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What the canal carries - A Tale of Sheikhpur

2026-07-02T04:09:14.491-07:00

"And if you feared as they fear, then surely you would have taken the same path they took."

— Al-Nisaa 4:77

“That day I saw Azhar Chacha emptying the canal water as if in a trance, with his eyes closed and yet focused on his work. He looked like a Jinn had possessed him. He paused for a second and looked at me with his eye turned inside out. It was 4.30 AM in the night and I ran as fast as my legs would carry me away”

The village had been agog with the words of young Irfan as he spat out the words, as if trying hard to cast off an evil spell from his entire body.

Irfan was the younger Son of the Muezzin of the village, Rahim. He was fourteen years old. He had never lied about anything that mattered.

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Sheikhpur sat on the western bank of the Chitroptala, a tributary of the Mahanadi that was wide in the monsoon and a brown patch by March. The village had been there long enough to forget exactly how long, which is the mark of a place that has calcified around its own history. The villagers were mostly farmers growing paddy, potatoes, vegetables and jute. Mother earth was very generous in her bounties and gave rich yield to the crops and the villagers were very much grateful and lived a content and happy life.

Everyone in Sheikhpur knew the canal.

It ran through the village like the roots of the banyan tree. In the day it was simply water but at night when the mist engulfed Chitroptala and lay low across the paddies and the lamplight from the houses shimmered on the flowing water in the dark, it became something else; not dark & ominous but also not something you approached unnecessarily.

Azhar had always approached it.

He was the son of Karim and Fatima, who lived in the house near the Sal grove. A grown man who has grown in age but not in accomplishment of men his age – no job, no wife and no ambition. He just sat near the canal and watched the water move without giving any sign that the time was passing. He did and carried out things that others would call odd. He prayed in the field while everyone else offered their prayer in the mosque. To anyone who asked, he replied that Allah can also hear him from the field, which was true and hence nobody argued. He sang to himself in a language that was not Odia and not Bengali and not Udu. When his mother once asked him what he was singing he said he did not know, he was only repeating what he heard.

"From where?" she had demanded.

He looked at the canal and said nothing.

Azhar was an oddball and like other oddballs, the village did not know what to do with him. He was harmless but that knowledge carried a certain degree of unease in the way the knowledge of a deep well carries unease even in someone who has no intention of falling in.

Irfan’s closeness to Azhar was another story in itself. As an infant & child, Irfan was very mischievous. Even when he was unable to walk and could barely crawl, he will manage to drag himself to the edge of the bed and would land headfirst, all the time. This brought intense agony and concern on the part of his mother, Hazra Bi, who was concerned with such incidents on one hand while dreading the anger of her husband on the other.

One day, while she was busy in between washing dish and cooking for Rahim, she completely forgot about the baby. The elder one was away in school and this fact slipped her mind.

“Hai Allah” Shouted someone even as she heard a thud from the outside. She rushed to see what could have happened.

There below the tall verandah was standing Azhar, holding on to the Baby in one hand while dusting off the dirt from his body.

“It’s all Allah’s Fazal that Azhar came timely to catch the baby as he was almost dropping off from the verandah” Observed one passerby.

“Women now a days, I tell you” Said the other. “I say, when you don’t have the quality to become mother, then why do you bring innocent kids to this world” He Said disdainfully even as Hazra Bi came out.

“Tauba, tauba, humein kya” They left disdainfully seeing Hazra Bi come out.

Since that day Azhar became close to the kid as someone who knew him since a longtime and shared some kind of kinship with him, which was inexplicable to others and incoherent to many.

To Irfan, Azhar became Azhar Chacha – the source of many adventure, wonderment and amazing discoveries. Both of them became inseparable as from dawn and seen in every nook and corner of the village; be it the chasing of wild butterflies or the plucking of mangoes from others mango orchard or catching fish from the small Nullas which emanated from the large canal of the village. In him, Azhar found escape from the many taunts and sarcasm of his parents & family members. In Azhar, Irfan found a play partner who was fun, exciting and adventurous; adding colors to his otherwise drab childhood. With a Muezzin father who always insisted on following Islamic rituals, Irfan craved a carefree world with full freedom – something that Azhar provided in abundance.

“What would you do when you grow up” Asked Azhar one day as they were resting against the mango tree one summer afternoon after having a bellyful of the sweet mangoes.

“I want to be like you, Azhar Chacha” Said a 6 years old Irfan, beaming.

Azhar’s face fell. He looked up to the young & innocent child and did not know how to explain it to him.

That the world measures the worth of a person by how much he is able to earn, by how useful he makes himself as per the criteria set by the society, of how smartly he speaks and impresses people and how cunning he can be in the affairs of the world where he can amass greater wealth at the cost of others. And how the world also derides someone who choose to not take the path, stay honest, enjoy the bounty of Allah and just look forward to make others and himself happy in the process.

Such is the way of the world and such is its treatment towards people.

To Irfan, he said this simply “study and become a big man like the Sahib at the collectorate so that you can make Azhar Chacha proud”.

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Hazra Bi hurried to leave for home as it was really getting dark.

She had come to meet one of the newly wed bride who hailed from a nearby village in Midnapur. Coming from Midnapur herself, she found the village of Sheikhpur to be boring, dull and lacking life. Although, she was always grateful to Allah Almighty for giving a good husband like Rahim, she could not bear the dreary hours that ensued once Rahim left for the mosque in the morning. The women in the neighborhood were all known to each other for generations and some of them were childhood friends. Hence there existed a coterie of housewives who could not bear to let anyone in, let alone Hazra Bi, who was considered as an outsider.

The interaction with the new bride was invigorating, refreshing and exactly what Hazra Bi’s soul needed at that point in time. The girl narrated story from their village, the local village festival and the fair, which Hazra Bi also knew as a child. How it had become fun and more exciting than what was there in the yesteryears. Time flew in the blink of the eye and before she knew, it was already pitch dark outside. The only feasible route to her home passed through the Kabristaan. The longer route passed through the dense mango orchard which was a much time consuming & riskier proposition.

Now how does she go to her home?

What strange thing may be waiting to pounce on her on the way?

She remembered the many scary story of Jinn & Jinnaat from the village folk. Of apparitions that they have seen in the night at the Kabristaan and how some of them are bloodthirsty and while others craving for the company of women as they had died unmarried. The Kabristaan was a menacing place which treasured in its chest terrors and unspeakable horror which was waiting to be unleashed to someone who may be unfortunate to venture near them in the night.

Hazra Bi panicked.

In her panic, she requested the new girl to accompany her with a lantern and give her company in crossing the Kabristaan. The good-natured girl was willing but was sternly dissuaded by her elder Sister-in-Law who was a premium member of the neighborhood housewife club.

Reluctantly, with much trepidation and absolute mortification, Hazra Bi started on her journey back to her home.

She went past the row of Sal tree and crossed the cluster of Neem tree and came to the boundary of the Kabristaan. A breach has been made in the boundary wall of the Kabristaan which served as an entry point for many of the passerby to take a shortcut rather than the long detour through the mango orchard.

Hazra Bi stood at the boundary wall, staring at the large hole in the wall which will let her in, trying to make a decision whether to go in or not. She thought about her children who she had left with the neighbour and of Rahim returning from mosque as it was past Isha time and how upset he will be not to see her and the kids alone.

She decided to move forward. She entered the hole and let the darkness swallow the rest of her being in to the world of the Kabristaan, its Jinn & Jinnats.

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She slowly started to find her way amongst the graves to what happened to be a beaten path by the day time.

She knew this place. She had attended burials here and read Fatiha for the Magfirat of those who have passed away.

However, in the dark, she was unable to see the way clearly and as such stumbled many times and fell amongst the nettle bush, bruising herself with nettle rash.

She got up, dusted & gathered herself and continued in her journey. That’s when she heard the voice.

It was not like anything she has heard before. It was a deeply baritone voice which was unusually grave and yet had the tremble of someone who seemed to be crying.

“Allahu Akbar”

Hazra Bi turned as the voice was coming from the mosque at the edge of the Kabristaan. She egged on to have a closer look from the faint light of the lamp which was almost reaching its end.

There in the faint flame of the lamp, Hazra Bi saw clearly as the day light, Azhar and a full line of apparitions who were following him in a namaz led by him.

She was about to flee.

That’s when she heard Azhar.

“Hazra Bi, why do you roam the night running away from your responsibilities which clings to you like the dead cling to the living? It is I who gets blamed for being irresponsible but I think you are the one who is more irresponsible than I can ever be”.

