their 'creative liberties'.

3.Now lets get back to the basic question of the Creative Freedom.

How important it is to use smoking character to make a point in a film scene?

It is in fact an easy stereotyped tool to project a macho image and other variety of dramatic elements.

4. The film directors and actors use it as a handy prop so often.

The concept again revolves around few stereotypes:

a. A smoking man looks macho.

b. A smoking woman looks liberated.

c. A smoking woman also project promiscuity.

c. A smoking character looks really thinking hard.

d. A smoking character projects being in control.

There are other variety of scenic needs which are immediately solved by putting a cigarette in hand.

5. Lets have a look at the definitions of the words create and creativity:

Create

: to evolve from one's one thought or imagination to make by investing with new character or functions.

Create

: author, bring into being, compose, conceive, parent, form, give rise to, throw together

Creative

: generative, ground-breaking, innovative, originate, handmade

Creativity:

creativity creativeness, formativeness, innovation, inventiveness, originality, productivity, craftsmanship, authorship, creatorship

Creativity involves the translation of our unique gifts, talents and vision into an external reality that is new and useful. We must keep in mind that creativity takes place unavoidably inside our own personal, social, and cultural boundaries.

5. Now where is the creativity in real sense?

6. Creativity with out being innovative boils down to stagnant stereotypes and pathetic repetitions.

7. And we also know Hindi films and so called creative film makers love repetitions and proven formulas to produce a hit and most of times they fail.

8.So what ever creativity Mr. Shah Rukh Khan may be referring to is in fact enveloped in thick layer of easy formulas.

But then Hindi films are rarely known to be creative in real sense.

It also seems quite clear that these hugely popular film stars have little or no sense of any social responsibility.

But if they are found to be otherwise we will all only benefit.

The Hidden Underbelly of a Famed Destination

2007-08-07T00:13:00.000+05:45

The Lapkas: The Hidden Underbelly of a Famed Destination
The coffee house was now nearly devoid of the hordes of indomitable Lapkas. Murari Lal the expert story teller, roaming consultant and linguist of the local dialect has coined the term. He was delighted when it was picked up by the newspapers during a war between two Lapka gangs and made famous.
The term Lapka loosely means a snatcher, member of a group of officious tourist hunters, who would try to influence and divert tourists from their set plans, by offering friendship and expert guidance badly needed by their prey. They exploited foreign tourists, by luring them to buy artifacts at selected emporiums and stay at hotels, where rigged up prices earned them fabulous commissions and much more, if the ladies were willing.

Their attempts to rape certain otherwise intoxicated but unwilling foreign girls in a secluded farmhouse on Aimer road made newspaper headlines. Hundreds such cases were never reported due to inherent difficulties involved and if they were, the files were promptly closed by pay rolled pot bellied, rose cheeked policemen. As tourists went to their countries, rarely traveling back to identify culprits or stolen goods.
Lapkas are aggressive bunch of youngsters from variety of back grounds. Some of them are fluent in English, French, German, Spanish and Japanese with elementary knowledge of monuments and local history. They were easily identifiable by their over friendly manners, alert, probing eyes, pony tails, motor cycles and increasingly attired in trendy cloths. They are so many of them, prowling around popular tourist destinations, hotels, and showrooms of artifacts, frequented by hordes of their preys. They guarded their carefully marked territories ruthlessly and trespassers were suitably dealt with. Always ready to pounce on foreign tourists. They used to avoid Indian tourists like plague and concentrated on the foreigners. But that too was changing now and some gangs were branching out to take care of the equally clueless Indian tourists lost in maze of numerous hotels, monuments, artifacts shops, markets, lanes and by lanes in the pink city.
An unescorted herd of young white females could ignite an intense battle of wits and muscle power between competing gangs, often befitting the attires, expected purchasing power, attitude and alluring physical assets of members of the target group. Details of purchases, particular interest in certain items and style of negotiations of the group are immediately noted along with car number, expected rout and other relevant information and passed on efficiently, for maximum returns on mobile phones and also on Internet. A handsome purchase is immediately relayed to the managers of various upstart, ambitious shops, who would then try to influence the concerned guide on mobile phone and try to divert the target to his shop with promise of ready presence of items of interest to save time and maximize returns for all the people involved.

Few competing gang lords with ample muscle and political patronage control the operations. Foolish antics by brash newcomers and intrusions by greedy archrivals have resulted in few shootings, violent fights, ruthless amputations and contract killings. It led to opening of further vistas of employment to the poor youths with desired adventurous inclinations and talent to give precise thrashings to the offenders caught in act of mischief. But some daringly violent amputations and killings of rivals exposed the so far hidden activities of these unknown Lapka gangs. Front-page coverage in newspapers compelled sleepy authorities to take some feeble actions and reluctant acceptance of the existence such undesirable organizations in the Pink City.
Gang lords were forced to huddle together and jointly shun the tempted violence by the boys and solve problems silently, secretly with out attracting attention of the wretched press and greedy policemen. One musclemen turned noisy politician cum builder cum transporter was roped in to mediate between rivals and dispense justice. He possessed all the qualities and resources needed to shoulder such an onerous responsibility. In return of his noble services a respectable percentage of monthly turnovers of each gang lord were handed over to him in cash, regularly.
Lately, taking cue from the politics, gang lords have started to align on cast and religious lines for protection and faster growth. Some have ventured in to convenient front businesses of transport fleets, hotels, antique showrooms, exports and imports, which jell with their present operations, increased earnings and added much desired legitimacy.
New recruits were deputed to do the tedious legwork, while bosses sat in suits of five star hotels and plush modern offices, munching chicken legs, dry fruits with endless whiskeys. The trusted deputies, mostly close relatives took care of daily operations and collection of cash. They were usually school dropouts from poor families, hungry for easy money and easier white flesh. For some of them, in the beginning the priority was of later variety and former was a bonus to keep their aged parents happy. Slowly they got hooked and most of them made and lost money fast, in the new exciting trade that required little education and investment. Most born in tin or thatched roofed houses with out toilets, they were now rarely out side an air-conditioned, perfumed space. The lucrative trade has lately started to attract youngsters from rich and well-placed families. They hit off well with foreigners because of good English, gleaming new cars, expensive perfumes and branded personal accessories.
Such mushrooming activities form a part of hidden under belly of a famous tourist destination full of colorful past, modernizing infrastructure, booming reality market and vibrant foreign trade in precious stones, handicrafts and natural stones.

# All Rights Reserved@tunnelvision
Disclaimer:
It’s a dramatized version about a part of pink city tourist trade environment.
It forms a part of the novel about the interplay of international terrorists, antique smugglers, undercover agents and Maoist guerrillas.
Any resemblance to any person dead or alive and any actual event is purely coincidental.

In Company of Women-Unfinished Story

2007-07-04T22:08:00.000+05:45

They would come go out smiling, with bowed heads like obedient children reveling in expected tantrum of a lovable senile elder. Some would telephone tenants to keep an eye on her and keep them informed of her well-being; their only purpose of troubling them, they would never forget to state. Every one tried to be sure that they would be the first to know and beat others, to be with her in last defining moments.

Indra picked the red plastic mug from the blue bucket of cool water and wet the brush. The cap less toothpaste tube laid crumpled and squeezed flat of its contents. Indra put the index finger on its orifice and squeezed hard at the neck. The effort reluctantly produced a small crusted bar of dry paste with a soft tail, enough for his present needs. He started to rub teeth carefully, not to let the crumb of dry paste drop on the darkened, cracked mosaic floor.

‘No, I don’t believe you at all. He may be a fool, but a fine boy, an artist. They are a different lot and prone to brood over certain important social matters late in night. Don’t you see his name and photograph appear in newspapers regularly? It requires lots of talent to have your activities mentioned, so frequently. These newspaper people are not fools to write about activities of vagabonds and wastrels. For us, our name is in print only after deaths in small obituaries columns. I know how boys are, of his age and temperament. So many things trouble them. Kamal was just like him, an artist. You foolish man, you won’t under stand theses finer things at all. Didn’t you assure to find a reliable tenant for the room at ground floor? Have you done any thing about that bloody promise of yours or not? So don’t try to impress me by telling such crazy things, get lost and mind your own patty business of adulterated cooking oils.’

Indra stopped rubbing teeth and tried to go over, what Ganga Bai has said so eloquently to that crafty rascal. It would have been indeed a treat to watch his crestfallen ape like face.

Therefore, the cat is out of the bag.

He resembled her late son, also an artist.

Suddenly things looked quite brighter. Perhaps he can look forward to take little liberties with her. Like late payment of rent, use of her secluded roof top for rehearsing his lines and may be for an impending rendezvous with Prerna. It too seemed like an old, stale movie scene, repeated millions times over by the dream merchants of Bombay . He decided to find a tenant for her and beat crafty Chauthu.

‘What happened, Tai?’

He could recognize the husky voice of Prerna. The attractive and bright elder daughter of Ghaasi Ram Meena, an office superintendent in the lucrative public works department. Indra felt attracted to her husky voice, large eyes and dusky complexion with well-endowed body. Prerna reciprocated his attempts to find her alone and talk about art and theatre. He has helped her act in a few plays to get over her stage fright and improve public speaking skills. Indra was amazed at her carefully organized and well-planned life style; in contrast to his happy go lucky ways. Whenever his name and photograph appeared in the newspapers, she would send her kid brother to wake him up from his drunken stupor and have a look.

She selected in the state administrative services. Primarily because of her talent and to some extent her birth, which surely must have come handy to score over, equally, placed general candidates. She has already started to behave like a pompous civil servant. Moreover, no body protested for obvious reasons. They were all too happy to have a pushy young civil servant in their crumbling old building. She has organized that the street and open over flowing drains taken care of properly. It was a rare thing to happen in the narrow back lanes of the old city.

Indra, not impressed by her selective indulgence, teased her a lot and punctured her pomposity occasionally, and that may be the reason to set him apart from the fawning, adoring crowd around her. She listened to him and talked about various common interests.

‘Saab, He is still sleeping. I wonder---.’

Chauth Mal addressed Prerna with utmost caution, being aware of her friendship with Indra. Lately she and liked ‘Saab’, an expression of masculine power and authority.

‘So….. what? How are you concerned about him?’

Prerna’s curt and sharp authoritative tone was music to Indra, and it produced an abrupt silence out side.

‘No. I mean-------- I said----No I didn’t mean to-- Saab--“.

Indra smiled, he could picture a fumbling Chauthu with relish. Every body wants to develop and maintain good relations with a civil servant. You never know when it will come handy to further own interests, business and god knows what not.

The silence out side was broken by Chauthu’s inglorious exit from the scene. His new camel skin shoes made sharp creaky noise. Sheepishly he must have bowed his head and carefully climbed down the narrow, darkened, and worn out winding stairs. Such occasional insults would not change him a bit in his crafty maneuvers and would surely try to hit back and evict Indra from his cheap, centrally located room, who has powerful friends in Prerna and Ganga Bai. Chauthu was indeed fighting a battle he will perhaps never win. Nevertheless, there was other more compelling reason-he didn’t like Indra talking so frequently with Shanno, his wife and daughter of the richest man of his village. Shanno ignored his objections with contempt and continued to be friendly with Indra. It was a rumor that she had been hurriedly married off to Chauthu, to put an end to the troubles created by her. She was prone to vanish from home at night with her various paramours. Many village elders have made their disapproval known to her father, rather meekly due to his stature and money. Her troubled father had to find a suitable match fast before she could bring further infamy and damage to the fragile family pride. The tedious job entrusted to a reliable barber Naththu, famed for fast results. He quickly produced a befitting match, a poor but promising prospective groom for a rich man's wayward daughter. Greedy Chouthu and his foresighted, deaf mother were too happy to overlook her past for a sizable dowry of cash, house hold goods and a motorcycle along with a well stocked oil shop in Jaipur. Shanno was excited to live the in the famed PickCity .

‘He never slept so late.’ Ganga Bai’s concerned voice assured Indra further. He continued to brush silently and listened carefully.

‘He is up and brushing teeth.’ It was Prerna’s kid brother.

‘Pintoo…. too bad,… you should never peep in any one’s room.’ She snapped at her mischievous little brother. Whose investigating eyes must have found an uncovered hole or a crack in aged wooden door?

‘That’s bad Beta, we all are so worried and you didn’t say a thing to assure us, that you are up and all right.

‘Thank you- auntie. I am all right. Let me have a bath please. And Pintoo, you can come after half an hour, OK! I have a surprise gift for you.’

The message to Prerna was communicated.

‘What’s it? Tell now? …. Is it a comic book or a chocolate bar?’ Pintoo was eager.

‘Oh now come on. He said half an hour. Didn’t he? Come on now, complete your homework first.’ Prerna was tough with her naughty young brother.