Hazra Bi was about to run when Azhar looked up from in between the Namaz, in between the sentence.

Hazra Bi froze. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was looking at her.

His eyes were wrong.

Not rolled back but something else. His eyes were present and conscious and entirely directed at her, but the gaze was not that of a man. It was the gaze of something which knew how to use a man's eyes in the way you learn to use a tool you did not make: adequately, but with a slight mismatch that the thing that made the tool would immediately notice.

He gnashed his teeth and ran towards her.

Hazra Bi ran like a frightened deer.

She ran fast, stumbling over stones, falling in to the dirt but never daring to stop. She ran as far as her legs would carry her and did not look back or stop till she reached and collapsed near the ancient Banyan tree Infront of her house.

And in the yellow circle of the lantern on her verandah, she saw Azhar. Playing with her kids.

Her innocent and sweet kids even as they laughed at his jokes. Azhar’s teeth flashed momentarily in the yellow light of the lantern and Hazra Bi could swear, he looked at her with the deviousness of the devil himself waiting to swallow her entire family whole.

She felt her blood turn to ice.

But in that weak moment, something in her did not allow her to give up. Mother’s Instinct. She allowed her to gather herself and collect enough strength to charge towards Azhar with the ferociousness of a lioness out to protect her cub.

She slammed her head straight in to the chest of Azhar even as the children recoiled back in confusion.

Azhar landed with a loud thud and an intense pain his chest which felt like as if a boulder has been driven in to him again & again to crush him under its weight.

There were disbelief, anger and confusion in Azhar’s expression.

“What did I do?” He said exasperated. “Is this how you reward someone for looking after your children?”

By then, Hazra Bi had gotten hold of the Kitchen Knife and have slowly transformed in to the very incarnation of Goddess Kali, in the light of the flickering lantern.

“Run you Devil, run for your life. Or else I will slice you like the Bakra of Bakrid” growled Hazra Bi like a wounded lioness. “Don’t you dare to come anywhere my children and my family”.

Azhar fled the scene even as Hazra Bi gathered her sons and clutched them close to her chest.

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By the next morning the story was a story in making itself.

By the time it passed through three mouths, the inexplicable thing in the story had a name. By the time it had passed through ten, the name had a personality, a history, a motive. By the time it passed through thirty, the village is no longer discussing what Hazra Bi saw. It was discussing what was their interpretation of what they think she saw.

As evening descended, an Ojha was summoned from a distant village – an imposing man with ash smeared across his forehead and eyes that burned like hot coal.

Inside Rahim’s courtyard, Hazra Bi sat hunched against the wall, her hair hanging over her face like a funeral Kaffan.

The Ojha lit a bundle of bitter herbs. Thick black smoke rose through the courtyard, carrying a stench which was so foul that it made the villagers gag. He forced the fumes toward Hazra Bi’s face.

“Why do you come here to torment me?” The voice crawled out of her throat like something rotten which was dragged from a grave and felt coarse, guttural and rattling like loose tin in a storm.

“Why are you troubling this good soul. She has done nothing against you but yet you choose to torture her” Said the Ojha, raising his voice to intimidate and assume a commanding position above the evil spirt.

“It’s all her fault. Why did she pass by my place of rest & disturbed me?” Continued the voice, evil, menacing and chillingly frightening. The whole village was gathered outside.

The Ojha got up, straightened his back and looked intently at the evil spirit and spat on the ground.

“You think you will show your acrobatics and torment this innocent girl & I will sit around watching” Roared the Ojha.

Hazra Bi smiled and then gave out a loud laugh exposing her yellow teeth and bloody eyes. The laugh was so startling that it left some of the villagers scurrying for cover.

“I have seen many louts & vagabonds like you. Your kind does not frighten me. I will come and go wherever I want & as I please.” Said Hazra Bi or whoever was inside her, mirthfully, disdainfully.

This infuriated the Ojha to no end. He took out his broom stick, smeared with the holy ashes of the remains of holy man from the bank of the Ganges and had the incredible power to dispel any evil from anywhere.

After the 5th strike of the broom, everyone could hear a voice, that of a little girl, crying.

“Don’t hit me, please. I will do as you say and I will leave her.” It pleaded in whimpering voice.

“So, leave her now. Off you go to wherever that you had come” Said the Ojha, now looking ferocious with the ashes from the broom all over him and his hair and beard flying in all directions – a living incarnation of the Mahakaal indeed.

With the last swooping hit, the Ojha jumped and literally stood over Hazra Bi.

Hazra Bi began convulsing violently.

Her body arched unnaturally backward and a piercing shriek tore through the night; a shriek sharp enough for several villagers to cover their ears and fall to their knee in supplication.

She fainted & fell to the ground.

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Inside the sleep, she was neither here nor there. She was in the Kabristaan again, and again, and the light in the old mosque, and Azhar was always at its centre, and she could never get close enough to see clearly what stood behind him in the rows.

On the third day, she heard Irfan crying.

“Ammi, Ammi, please eat something”. Said Irfan. Rahim and the boys had been worried sick seeing Hazra Bi’s condition. However, they just followed what the Ojha had said. She passed in and out of the delirium and was fed the jadi butti given by the Ojha. The Ojha had said that she will recover by the 3rd day but then Hazra Bi showed no sign of it.

“It’s all because of me. Since I am close to Azhar Bhai, he had come to our house to play with us. If he didn't come to our house, Ammi wouldn't—"” wailed Irfan.

Something stirred within Hazra Bi.

It woke up the same maternal instinct she had shown when fighting off Azhar. She dragged herself from within and willed herself to open her eyes to comfort her child. She pulled Irfan close to her chest and comforted him in a way she did when he was a child. She cried softly and sobbed heavily as she drew her two sons closer to her and let her motherly love soak them to the core.

Rahim looked lovingly at his beautiful family, forever grateful to Allah for his bounty and mercy for bringing Hazra Bi back to her senses and hoped & prayed that normalcy will soon return to his home.

He was vexed too and that vexation was much beyond the family issue and bordered on his job.

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And it had to do with Barkat Sahib, the Imam of the mosque and his boss.

Barkat Sahib had been, once, a man of genuine learning. He was a bright scholar who passed out of the Madrasa with flying colors. His understanding of Fiqh was excellent, his recitation was beautiful, his knowledge of hadith was wide.

There were many local mosques vying to take him up as their Imam to lead the congregation. He had chosen the Ajmalpura mosque as he found the people to be god fearing, faint hearted and willing to listen to an authority figure. This suited him very well as he always wanted to be the best and have people fawn over him for his scholarly knowledge & superiority. He distributed charms, amulets & Tabizs in gay abundance as the flock gathered to him for guidance, healing and liberation.

What made things difficult for him was Hussain Sahib who took over as the Chairman of the Mosque Committee. Hussain Sahib was a man of letter and science. He retired as the principal of the local Midnapur Govt. College. To him the machination & detailed set up that the Imam was doing appeared bogus, a scheme in self-aggrandization and an ego trip. Things came to a point when Barkat Sahib was caught mid-way in to an exorcism, where extreme torture was playing out in plain sight in the mosque quadrangle. Hussain Sahib was furious and immediately expelled him from the position & warned him not to be seen anywhere closer to the mosque or the community. This was done very publicly and without any ceremony and what had broken for Barkat Sahib was not his career but his image as a respectable Imam. He was desperate to make a comeback and was looking for an answer to his bruised ego.

Sheikhpur had been an answer.

A village community which was deep in its superstitions and craving the authority of a man who could interpret the invisible world. This was a field in which Barkat Sahib had mastery and a gift which had no competition. He had planted himself carefully by issuing his charms, his amulets, conducted his jhaar-phunks and made himself indispensable to enough families so that his position felt permanent. He had built a congregation that believed what he told it to believe.

And now his own Muezzin's wife had been possessed by a Jinn, and the family had called an Ojha.

Not him.

Not the Imam.

An Ojha who is a Hindu practitioner. A man with ash & tilak on his forehead.

He sat in his room the evening after, not speak to his wife and did not eat his dinner and did not pray the Isha prayer on time, which he had not missed in twenty years. He sat and he felt his well cultivated prestige and in a large way the fear in the community to his authority, quietly slipping away. What he felt was not grief, nor anger but the chilling cold clarity of a man who has decided that an example must be set.

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The following Friday he climbed the mimbar.

“When we think of Allah and his pre-ordained righteous path” he began, his voice at its richest, most certain and the voice of a man who has rehearsed this speech in the privacy of his own chest for a week. “we must understand that this path is narrow, meant only for the righteous and can only be attained by those who have the right guide by their side to guide them through it. That’s where the role of the Imam comes in”.

He paused.

He had been smarting from the indignity inflicted by Rahim & his family. Now to add insult to injury, his Son has seen the devil but yet the same person is not even approached him for a solution. Instead, he’s being counseled by Nasir Sahib, whose Son works as the ward boy in the big hospital in Cuttack, that this is a mental condition and that his son can arrange for consultations with a Angrezi Dawai Wala Doctor who could treat him and make him well.

“As if the Devil himself could be cured by the Angrezi Medicine!” Barkat Sahib had laughed to himself.

“But some people think that they are above Allah and His way of life and that they don’t need an Imam in their life.” Continued Barkat Sahib. “Nauzobillah.” He roared. “That the wisdom of the mosque is less than the wisdom of a Hindu witch-man with ash on his face. These are the types of people whom the Satan are more prone to capture and hold captive & for them is the way of hell” He said now fully charged up and going on full blast.

“However, as a Jamaat & a congregation we should not be bothered by these things as long as our faith is pure. But what such disobedience does to your faith & Imaan is that it casts an ugly shadow on you & the family. This is so as you have accepted this evil way of life to fester in your community without any objection and have forsaken the ways of Allah. Allah Paak will make you accountable for treading this evil path and fry you in boiling oils in large cauldron on Yom -e- Qayamat. But I will have none of it.” His voice had dropped, which was more frightening than when it was raised. "This is kufr. This is the door through which the Shaitan walks into a family's heart and makes his home there."

“Hence, I have come here to tell you that from now on I have decided not be your Imam anymore.” Barkat said, his voice breaking artfully on the word decided.

“I will no longer be part of the devilry and the naked dance of Satan that you are part of and hence this will be my last Juma with you as Imam” He concluded with a tone of finality as he sat down for the customary pause before the Khutba Saaniya after the Friday sermon. He tried to look and gauge people’s reaction from the corner of his eye.

What he saw pleased him very much. Many of the people were agitated and were talking to each other animatedly.

The arrow had found its mark. Now let the games begin.

He stood up innocently, completed his Khutba Saaniya and led the congregation for the Friday prayer.

After the closure of the Friday prayer, he ensured that he forced few drops of tears from his eye and turned to leave the crowd even as wiping his eyes.

“Aap ko hum Jaane nahin denge” Said a chunk of the crowd which gathered around him and hugged him so tight that it was difficult for him to breath.

“Tell us what we have to do to amend our mistakes and we will do as you say” Thundered the crowd which resembled like a mob now.

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Barkat Sahib’s golden moment had come.

The investments that he had made in keeping the community dogmatic, full of blind believes and a complete blind faith in him, has started earning rich dividends.

Religion, which our early fathers of Independent India realized, is a matter of faith and hence a very personal feeling & practice for every individual. Mixing religion, fanaticism and blind faith with power, influence and governance, they had warned, will always have an adverse & detrimental effect if one was to choose riding the wave.

However, Barkat Sahib, blinded by his personal gain & to satisfy his large ego, decided to ride the wave.

So, the plan was hatched. The strongmen identified. The hour set and the stage was prepared to taken down & eradicate evil from the face of Sheikhpur.

Outside, the sky was entirely clear. Not a cloud. Not a sign. Just the flat blue certainty of an afternoon in late October.

The men of Sheikhpur looked at one another.

Then they nodded.

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Rahim’s family slept peacefully with the moon on top and the night thick like a dark blanket. The family breathed deeply & sonorously, oblivious of the happenings of outside.

Barkat Sahib was leading the mob.

The mob was wild, angry and boiling over trying to correct a mistake that they had done in their ignorance.

They broke through Rahim’s door.

The sound and melee woke up the family. Startled and confused to what was happening, they offered very little resistance to the mob’s might. Rahim was easily overpowered. Hazra Bi and Irfan were tied as they were the evil incarnate.

They were taken to the mosque.

The walk through the village is the only thing Hazra Bi would remember longest, in the years to come. The lanterns in the houses they passed, the inquisitive faces at the windows of women mostly, the wives and daughters of the men who were walking around her, watching without expression.

The coldness, the indifference and if someone looked closely, hatred.

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The whole village had gathered in the mosque. Those who came early and got a place, were inside the mosque courtyard. Others climbed up on the roof of nearby houses and on the boundary wall of the mosque to see what is yet to unfold.

Barkat Sahib like a ringmaster took the centre stage. At the centre of the courtyard, sat on the ground Hazra Bi & Irfan.

Confused, bewildered and not having a clue of what was happening around them.

“These two infidels have sinned and wronged their soul. As a result, the devil has taken over them. They have also transgressed in not taking the help of the Imam but took help of a Kafir. What do you think we should do with them” Roared Barkat Sahib.

“Beat them” said one.

“beat the living daylight out of them” said the other.

“make an example of them,” said another.

The crowd roared as if they were in a colosseum watching the bloody sport of the gladiators with glee.

Barkat Sahib came forward with a Zanjeer-Zani. It was a cluster of chains attached to a handle, which often have small knives or blades tied to the ends. It was used by mourners during the Tazia festival to strike their backs while chanting & mourning the passing away of Hussain & Hassan, the Grandson of the Prophet (PBUH).

Barkat Sahib lifted the Zanjeer Zani and brought it will all might on the mother & son.

The crowd gasped.

The tiny knives & blades stuck at lightning speed on the back of Hazra Bi and Irfan.

Piteous cry forced out of the mouth of both the mother & the son and filled the ground & the sky with heart rendering plea.

Unabashed and untouched, Barkat again lifted the Zanjeer Zani and brought it down with all his might.

“Oof, gah”, sharp grunts could be heard above the crowd’s noise as the mother & son tried to protect each other amidst the inhuman onslaught.

The ground around was smeared with blood as if it was Holi. Holi smearing did not have the luster & shine that human blood had.

Especially the blood of human who is poor, lacks a voice and agency.

Barkat went on in his onslaught without a let up.

“You think you are the only wise & holy person here who can do as he wishes” The voice was raspy & grating, shards of glass sliding across sandpaper.

The crowd suddenly went silent.

Hazra Bi looked up as she spoke, from where she was sitting.

Suddenly the sun went behind a dark cloud and what was a bright & sunny day suddenly turned in to a dark and ominous timeless zone. Birds flew off the branches in large numbers loudly chirping, cawing and squawking even as domestic animals looked confused and bewildered. Ther was a dust storm which arose amidst this confusion. Visibility greatly reduced, with the villagers now a shifting shadow in the veil of the sand particle.

“If you dare to, untie me first and then let me show you what I am capable of and what is your worth” Said the voice, now shrill & high pitched, rupturing the unnatural silence that had descended.

Beyond the veil of dust, Rahim saw his wife look up, her face bloodied from the Zanjeer and hair disheveled. she looked up to Barkat and gave him a devious smile exposing her bloodied teeth.

She spat the blood out.

“Arrey Karna Namard, Mard ka bacha hai to kholna haath. Phir mein dikhati hun main kaun hun”. Hazra Bi continued now her voice getting in to guttural & terrifying pitch.

For a moment Barkat was taken aback.

Though he had handled many such cases in the past he was taken aback by the resistance and the comeback by this entity.

However, he was now infuriated as this Randi called him Namard and challenged his masculinity.

Swoop, swash.

Down came the Zanjeer and even before it could strike, he felt a sharp punch near his rib cage which threw him off as if he was hit by a 1000-volt electric shock.

“Don’t you ever dare to touch them” Roared a voice with a booming majesticity which was unheard of in Sheikhpur before.

As Barkat lied writhing in pain, Hussain Sahib towered above him like a colossus and pinned his right hand with his foot even as he was trying to get up.

Keeping one eye on Barkat, he turned to the crowd.

“what has come over you guys. You are all followers of Islam and believe in Allah & the prophet. Where have you read or heard that Islam allows for such public torture & shame to take place. This is Gunah -e- Azim and whoever partake of this shall be dealt most severely in Yom-e- Qayamat and go to hell” Hussian Sahib’s voice boomed as the crowd cast away their eyes from meeting his.

“And as for this fellow, he is a useless and good for nothing guy who is only concerned about his ego and blind beliefs and want to run a parallel religion based on Biddat (making unlawful changes). I had dealt with him in Ajmalpura and drove him away because of his such misdeeds. I had come visiting my daughter & just reached today and that’s when I heard about all this tamasha that this man had created and came right away” Said Hussain Sahib, now breathless with white rage and seething anger at Barkat.