‘No. No. No. I want that chocolate now.’ Pintoo’s protesting voices and tantrums trailed off. She must have dragged him upstairs. He might have made usual veiled threats of exposing her gory secrets. Nevertheless, Prerna surely knew how to deal with her mischievous young sibling. He was the sixth and latest offspring of her parents, who went on producing five daughters, every time desperately expecting a male child, the heir and lighter of their funeral pyres, assuring their place in heaven.

#All Rights Reserved

I Love Paris

2007-04-08T08:47:00.000+05:45

He got up and joined people walking down towards the woods.
He moved behind a big boulder near bank of the river, away from the crowd of holidaymakers. The top portion of Eiffel Tower with its thin aerial was visible, emerging out of distant trees, accompanied by the cone of the hideous Pencil Tower. He sat down on one of the stone slabs and unfolded ‘Le Monde’, turned pages with interest and immersed himself in the newspaper, munching sandwiches. Little away a man with fishing rod sat motionless, looking far ahead towards the woods.
A boat with two men drew closer riding the slow moving river. It made a slight maneuver and neared the bank. The one man silently opened the beer canes gave one to the other young man leaning back in the boat facing him.
“ Nice weather sir, the first man addressed the man with newspaper.”
Tariq ignored him and continued to eat and read the newspaper.
“ Is it not nice sir? “ The other young man spoke as if trying to tease the older man.
“ I find is marvelous here.”
He looked up, eyes darting around swiftly, scanning the area with measured and trained bearing.
“ Yeah. I always feel marvelous here. Look at the mighty Eiffel Tower.”
Both young men turned to see the magnificent view of the tower emerging out of woods.
“ Beautiful. I have begun to love Paris.” One man said, drinking beer.
“ Every body loves Paris.” Said Tariq still reading newspaper, with a tinge of seriousness.
“ Nice to know that sir.” The tone showed excitement and satisfaction.
Both men looked in separate directions, keeping a constant vigil.
“ We also love other things and most importantly what we promise.
“ Please, don’t disturb me folks.”
It was the alarmed middle-aged angler with round speckes kissing his thick salt pepper eyebrows. They fell silent as some tourists went past them, back to the market and parking lot.
“ Why don’t you keep mum for some time? You repeat the same thing so often?”
“ No man. I have to.” The voice has developed a sinister tone.
All were silent for few moments.
“I got a reasons too brother”, Tariq hissed.
“ Do you? “ Challenged the man with fishing rod.
The men in boat seem to listen and kept a silent but potent vigil.
“Forget the crap, let’s know the developments?”
“I expect some results soon.” The angler hesitated.
“ Brother, we all are running out of time and patient now. Tell me if it’s too difficult for you. But it will be quite shameful experience to go back on a promise and accept defeat with out lifting a damn finger.”
There was an awkward silence as three pairs of eyes looked at the man with fishing rod. He coughed nervously and spoke with low voice.
“ I have been trying hard, but there are unexpected problems, you know, we have to keep whole thing quite. It’s very important that we are very careful and raise no alarm. I request for some more time and rescheduling.”
He stopped and looked at the black caped Tariq.
“ Rubbish. The buyer would not wait and would certainly go away. Tariq hissed in low measured tone. “No rescheduling possible and looks like we might loose out due to your incompetence. “
The man with fishing rod sat motion less with his blank face, betraying no emotions. Black capped man looked at him with distaste and continued.
“We still have a chance if you do your job well. If I knew you was a worthless pest with no self-respect. I would have never agreed to rely on you. Mind it, if you fail again; please vanish, because I don’t know how these boys would deal with you. They have been waiting so anxiously for the money.” He lifted his faded jacket, and stood up.
“You have raised by blood pressure, it’s a pity that so much depends on a worthless creature like you.” He gathered his newspaper, manila bag and looked at the angler, expecting a reply. There was none.
The angler moved his eyes nervously, avoided the steely stare and coughed. Suddenly he spoke with anxiety.
“Silence. Please don’t disturb me.”
A fat couple with two healthy kids was settling down nearby. Kids made noises as they went on to place their shining new fishing rods with bait in the river. The experienced and indulgent father blew air in a deflated cushion and kept an eye on the excited kids. The lady furiously busied her self with a big food basket and ordered kids to be silent. The man placed the mat and eased his bulk on a mat, the plug popped off, deflating the mat.
The lady and kids laughed heartily. The embarrassed man made a funny face
“ Sorry sir. I must have chosen a wrong place.”
A dejected Tariq bowed and walked towards a group of people walking briskly, and melted away.
Two boatmen silently smoked for some time, drank beers and kept gazing at the angler with deep disapproval. Their athletic bodies were straight and alert.
One young man spat loudly in an apparent display of deep disgust and feeling of let down. He spoke in low but confident tone-
“Do some thing fast. We are broke and need fast cash.”
They dropped in unison empty bottles in the water. The light green bottles drank water slowly and disappeared in the river. The pair straightened up in tandem to row the boat and followed the stream.
The angler silently watched them up to the bend in the river.
Powerful tugs on the rod made him smile and he begin to wind the wheel.
‘Oh. You got a big one, sir.” The boy exclaimed.
The angler nodded and smiled, judging the struggling fish.
“Please tell us how you did it?” The girl asked with great expectations.
“ Simple kids, offer a big bait and be patient.”