By then the police had arrived along with an ambulance. Barkat was arrested, taken in to police custody and bundled in to the police jeep. The ambulance took Hazra Bi & Irfan for treatment.

“We live in the modern world and a world which is driven by science & evidence. There is nothing like spirits, witch or demons, as one may think. What you see as demonic or Satanic activity is due to mental conditions and a manifestation of past events & incidents which may not have been pleasant. To take this behaviour as supernatural and ghost phenomenon is what encourages lumpen elements like Barkat to exploit the situation and rule over you”. Husaain Sahib paused.

By this time, the crowd was properly chastised and realized their foolishness & naivety. Many had gathered to see the fun and the real time action of what will unfold – the promise of excitement & adrenalin rush which had brought them to the scene. Many went to the ambulance where the first aid of Hazra Bi & her Son was taking place and enquired after her health.

From the open door of the ambulance, beyond the veil of dust & crowd and the melee in between, stood Hussain Sahib, like an angel sent by Allah to save her and her son.

Hazra Bi looked up and for a brief moment their gaze met and both of them nodded.

A man who was a tired crusader against the blind beliefs in the society and a woman who was a mother and had to do whatever it took to protect and save her children, each time and every time.

With tears rolling down her cheeks, she lifted her hand, folded it in gratitude, supplication & eternal gratefulness.

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Nobody could find Azhar.

This was not unusual as he had always been difficult to locate when the village was looking for him. However, in the days after the mosque courtyard incident, his absence took on a different character. People walked past the house near the Sal grove and saw Karim and Fatima moving behind the windows and did not go in, because they did not know what they would say, or what they feared to be told.

Imran, the elder one, went looking alone, on the third day.

He found him at the canal.

This was not surprising. The canal was where Azhar always went when he needed to be alone. He was sitting at its bank with his feet in the water and his eyes open, watching the surface move.

He looked up when Imran sat down beside him.

"You're all right," Azhar asked.

"Ammi and Irfan are better now." Imran paused. "What were you doing at the canal that night? The night Irfan saw you."

Azhar looked at the water for a while.

"I was emptying it," he said.

"Emptying it of what?"

"Of what's in it." He looked at Imran. "Of the clay & dirt which accumulates and finally chokes it if you don’t clean and move it on."

Imran looked at the canal. The brown water moved in its old way toward the river.

"Did you go to the old mosque that night?" he asked. "Were you leading prayer?"

Azhar's expression did not change.

"I pray where I pray," he said.

"Were your eyes wrong? Irfan said—"

"Irfan is fourteen," Azhar said gently. "And it was 4:30 in the morning and very dark. What a boy sees at 4:30 in the morning in the dark is not always real."

He said this with a quiet certainty, in a way that Imran could find no logical gap in it. It was either the truth or the most complete version of an untruth he had ever encountered, and he could not tell which was what.

"People think you're—" Imran started.

"People think many things," Azhar said. "They have always been like that" He took his feet out of the water. He stood and dried them carefully on the grass. "How is your mother?"

"She's all right," Imran said. "She's all right, but she won't go near the—" He stopped. "She won't cross the Kabristaan anymore. Even in the day."

Azhar was quiet for a moment.

"She is right not to," he said softly. "Some places should be treated with respect."

He walked away along the canal bank, and Imran watched him go.

And the canal moved on toward the Chitroptala, carrying everything given to it, as it has always done. Unhurried, unremarkable, carrying the water & something more, something ancient than water, all the way to the river, and from the river to the sea, and from the sea to wherever it is that such things finally go to rest...

The Moonlight Hides

2026-05-20T00:04:21.637-07:00

Jochona luchana dura nila gagane

Emana manena eyi madhu lagane —

(The moonlight hides in the distant blue sky,

yet the heart refuses to be still in this intoxicating moment.)

I

“I will wait for you to come and not leave this place for eternity till you come”. Was the parting shot of Divyankit to Archana as she hurriedly crossed the road to catch the already moving town bus.

She had paused in the middle of the road, between the here and infinity, and given him a smile that was gentle, softer and innocent – much like Archana.

He did not know at that moment that it would take his entire life time trying to piece together the smile in his memory. The unique tilt of her head, the smile that starts slowly and then suddenly widens on the way even as it lingers on for a while. He would carry it with him and hold it against every darkness that followed.

That was the last time he saw her whole.

II

It was the end of June and monsoon arrived in the city of Bhubaneswar like a memory which was sudden, overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

For Divyankit, a rustic fellow from the villages of the rural Balasore, Utkal University and the city of Bhubaneswar was a dream come true.

The summer of 1969 was special. It was the year that man had walked on the moon. It was a message which declared proudly that distance will never be an issue for mankind and that ordinary men were no longer required to stay in the places they were born.

Coming from humble rural farming background, Divyankit’s father, Prafulla Babu had a dream – the dream of seeing his son become a magistrate. This dream slowly germinated the day he went to the collectorate on some work and witnessed the elaborate length that the people went through to organize themselves around the collector. He was particularly enamored by the deference, the ceremony and the silence that followed wherever the collector went. That day he realized the power of this position and swore that his son would one day become a collector.

Divyankit has been a good student from his childhood. After standing first in his district in the matric examination, he studied plus two science in the local Fakir Mohan College at Balasore. An outstanding student, suddenly Divyankit found Science was not his cup of tea. The endless theorizing of Physics, the causticness of Chemistry and the gory starkness of Biology turned him away from the temple of Science.

While Science bored him, literature inflamed him and books seduced him.

He had always been drawn to the rich history of Orissa and the amazing contribution of Oriya literature which breathed life in to it. In the haunting melody of “Boita Bandana” he could almost see the Sadhabanis standing at the shore, sending their husbands across uncertain seas to distant lands like Java, Sumatra, and Bali. Every note was woven together by hope, longing and courage. The songs of Raja and Nuakhai festival still reverberating in the writings of fakir Mohan Senatpati and the devotion to Lord Jagannath very much visible in the writings of poets like Sarala Das & Jagannath Das.

In to this world Divyankit wanted to melt away and discover his own identity.

Hence, despite the reluctance and misgivings of Prafulla Babu, who thought by only studying Science can one become a civil servant, Divyankit enrolled in the Bachelors of Arts for his graduation. He convinced his father that only graduation is needed to become and IAS; irrespective of the stream.

The wheels of time rolled on and in three years’ time Divyankit passed hi B.A examination with distinction and the rarest achievement of being a topper & gold medalist of the college. Everyone was elated but the elation with a deep-seated conviction of what lay ahead was only seen in the eyes of Prafulla Babu & Divyankit.

To reach the most cherished summit – Divyankit Das, IAS.

III

In the late 60s and 70s of Orissa, to become a civil servant was a matter of great pride. The position was coveted not for the salary but the perks and powers that came with it. The ostentatious and sometimes the pretentious display of officialdom, servility and a penchant for cowering before such figure gave it a saintly halo to what was otherwise a glorified clerical job which was a hangover and a sad carryover of our colonial past. Anyways, with the social norm set, normalized and nay glorified, the race for the post almost became a cradle to grave story depending on which part of the age spectrum you are looking at it from. Those days, many young IAS officers were from the Orissa cadre and a prominent role was played by the prestigious Utkal University where many of the reputed educationist and professors guided and mentored young men and women to help crack the UPSC Examination.

So, it was decided that Divyankit would go to Bhubaneswar and study in Utkal University.

Getting an admission was very easy for Divyankit as being the gold medalist, the university welcomed him with both hands and to top it off, his education and other expenses was completely free of cost from the scholarship he received from the state government.

IV

The young and still evolving capital of Bhubaneswar was a thing of wonderment and enigma for most of the Oriya people. It has been just designated as the state capital 2 decades ago and was slowly figuring out its own identity. With government building and residential colony coming up alongside history of yesteryears in Lingaraj, Rajarani and Kedargouri temple along with myriad others; it looked like a modern city which was jostling with history to make a mark for itself.

Divyankit arrived at Bhubaneswar, one hot and humid evening of May, with lots of dreams, aspirations and excitement. He was dropped near the University gate and had to walk nearly 3 Km to reach his hostel. Completely tired, he immediately slipped in to a deep sleep.

He dreamt that he is back in the village and had met his friends who were very happy to see him. Off they went to the village pond which was thickly nestled around by large mango trees overarching the water body bearing the sweetest mangoes. He felt suddenly happy and alive to be back in his village. They ran and climbed on the mango tree and the tradition was that they will pluck the most juicy, ripe and tasty mango that they can lay their hands on and then drop it to the pond. Followed by this, they will jump in to the pond, all at once to collect their bounties. As Divyankit was plucking mango, he heard someone creeping behind him. Thinking that one of his friends is making a mischief and creating a prank, he swung around to push him out.

Behind him was a wild animal which was gnashing its teeth which shone through the darkness, menacingly.

“Bou lo… Marigali” (Oh My mother, I am going to die), cried Divyankit and fell in to the water. He heard all his friends laughing and giggling.

Divyankit woke up with a start.

He found that he has fallen off the cot and was dripping wet with a group of boys all staring and laughing at him from above.

“Looks like a village simpleton” said one. “Poor guy, must be a fool to come to Bhubaneswar” jeered another.

“Get up and show some respect to seniors”. Said one of them curtly, looking like their leader.

He was angry, sullen and really bewildered to get such a ‘welcome’ to the Temple city of Bhubaneswar.

“Why did you pour water all over me”? Growled Divyankit to the team leader.

“Manoj Bhaina, he’s showing his attitude to you. Show him his place” exhorted the pack of jackals to their leader, egging him on.

“Oh, our dear brother is angry with us… Sorry bro, please forgive us our mistake” Manoj bent down in mock supplication inviting copious amount of laughter from his gang.

Divyankit looked at him with cold derision.

“What? Are you angry with me? Will you hit me now? I am so afffraidd” Said the team leader mockingly while playfully slapping Divyankit, somewhat a little hard. This infuriated Divyankit to no end and the next moment the full blow of his fist landed squarely on the chin of the bully.

Thud!

Manoj hit the side of the table and landed hard on the ground.

He was bleeding and if one looked closely, may be missing a tooth. This sudden escalation was too much to handle for the group as they had a reputation which was feared and no one had dared challenge or stand up to them which gave them a lot of thrill.

Not having an appropriate answer to Divyankit’s rebuttal, the team leader and his group crawled out of the room – as silently as they had come in.

The next day, Divyankit had become the hero of the campus even without attending a single class. The tale of his courage and strength had travelled far and wide. He was literally mobbed and gheraoed to get a first-hand account of his heroics. It seemed the Bully, Manoj, was a notorious character and was a known mischief maker in the campus. Many were thankful to Divyankit for showing the bully his place. He was a rage amongst the girls too, having achieved his cult status, they started comparing him with Rajesh Khanna given his long hair and fair looks. Divyankit didn’t mind the attention and was basking in his new found celebratory status.

That’s when he met Archana.

V

It was an overcast afternoon and a Sunday. Most of the hostelers had gone out for a movie dekko of ‘Aradhana’ which was slowly achieving cult status. Divyankit politely refused, out of no interest in movies and also the fact that he treasured his post lunch siesta with the fidelity of a man who understood that the mind, like the earth, needed fallow time. He woke up around 4 pm. Alone, he decided to visit one of the magazine shops just outside the campus. At the shop he browsed few magazines and bought the latest edition of Illustrated Weekly of India.

And then suddenly the downpour started, quite unexpectedly and surreptitiously. People pressed in under the narrow awning, shoulders touching, umbrellas dripping. Divyankit waited, holding his magazine, watching the street turn into a moving skin of water.

That’s when he saw her.

Coming out of the magazine store, her kohl lined eyes eagerly looked hither & thither furtively, as if searching for someone. She was wearing a simple, light lemon green colour salwar suit the color of new rice shoots, simple and unadorned, and this simplicity was what first struck him. The absence of effort, and how beauty had arranged itself within it regardless. She was shy and demur but yet appeared confident and poised, a fine balance between the traditional and the modern. She looked beautiful and yet uninviting, serene and yet chaotic, silently eloquent and yet non verbose.

She was the epitome of paradoxes and contrast, Divyankit concluded.

While lost in his thought, he did not realize that the rickshaw he had hailed has been waiting for sometimes.

“Babu, Babu, will you go or should I leave”. Said the Rickshaw Wallah, now visibly impatient and very wet.

“Bhaina, please wait. I will go” Said a voice which was so sweet and mellifluous that Divyankit seemed to melt in to it.

He felt the raindrops reverberating and echoing that voice multifold which descended unto him in thousands and million tiny drops, melting his soul and driving him to insanity even as his entire being started to wither away and flow along with the rainwater – to eternity, to its source, its creator, and if one was so lucky, to the beloved.

That evening, Divyankit walked in a daze, all of 3 Km to his hostel, even as people stared at him and mistook him for a madman. The Illustrated Weekly of India started to slowly soak and disintegrate piece by piece even As Divyankit continued his walk in a trance. “What was that? What did I just witness? Can it be all true or am I day dreaming? Who is that goddess who appeared suddenly in my life and disappeared as soon? Where would I find her or see her again” Thought Divyankit, his mind in a tizzy and brain taking leave of his senses. He did not realize that he had reached his hostel and that the guard was asking him to come in.

The next day, Divyankit had severe cold and fever due to which he was unable to attend his classes. His hostel mates took care of him even as he slipped in and out of long stupor and deliriousness due to high temperature. In this state also, he was still inside that trance and the mad dance of thoughts that were taking place in his head. Completely mesmerized and bewitched from the brief encounter with the girl, he was helpless - Cupid had hit hard.

VI

The next day, he rushed to his class as he did not want to miss out more on his study.

“Could you please pass on the copy to me”? Again, that mellifluous voice and the sweetness pouring in to his ears. The voice came from behind him. He turned, and the world, which had been resuming its ordinary dimensions, stopped again.

He saw the sweetest creature again looking at him with the most innocent pair of eyes.

If there was an orchestra of musicians, this would have been the loudest symphony in the history of music – just that it will not be a jarring and vexing one but would be the most harmonious ensemble to have ever been put together.

She was indicating towards her friend sitting in the front bench who was ready with a notebook and wearing an expression of exasperation and disbelief.

Thereafter, Divyankit followed her dream girl wherever she went: to the canteen, the library, the students’ union room and literally everything under the Sun and inside the university campus.

It became so obvious that even the Professors started to take note.

One day after class, as the queen of his heart was going towards the library, Divyankit followed her but instead of the library she went in to the girls’ restroom, with him following suit.

“Don’t you feel ashamed following me around” She suddenly turned and confronted him.

Her face surprisingly did not show anger but the silent disappointment of a very patient person. Suddenly taken aback, Divyankit was retreating back. That’s when she moved and blocked his path.

“I have been noticing this strange behaviour from you since the last few days. Now it has become a joke in the university and I am getting a bad reputation for this” Divyankit noticed big drop of tears accumulating in her beautiful Kohl lined eye threatening to burst open and along with it unleash the hidden emotions that she had accumulated against him.

He could not let it happen.

“I am so very sorry” Said Divyankit, now really apologetic after suddenly becoming aware of the consequences of his erratic behaviour on the girl’s reputation. “I never meant to hurt you. If you could give me a chance, I could explain it to you”. Said Divyankit, now really feeling bad for the girl.

“Is this boy troubling you, Archana” Said one of her friends who was coming out of the restroom, looking at Divyankit suspiciously.

“Ah, so Archana is her name” Said Divyankit to himself. Now mighty pleased to put a name to the face.

“No, no. its alright Deepa. We were just talking about the notes for the political science lecture. It’s nothing” Archana immediately rescued the situation before it could get out of hand even as Divyankit’s puppy face and constant stare was not helping the situation either.

“Come, let us go to the canteen. You will get yourself lynched here”. Said Archana, half dragging and half carrying him out of the place.

In the canteen, they sat in a corner and it was time for Archana to put things in to perspective and drill some sense to his ‘thick skull’.

“You must understand that you cannot follow me around like this”. Started Archana. Seeing him again getting dreamy eyed, she decided to be firm. “Look, I come from a conservative Brahmin family and its with lot of difficulties that I have convinced my parents to allow me to study for masters. I want to prepare for civils and become an IAS officer which has always been my dream.” She blurted out all at once and paused to catch her breath.

By now Divyankit had come to his own senses and was beginning to understand the gravity of the situation. But he was also helpless. Helplessly in love with Archna. There was no rhyme or reason for what he was feeling but he could not shake it off just like that.

“You look like someone from a good family and I am sure you have your own career ambition. Please focus on that and let us go our own separate way”. Said Archana decisively.

“I can help you with your civils preparation. Infact I am much ahead in my own preparation and find it to be very easy”. Blurted out Divyankit almost in a matter-of-fact manner.