Devotion and Deceit

2007-04-08T08:30:00.000+05:45

Excited voices and hum of activities made Dr. Mitra-the retired archeologist, to open his eyes and languidly enquire his surroundings. The train was now slowly negotiating the famous steep mountain curve, speed was slow and noisy effort made by engines was evident through vibrations and creaking of wheels. Most of the passengers were glued to the windows to watch and record on camera the famous spectacle of heaving noisy double engines and couples of cars at the end slowly entering a tunnel below. A breath taking view of Arawali mountains and deep gorges with scattered lush greenery made any one with a camera to take a picture. He got up and went to the washbasin to splash some water on face to freshen up and rinse hands. Pratibha, the young journalist was readying her camera to shoot the scenery through open doors. Cool blast of mountain air through open door was refreshing. The famed tourist town of Ajeetgarh was at about half an hour’s journey. Situated deep in Arawali ranges, like a powerful magnet it attracts tourists from India and abroad. Hindus come to offer their prayers for well being before lord Ganesha, the eighth century idol with three heads. The temple, situated in an old impregnable fort high in the mountain away from the town.
Ajeetgarh has become an important part of a foreigner’s journey in India. A bath in its holy lake is a must to wash way accumulated sins of a materialistic life and become a new person all together, making further materialistic pursuits easy and less troublesome. The uninhibited and intoxicated foreigners have some time have got carried away in their frantic attempts to wash away sins too fast and were prosecuted for violation of code of conduct. The thriving bazaars in the town and particularly around the holy lake offered every conceivable merchandise sought by Indians devotees and fair skinned visitors. The town has more than hundred temples frequented by Indian devotees and exotica driven, nirvana-seeking foreigners.
There were frequent media reports of rampant drug peddling and nudism practiced by foreigners, which seemed to make the place more attractive and sought after than before; resulting in more Indian and foreign tourists flocking to the town. Increasing cases of dreaded Aids were also reported amongst prostitutes, taxi drivers, small hotel owners and tourist guides who come in contact with numerous amorous foreigners and locals. Doctors at government hospital and private clinics were ill equipped to deal with such cases. Many European ladies had fallen in love with local men, married and applied for Indian citizenship. Some have established hotels and travel agencies catering to tourists from their countries.
Social workers and concerned citizens were worried of alien influences on the youth and their life style. However no religious organization commented harshly on such delicate issues, fearing a fall in devotees and lower temple collections of cash and other offerings. The trader’s too disliked any negative publicity leading to drop in tourists’ traffic and low business. They called for all parties to avoid the dreaded cultural conflict and behave in a reasonable, businesslike manner. The knowledgeable people whispered about a secrete plan backed by powerful commercial and religious interest groups to down play any wide negative publicity apart from few occasional and unexpected saucy media reports to keep the interest of tourists alive in the exotic town.
Many enterprising residents have converted their homes in to paying guest accommodations and motels catering only to well paying foreigners. While others opened hotels and offered various services sought by a thriving pilgrimage and tourist town. Ajeetgarh boasted of heritage hotels housed in large ancient mansions and modern hotels, some operated by famed international hotel chains. But the elementary infrastructure as in all Indian cities was crumbling and failed to take pace with its rapid growth.

The resident leftists were not amused by the market oriented development and they immediately termed growth of tourism as a Work Bank sponsored blatant commercialization of religion, corrupting of young people, endangering country’s sovereignty and independence. They some time gathered near railway station and hotels where Americans and Israelis stayed and demonstrated against American imperialism, Coke, MacDonald’s and other western business establishments. Yankees who never seen a real red in person, went on furious clicking spree to show and tell folks back home. Some people alleged that group of hotels sponsored these as diversion and entertainment shows when things were low. Nobody complained, leftist got publicity along with brand new red flags, free breakfasts or lunches and tourists have seen and recorded a live communist demonstration with bearded thin men shouting …”down with Bush. Long lives the revolution. …..Long lives comrade Castro.”
The leftist influence was little in the commercialized town but deep in jungles, few die-hard and motivated Maoist extremists have developed close bond with the impoverished tribal. They have lived with them for years, providing leadership and shielding them from corrupt forest officials, greedy moneylenders and ruthless contractors. They have control of most of the village councils in the vast hilly area and organize a sizable army of youths and controlled jungles produce, received arms and training from extremists groups based in Nepal, Kashmir, Bihar, Jharkhand, AP and Tamilnadu. Few dreaded terrorists from Kashmir have rumored to take shelter there, eluded the police for long time and later have escaped to Europe through Pakistan.
The police have always rejected the media reports of any extremist group operating in the jungles near Ajeetgarh. The local strong man Prabhati Lal, an old communist and the member of legislative assembly from the area has always vehemently denied presence of any terrorists and extremists in his constituency. He is rumored to have reached a tactical understanding with the extremists to keep police and bureaucracy away if they help him in his election by organizing mass voting for him and his associates with help of ultras.
The arrangement have suited both for years and extremists have now entrenched themselves strongly in the area and preparing for next phase of bloody struggle and annihilation of class enemies. They have carefully so far confined their actions towards greedy forest officials and moneylenders with in jungle and did not create any trouble in the temple town, which might lead to increased media focus and possible backlash from the police or central agencies fighting extremists. There have been no killings by them and have managed their core objectives with out much of violence, though reports of some angry tribal beating officials and small traders have been common for a long time. These developments were viewed by the learned social commentators as manifestations of empowerment of disposed and poor tribal people who have been exploited for thousands of years.
Prabhati Lal has prospered beyond his own wildest dreams and has lately become complacent making easy money and womanizing, loosing personal touch with his people. Other politicians eying the large tribal vote bank have tried to fill the void and established contact with angry extremists, who have been unhappy due to death of few comrades in police lockups. Prabhati was not available for help and get the men released.
He was now on a weak position due to growing opposition to his family’s vice like grip on politics for years. There were now many ambitious and moneyed contenders to successfully challenge him in next elections and battle lines were being drawn in fine details to unseat him. Every event, which happened in the temple town, was now viewed from political angle and disposed by decision makers looking on its effects on the political groupings and leanings. The town was now neatly divided in to pro, against and fence sitters who might align with any one at last moment depending on the cast affiliations or general mood of voters. The opposition party has planned a grand political rally for next Sunday. Few national leaders, including a former prime minister were expected to attend and make political speeches. The administrative machinery was neck deep in making security arrangements for Z category security covered leaders, leaving no resources for any other pressing eventualities.

Undercover in Pink City

2007-02-13T09:58:00.001+05:45

Murari maneuvered himself out of maze of chairs and human legs, adjusted his bulging belly by tightening of the worn out suede leather belt and winked at Khanna. He could foresee an evening of free expensive liquor and meals. It would be scheduled shortly, if he played his role with patience and right inducements to the various actors involved. Khanna seemed excited about meeting the girl. But first, he must judge how the Danish girl will respond. Being aware of many foreigner's penchant for staying focused on some weird set of visit-objectives, he decided to wait and plan a proper role for Khanna. His young friend Bhushan will certainly provide clues and opportunities to spend ample time with her. His father Bhayaji had strong faith in astrologer’s predictions and disapproved of his son mingling with amorous foreign girls.
He approached Bhushan and the girl, sitting on a corner table.
' Hello madam! Welcome to the Pink City?'Murari smiled and bowed elegantly, his best act to melt away white suspicion, arrogance and open closed doors. He never failed. The girl shifted her large blue eyes to him from the group of deaf and dumb boys and girls, communicating animatedly in sign language. They could be discussing the latest romantic movie showing in the nearby cinema.
'Oh uncle, please have a seat. Pat, meet Mr. Murari the famous story teller of Pink City.'
They have decided , how Bhushan will introduce him to foreigners. Murari's English involved speking- great, you are beautiful, yes, that’s right, you are right, excellent, oh no, its not like that, I don’t agree and similar rudimentary expressions of agreement, appreciation and disapproval. Here Bhushan's impeccable public school English helped Murari to communicate with English speaking foreigners. Bhushan will translate and communicate with his customers, who longed to know the Pink City, beyond lousy brochures, hurried and ill-informed, crafty tourist guides. Customers with impressive shopping list, demanded Bhushan’s presence on sight seeing, or he will depute one of his able assistant’s to translate Murari's impressive monologues to bewildered foreigners.