This was his last salvo to salvage the relationship which was beginning to disintegrate even before it had formed.

Archana looked at the boy intently. He seemed like a decent boy. Was actually handsome & fair and had a boyish charm about him which was rather cute. She really liked him but feared that this will only fan his obsession, if at all he comes to know of it.

But the IAS preparation offer was also tempting.

This boy was a known scholar, a gold medalist of his college in graduation and it would be a good arrangement if he chooses to also help her with the preparation, thought Archana.

Reluctantly she agreed.

They agreed to meet after the classes in the library.

VII

Divyankit was far more brilliant and amazing in studies than what Archana had imagined. His childlike inquisitiveness and understanding of basic fundamentals and nuances of subjects amazed her. He not only had a penchant and flair for literature but also a good grip on History as a subject. What really made him unique and special is the point of view and perspective that he formed from both these subjects and how well he was able to use this to articulate and explain away all that was happening in the country and globally.

A true IAS material indeed, Archana thought.

The study session went on well and suddenly without realization, 6 months had passed.

One day while studying together, Divyankit was underlining some passages from the History book. Archana was in a playful mood and kept fidgeting with the pencil and stationaries around.

“Why did you keep following me like a stalker, Divyankit”? Archana suddenly asked in a serious tone.

Though it was meant as a playful prank meant to startle him, it stopped him right in his track. He looked at her intently, his face undergoing a thousand change – of surprise, discovery and hurt.

“It was because you were the most wonderful girl that I ever met in my life. The moment I saw you at the magazine shop, amidst the rain and the thunderstorm, my world seemed to have stopped spinning. It was as if you were the goddess that I had been waiting for all my life or for so many lives and as if my Moksha were waiting to happen at your hand”.

His passion and fervor surfacing and overflowing now, Divyankit started crying. “Don’t you feel the same way, Archana. Can’t you see the enormous love that I have for you – in my eyes, in my words and in my entire being. Don’t you feel a thing for me, Archna”.

Now he was inconsolable.

In all this, Archna felt a slight tug in her heart. How heartless of her, she thought, not to understand the true love of a man who has all along loved her with the purest of intention and with all his heart. It is not that she did not like him but kept him in abeyance in fear of her family and what the society might think. Seeing Divyankit’s emotional state, Archana also teared up. She wanted to hug him. Tell him that she loves him more than the world and would have preferred nothing better than him.

Instead, she just got up and left.

VIII

For the next 2 weeks both of them avoided each other. If suddenly per chance, they bumped in to each other or saw each other from the distance, both of their heartbeats raced and Archna’s face turns a crimson red while Divyankit could not help stop his smiles which widened to a grin.

Both of them were outrightly and hopelessly in love with each other.

What proceeded from there would fill half the chapters of any bestseller romantic novel. In classroom they will keep looking at each other till people frowned, hold hands under the table while they studied and tried to give each other small gifts without any reason or season.

As they neared the end of their final year and also the UPSC exams, the study hour extended. Archana got permission from her family to stay in the ladies’ hostel to study longer and use the library.

Post dinner walk used to be a romantic affair as both of them just held each other’s hand and took the long walk in the winding university road. Sometimes they will sit in the garden in silence hearing the nature, the sound of the crickets and their own heart beats.

One full moon night and as both of them were passing by the garden, Archna said “Divyankit, let’s sit in the garden in this beautiful full moon night and enjoy its bliss. We have not been able to sit here for a very long time due to the study pressure.” Divyankit agreed.

As they sat down, both started talking about their life, what they want to become, what would make them happy and feel fulfilled.

Then as suddenly as they had started talking, they stopped.

Silence fell.

Outside, the moon lit up the earth in a slightly mystical veil of soft light which made the moment magical. A patch of cloud floated across and suddenly the moon went out of sight, briefly.

A cloud moved across the moon. The garden went into brief, complete darkness.

And in that darkness, Archana began to sing.

She sang softly, almost to herself a song from Adina Megha, a popular Odia movie, sung by singer Nirmala Mishra.

It almost felt as a confession:

“Jochona Luchana Dura Nila Gagane

Emana Manena Eyi Madhu Lagane

Jochona Luchana Luchana”

(The moonlight hides itself in the distant blue sky,

Yet the heart refuses to be still in this intoxicating moment…

The moonlight hides… and hides again.)

Mesemerised, Divyankit just closed his eye and let the melodious voice of Archana awash him with the emotion as he floated out in to reverie, with the moon playing hide and seek above.

Archana also got lost in the song and continued…

Bakula Aakule Jhure Sakale Aakale Jhare

Biraha Basa Ra Rachi

Sara Nisi Abhisa Re

Nila Kanei Rahe Chahein

Niti Niti Maune

Jochona Luchana Dura Nila Gagane

Jochana Luchana Luchana

(The Bakul flowers ache and fall in longing,

Morning and evening both seem touched by absence,

Love writes itself in the language of separation,

Through the long, silent night of yearning.)

A drop of water fell on Divyankit’s cheek.

Suddenly awakened from his deep reverie, he looked up and saw tear welling up and tracing down her face in the restored moonlight, her eyes bright and far away.

“Promise me Divyankit. You will never leave me. You will always be there for me. There will be no separation in our story. We will love, live and be with each other till eternity. Promise me…” Said Archana fervently and with a passion which was so unlike her.

Divyankit hugged her close and tightly. “Of course, my dear. Of course,”. He whispered.

He meant it.

He meant every syllable.

He had never meant anything more.

Above them the moon came out from behind its cloud. A temple bell marked the hour, and the night continued its long, indifferent passage through the sleeping city.

IX

Time flew like a fading song one hears on a full moon day.

Finally, the day of the UPSC Prelims examination came. Both Divyankit and Archana had a solid preparation and with everyone’s blessings, excelled at the examination. The result was out in the next 20 days.

Both of them had cracked the prelims. Everyone was elated and excited.

Except one person. Manoj, the university bully.

Since the day Divyankit gave him a sound thrashing, he has had a complete loss of face and his prestige as a strongman lay in tatters.

What made the matter worse was that Manoj was the cousin of Archana.

He really hated both of them going around in campus. What was also very much unbearable was how come a girl from a “Sasan Brahmin” (group of Brahmin who were given land by Kings and were the highest custodian of Vedic learning & rituals of Lord Jagannath) family can go around with a lowly “Chasha” (peasant family). He really wanted to give Divyankit a good thrashing to take revenge and also dissuade him from roaming around with his cousin but was afraid of a repetition of his previous experience and the public humiliation that will follow.

So, he did what every other weak and cowardly fellow does.

He decided to spill the bean with his Aunt & Uncle on how their daughter was going around with a low cast man and how it is bringing disrepute to the family and the entire “Sasan Brahmin” clan. This infuriated both the parents and also humiliated them to even think of being touched and nay even ‘violated’ by the “mleccha” (outcast)…

Chi chi chi… What shame and embarrassment.

Since her father was an influential man with high connection in the government and with who’s who of the society because of his position, they decided that this boy must be punished and made an example so that none should dare to even come close to their daughter.

Divyankit and Archana would not forget the evening of 23rd June.

“Where is that mleccha who dared to vitiate my daughter. Come out, if you dare to” Shouted Mrs. Tripathy on top of her voice, gathering the occupants of the gents’ hostel.

She was accompanied by the rowdy gang of Manoj who had made all arrangement to ensure Divyankit gets a sound thrashing.

Hearing the commotion, Divyankit came out of the hostel unaware that it was all centered around him.

Manoj indicated Divyankit to his Aunt.

Even before her Mother could react, Archana’s father rushed towards him.

The slap was loud and clear.

Divyankit was more surprised than hurt.

“How dare you roam around with Archana. Do you even know who she is? The high caste that she belongs to? The society she comes from?” the barrage from her father continued.

Some of Divyankit’s friends came to pick him up and few looked at the elderly gentleman angrily.

Manoj, as if waiting on a cue, latched on to this opportunity.

“They are going to hit uncle. Come on you all, let us show them their real place” Roared Manoj as his army of followers surged forward.

Manoj lifted his hockey stick to hit Divyankit who ducked and saved himself. He swung around and let the impact of his big fist land squarely on Manoj’s stomach.

Manoj writhed in pain and reeled backwards.

By then, Divyankit’s friends, now in large numbers, tackled and overpowered Manoj’s gang. Seeing their leader in pain and a pitiable condition along with their own battered state, they decided to retreat back and left with their tail between the legs.