'How was the coffee?' Murari kept smiling and surveyed her closely, trying to read her.
'It was good, thank you.' She looked up and shook Murari's extended hands.
'You are welcome.' Murari sat down.
'Are you a writer?' Pat enquired.
' No! I hate to waste ink and precious paper, so I have decided to tell stories instead. I must have saved hundreds if not thousands of trees.' Murari said with an air of a seasoned savior of the earth, enough to put a hardened eco activist to an instant disgrace. An amused Bhushan decided to translate his pompous dialogue, verbatim to an expectant Pat.
' Oh, that’s is a wonderful thought.' Pat sounded curiously pleased, trying to judge and place him.
Bhushan smiled indulgently, he was amazed at Murari's hidden repertoire of hereto-unknown nuggets of wisdom, a very economical proposition for him indeed.
' Murray..I mean your name? . I mean, what did you say Bush?' Pat tried hard to decipher his name.
' Never mind, call me More.' Murari sat on a chair near Pat, noticing her shapely legs only few inches away.
‘OK! Did you say more or Moore?'
‘Fine. You call me Moore.' Murari was pleased at expected easy goings.
'Moore, wow, that sounds familiar.'
'Is it? That’s good for me indeed! But please lets not talk about sculptures of Henry Moore, right now. He deserves a separate dedicated discussion in an appropriately artistic environment and I am quite sure, you did not mean Roger Moore, the James Bond?'
Bhushan could see Pat’s hereto-hesitant expression turned comfortable as she nodded appreciatively at Murari.
She nodded in cheerful agreement.
“Oh sure, you are quite right Mr. Moore.”
Murari suddenly felt pangs of hunger turning wild. The strong aroma of steaming hot dosas being carried away to the nearby cabin hit his bulbous nose hard. Presence of a fat pursed Bhushan, encouraged him to announce his intentions. Bhushan always paid bills with out signs of, at least any visible annoyance. Even if Bhushan dared to show any discomfort, Murari was tactful enough to ignore miserly signals of a rich boy, with the deserved contempt.
'Son, I will have a double mutton dosa, and madam what would you like to have? I suggest you must taste mutton dosa, its delicious. And what about you, Bhushan?'
Pat mumbled something about the not taking any spicy Indian food. Murari assured her of his old friendship with the head cook that can manage to arrange a special light spiced one, just right for her delicate Scandinavian palate. An indecisive Pat looked impressed. He didn’t waste time and signaled a hovering waiter and shot crisp instructions about light spiced dosa for the guest and usual spicy variety for him, served twice along with the coffee for all. The waiter stood still and eyed him with his usual suspicious direct gaze, until a discreet node from Bhushan made him assured of the payment. That immediately broke his stillness; briskly he wiped the table with a damp cloth, deposited glasses of cool water and proceeded towards the counter, swiftly. Murari artfully avoided the clinching exchanges of uncertainty and assurance between Bhushan and the stupid waiter and turned to face Pat. She was once again looking at the deaf and dumb young pairs, silently laughing heartily, enjoying, their eyes filled with happiness .A girl looked too coy, may be on her first visit with her first boyfriend.
'In Hindi, More means a Peacock.' Bhushan tried to pick up the thread of conversation, back.
'Oh really a Peacock! Are you one?' Pat laughed loudly and turned towards Murari.
Khanna could hear her laugh, sitting expectantly on the edge of his chair, desperately waiting for signal from Murari to join. He felt jealous watching Murari with the gorgeous girl, wondering what they were talking? He tried to concentrate and recollect some thing interesting to tell the foreigner. But he knew he was no match for Murari in storytelling and history knowledge. It suddenly occurred to him, that Murari was capable of forgetting him all together and can offer numerous reasons for it, with a practiced and deceptive deadpan. Khanna could feel an impending gloomy scenario-may he was stupid enough to not to offer him the coffee, he wanted so badly. He cursed himself profusely, and decided to be much wiser in the future.
He becomes aware of his awkward posture, which must have been surely noticed by his foes. He slowly made himself comfortable; hoping non has noticed it. He smiled at Jain, who was looking at him in a rather strange way. May be the old man disapproved his childish eagerness to meet the white girl. And if Jain decides to be inquisitive, he better be ready with a reasonable explanation. He scanned the list of various viable reasons of meeting this gorgeous girl, and bingo- he got it fast and a very conveniently suitable explanation for the obtrusive old man. He smiled broadly, got up and went to the public telephone near the main entrance.
'And madam its another name of Lord Krishna.' Murari felt good and settled in the cushioned chair. Bhushan looked happy at his expert and seamless introduction to a sophisticated Pat.
'You mean... Lord Krishna, the god with those... numerous heavenly consorts?'
'Well.... I suspect this scoundrel must have told you some thing naughty about me. Yes, you are right. But please correct your self; those consorts were quite real earthy nubile girls of the Brij and not some imaginative stuff drawn by a painter.' Bhushan eyed him for a moment and communicated with out editing.
“Oh, I see. I stand corrected, thanks a lot. Can you tell me how many real earthy consorts you have?' Pat laughed and looked at smiling Bhushan.
'Only one old wrinkled lady.' Murari made a sad face, Bhushan laughed and did his job.

Bhushan had to leave to attend some new business developments. He drew Murari aside and has discreetly slipped few notes of five hundred-rupee in his hand and left Pat in his care. He informed that he must drop her in the hotel whenever she feels going there. But not later than 11PM, and he has to keep Bhushan informed discreetly on the cell phone, if there is any change in the plan. Nothing must be done with out informing him. Her comfort and care were supposed to be his responsibility in India.
Murari hurriedly introduced a nervous Khanna to suspicious Bhushan as an intellectual who would volunteer to help him communicate with Pat and would translate expertly. Bhushan cautioned him about Pat being very important and a sophisticated guest. Murari assured him to leave these worries to him and attend to his business.
Khanna looked at Pat with profound erotic interest as smell of her light perfume made his head foggy. Those erotic images she had revived some time ago kept on flooding back and hit his brains hard. He has been listening carefully to the Murari’s seemingly unending strange tales and translating to a curious and receptive Pat. Who was visibly engrossed and seem to enjoy what ever he was translating. After some time Khanna felt assured enough to be adventurous by adding his own interpretations to various questions Pat asked about certain enfolding historical facts. The result was mixed one, some times it went un noticed and on few occasions Pat was so curious about certain aspects, he had no option left but to take help of Murari to extricate himself safely from a deep trouble. An amused Murari obliged heartily looking forward to reap rich harvest in future. He decided to over look Khanna’s blatant attempts to hold him responsible for his own crazy and wild interpretations of known historical facts and events. Murari knew Khanna would have to pay back with out grumbling, for a long time to come.

Khanna was surprised to know that Pat was here to collect research material for her doctoral thesis on “Hindu Temples and Rituals” and it was her third visit to India in last five years all devoted to her mysterious fascination. He was intrigued by such a boring venture of a gorgeous lady and wondered whether she would be interested in the Erotic Art of Ancient India. But that might be risky as Murari held all strings in the show and he might ridicule and veto the subject and his attempts to get intimate with her. He was once again forced to envy the pompous bastard. Her fascination with such bland and boring subject made her more intimidating.

A Dangerous Mission

2007-02-13T09:55:00.000+05:45

The silent capsule elevator moved up swiftly taking noisy tourists to their rooms at various floors, offering a breathtaking view of the city . New Delhi was teeming with foreign tourists along with increasing number of non-resident Indians returning to rediscover the motherland along with kids and spouses of various nationalities.
Comrade Hari Om was indifferent to the opulent seven star trappings, perfumed tourists and businessmen crowding the elevator.
‘The despised bourgeois filth.”
He grimaced and kept aloof from the scheming heartless looters of poor around him and had his eyes fixed on the swiftly changing floor number. He come out and went on looking for the room number down the passage and rang the bell, the door was opened immediately; he entered and closed the door silently.
He looked at the tall, elegant Olga with a tight fitting Levis jeans and black genuine lather jacket. With her high-heeled boots, she was always looked taller than him. He wanted to pull and hold her tightly in his arms, but kept his distance with restrain.
“ Hello Harry.“ Olga greeted him extending her slender hand. She too sensed his restrain and didn’t move.
“Laal Salaam, comrade Olga.” Hari Om couldn’t help being cheerful. A changed persona from a swollen indifferent man he has been before entering the room.
They shook hands. Hari Om restrained the urge to embrace her and felt she could sense his ordeal.
“ How have you been?” Olga gestured him to take a seat.
“I am OK. “ Hari Om went to the window and looked out side.
“You look troubled.. are you being followed?”
" I don’t know but have to be careful. Some stupid boys have killed a patty trader and might have disclosed some secretes to the police. They have put up a new police post in the jungle…We had to move our communication center deeper in where signals are week….. I am not sure what they have learned. "
" You have an excellent cover-working with a famous NGO engaged in a tribal welfare project funded by the rich blood sucking western donors."
“ I told you not to call me here. There may be police spies lurking around. What was wrong with those little cozy hotels in Pahargunj?"
“ Get over your paranoia.”
A brooding Hari Om didn’t reply and carefully settled down on the edge of the large comfortable sofa and looked at the plates of dry fruits with distaste reserved for an indulgent decadent living. He noticed her briefcase on the center table. She always displayed her briefcase, if she has good amount of money in it. He had cautioned her about this dangerous habit of carrying large amount of money on her person.
Olga continued-“I never liked those seedy hotels with stained bed sheets, dirty bathrooms and bad internet connection. Come on, you are now out of jungle for some time, do take it easy.“
“Why did you call me here? Comrade Olga, come straight to the point. I don't have time to waste, my people are waiting for me.”
"So you are wasting your precious time with me?' Olga's voice was laced with hurt.
"I didn’t mean that Comrade Olga... tell me what you need now?" Hari Om was cold and unconcerned.
“Harry, Its about your needs and not mine.” He noticed the absent comrade.
"I am trying hard these days to forget about our relationship Comrade Olga. I have a difficult job to do and you presence always disturb my balance."
"I am glad to know that Harry. Will you ever forget our daughter?"
"It was your idea not mine and you tricked me to get pregnant. I never wanted that to happen. It was your own choice, and I was not at all consulted."
"But it did happen and you want to forget the result? She has been asking about you a lot these days."
Comrade Hari Om remained silent.
“Why don’t you reply Harry?”
“I have no concern for a budding rose when ripe farms are burning…”
“How can you say this to me about my own daughter…. our daughter? You are a heartless, insane monster just like my father, a victim of ruthless ideological obsessions. Do you know what happened to him?”
“ I don't want to listen to your diseased interpretations again.”
“ Diseased indeed….these are not my interpretations but hard known facts. He was taken to Siberia and shot dead, his body burned in a furnace by his own body guards acting on orders of competing party bosses. Suddenly they remembered his misdemeanor while fighting Americans agents in Afghanistan. An apt replay of the Stalin era, so convenient and handy. ”
“ How do you know and why you are sure of those so called hard facts?”
“ Some one who was a reluctant participant told me all in the gory graphic details.”
“Individuals do falter often, Olga. How do you hold the party responsible?”
“It’s the culture of close mind the party has been practicing so long. Any way, I know you are a hard communist nut to crack and don't want to waste precious time trying to educate you. I know you Indian communists will be the last to perish on the alter of the ideology. The brave bare foot solders of a defeated ,defunct army.”
“ Stop...enough of this non sense. Do you want me to stay or go? Make your choice right now and fast.”
·

They met at Moscow years ago. He was a bright son of a small town militant trade union leader sent to study engineering through party head office in New Delhi. He was proud to be in Moscow and looked forward to a comfortable and educating experience in the socialist heaven. She was daughter of a powerful communist party czar with bright future and blessings of top party bosses. Every body seemed to fear her father and her own arrogant behavior. But some how they hit off well right from the very start. His excellent introductory address was highly appreciated by all the students and party bosses present. She was first to come forward and congratulate him with a broad appreciative smile. Hari Om has been so focused on ideology leaving no interest in girls but she had made an instant impact on the young communist. She showed him around in city and their friendship blossomed.