Drama ensued in the following weeks.

Archana was house arrested and not allowed to go to the university.

Divyankit and friends were warned by the university not to indulge in such anti-social activities. What got most affected was Archana and Divyankit’s joint study for the UPSC.

In all this Manoj was seething with white rage. The pain and the pure shame of humiliation had completely changed him in to a mad and raving man.

A man who was thirsty for the blood of Divyankit. His entire identity and honour now laid in the dust even as his gang and followers forsook him. He had become a laughing stock in his circle and the mere mention of him and the famed duel invited much mirth, derision & laughter.

So, he hatched a sinister plan.

A plan which will be decisive in establishing who the real man was.

X

In the meanwhile, the two lovers became forlorn, morose and went through emotional turmoil even as they were forbidden to meet each other.

He moved through the hostel’s days mechanically across lectures, meals and the pretense to study. His books lay open but the words held no meaning to him. At night he laid awake and thought of her hand over his on the library table, and the weight of her against his chest in the garden, and the song she had sung in the dark when the cloud crossed the moon, and the promise she had asked for and the promise he had given without hesitation or reservation or the smallest shadow of doubt.

Hearing of the incident, Prafula Babu and Divyankit’s brother both travelled to Bhubaneswar to meet him. Prafulla Babu exhorted him to come back to the village as his life may be danger. After much cajoling, coaxing and convincing by Divyankit’s friends, was his father persuaded to allow him to stay on to prepare for his mains exams.

It was true that his life was in danger, thought Divyankit.

Indeed, what he held dearer than his life, Archana, was in danger. And what was more in danger was their love, tender feeling for each other and their beautiful relationship.

He somehow had to talk to her.

He knew that Archana would be distraught about his wellbeing. He also wanted to know if she was alright. And to reaffirm his love for her and assure her that he was always with her.

“But how to do it? Who will do it”? thought Divyankit.

That’s when he suddenly recalled Archana’s close friend - Deepa.

So, he wrote a long letter to Archana assuring her of his wellbeing and hoping to god that she was alright. He fervently requested her, as well as mere words will carry, to meet him near the magazine shop, the next day at 5 pm. He gave the letter to Deepa.

Manoj had been busy.

He had gotten wind from one of his trusted sources who overheard the conversation between Deepa & Manoj, as luck would have it. The heavy Jeep in his house, which was parked since years after a severe accident, was suddenly becoming Manoj’s centre of attraction.

It was time to press the Jeep in to service.

To a bloody action.

XI

She arrived in twilight.

5 pm was a time when the magazine shop generally becomes crowded with customers and students from the university visiting it. Divyankit reached 10 mins before and waited for Archana.

That’s when he saw her.

That simple girl, wearing a chudidaar, with hair clipped together in a simple knot at the nape of her neck with few soft strands escaping. With the Sun in her back, this was giving her an aura unimagined.

As she came nearby, he saw her eyes were swollen as if she has been crying a lot. There was tale tell signs of bruises near her neck. Divyankit could look no more.

“Have you been waiting for a very long time”.

Again, the honey dipped sweet mellifluous voice. The melt in the ear melody and the irresistible symphony. Divyankit pulled himself out before he slipped back to one of his trances.

That was Archana and the effect that she had on him.

“How have you been my dear”? Asked Divyankit affectionately. “How pale you have become. Are you missing me” he said half-jokingly.

Archana burst out crying.

She cried without covering her face. He didn't say anything. He put his arms around her and she let him, right there on the road outside the magazine stall, with the students and the rickshaw pullers and the whole ordinary afternoon as witness.

Her parents have been unforgiving.

Venting out their anger and frustration at her ‘outrageous and indecent’ act, they were relentless in their onslaught of abuse – verbal and physical. It felt as if it has had been already a decade that she met Divyankit. And when she finally did, hearing his voice, his loving concern and the comforting presence was enough to bridge the dam of emotions that she had been holding for so long. She had been steadfast during the dark time – to not cry and shed a single drop of tears so as not to give them the pleasure of having broken her and in effect the love that Divyankit and she shared.

“Divyankit, please take me away from here. From all the pain, trials and tribulations. To a place where I could be with you and only you” Archana said amidst tears streaming her face.

“I will dear, definitely I will take you away. I promise”. Said Divyankit as he stroked her hair and took her in his embrace.

As they sat down in the open-air cafeteria by the magazine shop, they discussed about life. How it has turned so strange for them, remembered how they met first and of all the tomfoolery that Divyankit ended up doing, of their walk after dinner, the sitting together in silence in the park in the moon lit nights, that immemorable song.

They smiled, they laughed and they cried.

Two-star stuck lover, deeply and madly in love. Cruelly separated by the society, its norms and the strange rules made by humans to keep humans away from each other.

“Let us meet here exactly after a week. You come prepared and we will go off to my friend’s place in Calcutta. There I will find a job and we can lead a happy and peaceful life” Said Divyankit, his voice now filled with conviction and determination.

Archana looked up and smiled.

She knew that now everything is going to be fine because her lover said so.

It was almost dark and much past the time that Archana had committed to her family. She had come away with Deepa with the pretense of going to her house for study.

“I must leave. It’s getting late”. Said Archana urgently. As she got up to leave, she stumbled a bit, about to fall.

Divyankit caught her mid-way.

That moment froze for both of them and eternity stopped at that point in the honor of two lovers.

XII

“I will wait for you to come and not leave this place for eternity till you come”. Shouted Divyankit as Archana looked at crossing the road. She stopped midway and gave him a sweet smile.

That smile. Soft and open. The smile that holds nothing back. The smile of someone at peace with a decision.

At that moment Manoj’s Jeep sped towards them.

Manoj’s focus was only on Divyankit trying to cross the road...

There was a loud thud, then the scream and suddenly a large crowd.

Divyankit got thrown off the road side. When he opened his eyes, he saw Archana nowhere.

Then there were loud screams as he forced himself through the crowd.

He pushed through.

With urgency, with desperation, with hope. The world had been stripped of everything except the need to reach her.

He reached the middle of the human circle.

A lovely pair of Kohl lined eyes were looking for him here & there from where they lay on the road, they finally found his face and stayed.

Stayed with the whole force of her; all the mornings in the library and the evenings under the neem trees, the full moon and the university garden, the song she had sung in the dark garden when the cloud crossed the moon and the world went briefly away — stayed, and looked at him from a distance that was immeasurable, and said what could not be said any other way.

They stayed there, staring from the point of no return but too reluctant to let go.

And then, slowly, the way the moonlight goes behind a cloud, began to leave.

Divyankit slumped on to the ground. All vision a blur and all sounds a garble, holding Archana’s hand.

He held it the way someone holds the last page of a good book you are not ready to finish & let go.

The way you hold something you already know is gone and cannot stop holding anyway, because holding is the only thing remaining that belongs to you.

He did not call for help. He did not speak. There was nothing in him that language could convey.

Manoj was crying with loud sobs with his head buried between his legs.

Even as the distant transistor played on…

Jochona Luchana Dura Nila Gagane

Emana Manena Eyi Madhu Lagane

Jochona Luchana... Luchana…

The Elder Son

2026-05-07T01:59:00.000-07:00

The morning was slowly slipping through Amina’s finger like water.

She had found Imran’s shoes under the kitchen shelf, his schoolbooks hid behind the sofa and an untouched glass of milk colling on the table, a thin film forming on top. Razia's uniform was still unironed. The rice from last night was still in the pot, clinging stubbornly to the sides…

Monday invariably brought in its wake an utter chaos for Amina as she tries to balance everything like the Dasabhuja Durga Maa. And somewhere in this two-room house was Siraj, who was supposed to have swept the floor an hour ago.

“Siraj” … “Siraj. Where has this stupid boy now disappeared to”. Muttered Amina as she hurried around the house trying to bring order to chaos. Her voice was swallowed by Javed's loud snoring from the adjacent bedroom.

She never expected this life. Even after eight years of marriage with Javed.

Her father had been a DSP of police, the first from their community. Her grandfather, Sattar Sahib, had served as Peshkaar in the old royal court before the British took over and made him a revenue officer. They had lived in a sprawling bungalow in Cuttack which was gifted by the erstwhile Raja. A sprawling bungalow with long verandahs, deep ponds ringed with jasmine, a garden with fruit trees ranging from the ordinary mango and guava to varieties Amina had never seen anywhere else. Her grandfather had later given her mother an adjacent plot to build on, when her father was posted away for years at a stretch and the children needed to be settled in one city for school. That house too was beautiful. There was a kitchen garden where the seasonal vegetables grew, and a backyard full of custard apples, guava and Mango that fell into the grass all the time.