·
They remained silent for a long time, till Olga continued carefully.
“You still need those guns?”
She waited for his answer and repeated her question, a little louder this time.
“ Yes, but that kind of money we don’t have right now.”
“Will you ever have the money?”
“I don’t know, we are planning some thing to raise money.” His tone was bitter and displayed an acute helplessness.
“The guns won’t be there for long, you have to make a decision now.”
Comrade Harry remained silent.
“Times have changed Harry, these guns are with the people who would sell for good money, not from any people’s revolutionary government helping other revolutionaries.”
“ You know we don’t have that kind of money. What is on your mind and why did you call me here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Now you have seen me. Can I leave this rotten place?”
“No. I have a good proposal for you.” Hari Om remained uninterested.
“ You do one job for me and I will give you all the guns you need.”
Hari Om was not prepared for a straight proposal and looked at her with surprise.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes I am.”
“ What is that job Comrade Olga?”
“ I am sure you will love it, perfectly in line you your passion of teaching a hard hitting lesson to the bourgeois decadent west.” Olga drew close to an impassioned Hari Om.
“ One more thing Harry.... Please note I am not a communist any more.... simply Olga, forget the comrade.”
Hari Om remained seated, looking at her with his steely gaze.
“ What is the job?”
“ You have to organize shipment of a special cargo to Europe.”
“Why through India?’
“ Because it’s in Afghanistan right now and can move to Pakistan shortly on my signal. Can’t be sent through Pakistani ports due to heavy scrutiny it might get on destinations.”
“A bomb?” Steely-eyed Hari Om was straight to the point.
“I don’t know and nor I care about that. I need money to settle down my sisters and raise my daughter in a nice way…one more thing that’s my get out job. After this job, there will be no more demands on me from the party.”
“Are you leaving Molotov?”
“Yes.. I will be a free person after this job is done.”
“Why are you leaving the party?” Comrade Hari Om was angry.
"Because I don't want my sisters to remain prostitutes fore ever and neither I want our daughter to become one when she grows up."
"Ridiculous ...the party is not responsible for these bourgeois diseases."
“Harry you will never understand that. I have gone through all.. from days of heady power, foolish expectations to the realization of hard realities…all around failures. The party and its ideology have worked nowhere. If you and your comrade think it would work in India, I don't have a problem. I will only make sure that my daughter will not be in India if the damned party ever has any remote chance of success here."
"I don't want to listen to this rubbish any more." Comrade Hari Om got up with anger.
"Sit down Harry. We need to talk and help each other." Olga pushed him back to the seat and continued.
"Better you accept the offer and our big problems are solved, you get guns for the so called revolution and I get money to save my sisters from a humiliating and degrading life. And our daughter’s future is secured too.”
Comrade Hari Om remained silent.

·
Olga poured more drink in her glass. Hari Om was not keen and removed his glass away.
“Can you do it?”
“I need all the details….. You know how I work.”
“That is on need to know basis only, beyond that nothing.. Better you also too don’t ask much.. Less we know better it is for all of us.” Olga opened a bottle and poured two drinks and handed one to a brooding Hari Om.
“ When do we start?”
“Right now …cheers.”
Hari Om looked suspiciously at Olga and took a small measured sip.
“Look Olga, so far so good. We want guns badly and can do whatever you want if it is feasible. That’s important… But no tricks… I warn you. You might have a become a petty bourgeois…but we still believe in the great ideology here, even if it didn’t work in Soviet Union because bloody capitalists sabotaged it through that rascal Grobochov. No treachery…you must remember… or my friends in Russia will come to after you. We have no sympathy for the class enemies.”
Olga looked at Hari Om and laughed.
“No dramatics Harry. You are imagining things … do your job well first; and the guns will be air lifted and dropped in your area. And I am just a coordinator for both sides due to my rapport with all the parties involved. Even if you do your job and there some problem in air lifting and any other thing with Afghan war lords or CIA… how will you hold me responsible?”
" If we ship your cargo, guns must be dropped in our area with in a week."
"Guns will be yours but cant commit a tight time frame for the air dropping. There are complex logistics involved."
Comrade Hari Om listened and drank, weighing his limited options.
“Tell me more about it so I can start planning immediately. Before that I want money to organize things.” He spoke with growing interest.
Olga stood up and opened her briefcase with a wink and tilted it towards him proudly.
Comrade Hari Om looked at neat pile of high value Indian currency notes.
"Genuine?" He looked at her enquiringly.
"Yes genuine, I am sure." Olga was confident.
"Make sure it’s genuine. I don't want to use counterfeits, which might create complications at crucial moments."
"Its genuine Harry, it is an important mission and nobody can afford to take any chances. Money is not a problem Harry, if you need more tell me. I will stay in Jaipur till cargo is cleared at the destinations." She closed the briefcase and handed it over to Hari Om.
“My job is over when the cargo is loaded at Indian port. Is that clearly understood and accepted?”
“Yes.” Olga replied with a smile.
“I do not need this fancy bourgeois briefcase, put money in some other bag and what are the destination ports?"
“Our friends have not decided the ports yet. They will place orders with the exporter immediately if you accept to load the cargo on Europe bound containers.
“I must repeat, my job is over when the ships leave Indian port, and I must get guns, you do the clearance in Europe. Is it ok?
“Ok.” Olga was hesitant, but happy.
'Good. Now tell me more about the cargo." He carefully put the briefcase on his lap.
“Harry, these are not bombs but a boxes of sealed gas bottles of Russian origin. Can’t be detected if hidden in a consignment of heavily scented incense sticks. Here is a list of Indian exporters dealing in the stuff along with the chemical specifications, packing case design and instructions. These papers will be destroyed right here and you can get the details on a web site to be communicated later. ” She handed over two sheet of papers to Hari Om.
He started reading the list of exporters. A name on the neat computer printout caught his attention: Bhayaji Impex, Jaipur, India was familiar.
Olga came to his assistance- “the firm Bhayaji Impex is a reputed and respected company dealing in various commodities and Indian handicraft items. They have a very influential and efficient clearing and forwarding agent in Europe with impeccable record. If the cargo is sent through containers loaded with specified incense sticks they regularly export to Europe, there is great possibility of the success in the operation.”

Henna is going to London

2007-02-13T09:51:00.000+05:45

Tariq waited for their car to move ahead and clear his way. He saw it disappear from their sight. The tiny hand of Henna waved them good by. A nudge from wife made him break his frozen composure and turned the key.
“Any thing serious?” Praveen enquired.
“No.” Tariq didn’t look at her.
He knew she didn’t believe him. His own voice seemed peculiar, as if it belonged to a complete stranger.
He began to wonder if Waqar’s fanaticism has influenced him in some way? His thoughts went back to howling Henna, throwing her tiny legs and a demure, simple Jahida serving him food.
“Abba ...Henna is going to London.” His son Ali spoke with a tinge of jealousy and expectation.
So Waqar has already decided to take them on his dangerous mission.
“ When will we go to London?” Ali was impatient to hear a promise from him.
“ Abba will tell you later. Now will you please let him drive?” Praveen come to his rescue.

A crimson sun was setting in the wide horizon and the road seemed to head for the mighty fireball. The car ahead appeared to head for it too, gradually becoming smaller till it turned in to a tiny dot and then it was gone. Tariq felt dizzy and stopped the car on side and asked for bottle of water. He stepped out of car and splashed cold water on his face again and again until he felt better. He looked away from the sun.
Praveen looked at him with troubled curiosity. Her face hidden in a scarf she always wore so elegantly. Tariq knew she was worried and would need a proper explanation from him- always a difficult job.
Ali laughed and asked Praveen to let him imitate his Abba, he didn’t wait for her approval. He come to him and extended his hand and took bottle of from him and immediately splashed water on his face, drenching his cloths wet.
Ali was not happy with the result and sheepishly looked at Tariq for help in his venture. Tariq felt secure that his tears were hidden in cold water invisible to his son, who always thought him to be a brave man: beyond such cowardice. He went to an embarrassed Ali and knelt down.
“Sorry Abba.”
“Its alright beta. Lets go.” He picked him up and went to the car.
“I will drive, you must take rest now.” A pale and troubled Praveen has shifted to the driving seat.
Tariq avoided looking at her.

A Flock of Noisy Birds

2007-02-13T09:49:00.000+05:45

Waqar didn’t reply and again looked at blue sky, brooding, slowly nodding, as if listening and agreeing to some divine voice from sky. He seemed to have gone to his trance once again. Tariq drank and waited patiently, closed his eyes and thought about Praveen and Ali his son. He decided to cool off his relations with Waqar. It would do him no harm or perhaps be a better option, given to his friend’s dangerous obsession and preoccupation with a lunatic revenge plan. He wished it was one of those crazy ranting and Waqar would go back to his life as before.
“I some times wonder, what I am today?”
Tariq could feel he was being exposed to some hereto-secrets hidden in recess of his friend’s fertile brain. He tried to listen carelessly as he had always done-betraying no keen interest and eagerness, which he was indeed developing.
“I am an unknown shopkeeper with some money? But who knows me back home? No body.”
“ Is it that important to be well known?”
“Yes it is. I want my name remembered by every body.”
“Remembered? What do you mean?”
“ I loved football and wanted to be a professional footballer. But couldn’t become one, because my father wanted me to be a doctor. He never listened to me and made sure I missed my practice of the day, being locked up in my room with my tutors of various size and shapes to mug up physics, chemistry and biology lessons. Some of them looked like heartless monsters. They would test my memory and hit a ruler on my extended soft palm. I felt humiliated and I wanted to kill the devil and thought of various methods that would result in an accidental death of those hated monsters. But could not venture beyond the planning stage and never gathered courage to execute the plans and prove myself, at least to my self. Later when I got to know their own miserable conditions and compulsions to make my father happy; trying to prepare me for a career in medical profession; I gave up those grand assassination plans, those poor tutors were just trying to make a living and earn to keep their kitchen fires on.”
Waqar took out another beer. He was a gracious host and would make sure his guests would have had enough of delicious food and drinks.
Tariq knew all this background, having heard his friend many times over, but Waqar seemed so lost and trying hard to explain his position, he had no option but to listen and nod in agreement as he was suppose to do faithfully. One has to be and seen attentive and react in proper way when elders are saying some thing or any thing they felt like saying at any moment. Waqar resumed his monologue.
“ Now I am sure that stage is near and look quite possible it’s with in my own reach. No matter if they approve my plan or not. I have other options and some like-minded resourceful friends with me. And they are as passionate and willing as I am… I mean…”
Waqar looked away and fell silent and kept looking at the noisy children and ladies, his eyes becoming moist. Her daughter Henna raced toward them threw herself at him and started to sob.
“ Arrre. What happened to my dear little darling?” Waqar wiped his tears and Tariq took his beer to save it from spilling over the child.
“ I don’t like Bhai pulling my hairs.” She increased her effort to gather tears and started to howl loudly.
“ Oh, he is just a small child and does not know any thing.” Waqar made a funny face and tried to pacify the child.
“ Why don’t you tie his hands?” She stopped her howling and demanded abruptly. Her voice was shrill and efforts produced streams of tears from her innocent large eyes. She could rain teardrops on drop of a hat and smoother his dotting father to her outrageous demands. Henna now seemed proud of running little streams flooding her pink cheeks and delicate neck. Her mother Jahida had already got fed up of requesting Waqar not to pamper the child so much and spoil her for forever. But he would not listen and indulge his dear daughter further. She had no option but gave up completely and let Waqar deal with the little girl. She told him to find a boy for Henna, who could put up with such noisy tantrums and she would better be excused of such daunting responsibilities.
She would say- we don’t know what troubles she might face in her adult life; what kind of boy would she merry, how would he treat her. Please have mercy, don’t spoil her and think of future. Nobody likes a woman who throws tantrums and behaves unreasonably.
“ No need for that. I will tell him to behave.” Waqar put Henna on his lap and promised softly. Tariq could see little tears still sticking to his friend’s eyes.
“He won’t. I hate him.” She resumed her howling and threw legs violently on his chest.
Waqar caught hold of her tiny legs and made a funny face, which made her stop shrieking.
A flock of birds descended nearby and she sat up, wide eyed.
“ Abba, see these birds, I will catch one today.” She forgot her hair-pulling brother, funny-faced father and developed keen interest in the flock and ran after it, which raced dozing her expertly.
Waqar slowly drew his contorted muscles back in place and returned to his menacing, brooding, lamenting posture. Tariq watched him being transformed from a loving father of little girl to a fanatic, dreaming a grand terror strike, which may deprive many young girls of their funny-faced fathers, loving harassed mother and hair pulling cute little brothers. They perhaps, will never dare to howl again and would seize their interest in flock of noisy birds.

Visitor Locations

2007-02-05T10:40:00.000+05:45