As a girl Amina had climbed the mango trees in the back garden and read her textbooks sitting in their shade without a care in the world.

Her grandfather was the one who kindled her love for science by encouraging her to explore everything that appeared mysterious in nature. Why does this happen? What makes that move? She had chased answers like other children chased kites. Her father attended all her annual day where her name was invariably called for first prize in Science Subject. Through her interest and determination, Amina completed bachelor of Science from the local college – a rare feat for a girl from her community. Given her interest in teaching, she went on to complete B.Ed – a fact which was a matter of pride for her family members.

In 1950s India, being a girl who is highly educated and qualified belonging to her community was a sure recipe for disaster from a matrimony perspective. It was difficult for her parents to find a suitable groom for her in their community.

What they eventually found was Javed.

Javed was the son of a Zamindar from the nearby villages. He was good looking and had a government job; a most sought-after groom in the marriage market. However, Javed was looking for a wife who will also be a service holder (a popular term for being in a job). So, the match was hooked, cooked and booked as both the pair were married off and set forth to deal with life’s journey and what came along with it - the joys, discovery and travails notwithstanding.

What Javed had not calculated was the mess of it. The children arriving within three years, the school which took most of Amina’s day time, the cooking and the cleaning and the mountain of small work that waited for her at every hour of the day. This led to quite a bit of ugly scene and not so nice arguments between the husband & wife which proved one point clear as the daylight – Javed’s inability in helping in any way his wife in her daily chore. This arose part from incompetence and part from the lethargy that privilege helped seep through.

In the whole conundrum, Amina’s father-in-law stepped in as a ray of- hope in what was otherwise a bleak scenario stripped off any silver lining. Due to his stature as a Zamindar, he convinced poor families to send their kids as domestic help to Amina’s house, in rerun for a ‘handsome salary’ of Rs 80 per month. The househelp who came in were barely five to six years older than her own kid, a scenario which may appear hilarious and yet was tragic but was the only practical solution which emerged at that point in time and Amina was not complaining either.

The solution came with its agony & pangs. The first boy had cried for a week and run away. So had the second. The third had lasted longer before he was also engulfed by homesickness forcing him to flee.

By now, Amina joked to her friends that the line of her former house-helps would stretch a kilometer from her lane to the main road.

------------

But the recent one, Siraj, was different from the rest.

He kept the children engaged and looked after them like an elder brother. He was obedient, respectful and consistent, a quality which endeared him to Amina and his family. The one who was the happiest was Javed. He was relieved that now he will not have to bear the brunt of Amina’s taunt for not helping her with household chores and looking after the kids. Coming from a privileged background, he was unaccustomed to the drudgery of household works. He never anticipated that married life will bring in so much responsibility and hardships. One who loves the cool weather that rain brings in should also be ready to deal with the mud and the messiness that comes with it. Amina would think most of the times but will not utter it given the harmony that women are expected to maintain disproportionately in their matrimony.

Siraj, however, settled down quite well in a few weeks’ time. What Siraj truly meant for them, came three months after he arrived, on an ordinary Sunday.

Amina’s daughter Razia was playing with Smita, the daughter of the Marwari family next door. Smita had a beautiful doll which Razia adored but Smita will not have her anywhere close. That Sunday, Razia decided to take things to her own hand to free the doll from the clutches of the ‘evil queen’ Smita. What ensued was the cutest fight ever but transcended to loud shrieks and cries from the children, a common occurrence which was ignored by both kids’ parents.

However, this time, the elder brother of Smita, Kishor, decided to step in and was trying to pull his weights literally, given his seniority.

Siraj has been lying on a palm leaf mat on the verandah watching the ‘cute’ duel with glee. However, he became suddenly uneasy with the appearance of Kishor who has now started to physically push out Razia forcibly.

“Don’t you dare to touch my sister”. Roared Siraj as he caught Razia from falling with one hand while deflecting the next move by Kishor.

Amina was cooking breakfast for the family while simultaneously trying to clean up the house, soak clothes for washing and warding off lecherous advances by Javed who always seemed to be in the mood on Sundays and holidays.

Hearing the cries of Razia followed by Siraj, Amina dropped the cooking spoon which landed down with a thud on the ground as she rushed outside to see what is happening.

There on the ground lay Kishor, still surprised but quick enough to understand it as a genuine assault even as Siraj towered over him with Razia behind him. “How dare you touch my sister and push her to the ground”? Thundered Siraj with the authority and command of an elder brother.

Kishor, who had evidently not expected a servant boy to say anything at all, least of all in that voice, stumbled backward and sat down hard in the dust. Got up. Dusted himself. Said nothing and Left.

It was as atrocious, as bizarre and as surreal as it could get but Amina could not help but notice the adorable demonstration of genuine love, affection and care that Siraj demonstrated in a moment that mattered, at least for her.

Siraj carried Imran on his hips as Razia held on to his hand proudly as they approached her. For a brief moment that day. Amina forgot about her chaotic life, the drudgery that came with it and a husband who was unloving and uncaring and the bleakness of it all. She embraced her three children. That moment she was a proud mother of her children and today her elder son had stood up like a man to confront all that is unjust, unfair and partisan.

That evening Siraj ate two plates of rice and asked if there was more.

He had stopped crying in the mornings a month ago but after that Sunday something had settled in him and he came in fully, the way children do when they finally believe they are allowed.

He had found his home. And if she was honest with herself, so had Amina.

-----------

"The boy has simply vanished into thin air." Javed collapsed onto the sofa, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I checked the bus stand, the railway station, even the truck depot but nothing. Ye mere Maula, tu meri madad kar. If Abbaji comes to know, he will grill me alive. Siraj's father is a known goonda and that mother of his… tauba, tauba… the woman can raise a storm over a fallen leaf." He had gone quite pale. Amina found this faintly funny but brought him water anyway, as a dutiful wife is expected to do.

"Phone for you." The Marwari Sethani's voice came sharp over the wall. Theirs was one of perhaps three telephones in the entire lane, a fact she ensured nobody forgot alongwith her other prized possessions - colour TV, VHS and telephone all under one roof.

The voice on the line was Abba Ji's, feeble and weak. “Come quickly. Both of you”. The line disconnected on the other side.

They packed in twenty minutes and caught the last bus to the village.

The bus smelled of diesel and tired bodies of people travelling not for joy but out of necessity. Somewhere in its wake, Amina found herself thinking of her Vidaai, that first trip into her husband's world, the shock of arriving from her father's grand house and well-manicured lawn into all this dust and chaos. She had come to understand that some distances were not measured in kilometers.

They reached the village after dark. Irfan was waiting and it was a good thing too as an angry crowd had gathered near the bus stand, pressing around Javed with questions about Siraj. Irfan was a well built and a hefty man. He pushed a clear path through and got them to the ancestral house without incident.

Hazra Bi embraced Javed and her grandchildren, then said to the room at large, carefully not looking at Amina, that in her time women had ten children and still managed their homes properly, that today's modern girls believed a government job absolved them of every other duty. “Tauba tauba”…

“Siraj’s mother, Asma, has been sitting on a hunger strike at the market place and saying that she will only eat from her son’s hand” Said Abba Ji visibly irritated and frustrated. “you rest up Beta. You people had a long journey and must be very tired. We will talk in the morning” Said Abba Ji even as he affectionately patted Amina on the head like a father. He admired his daughter in law and was very happy when the alliance was made. To have a graduate daughter in law is something only few people are blessed with, he will think, an enthusiasm which was not shared equally by his wife.

-------------

Before the Fajar azaan, while everyone slept, Amina slipped out in her burkha and took the long way through the mango orchard to the market square. Asma had set up a befitting spectacle: on a charpai, her arms were raised and she was wailing loud enough to ensure that her voice carried through the market. “Mere bacche ko le gaye, pata nahi kahan hai, haaye, in logon ka gairat ho, Allah inko kabhi maaf na kare” Around her a motley crowd had assembled: some genuinely worried, some came for the fun and some, who were like her, were there to see the performance that she was putting up. After a certain point of time, to Amina, she started resembling like her mother-in-law.

“This woman, Asma… such a drama. We all know where the Son had disappeared and what plan she has…” her voice got lost as the crowd reacted sharply to another of the antics of Asma.

Amina walked back through the orchard in the early light, the dew cold underfoot. She had heard enough to know that something evil & insidious is at play.

The next morning, over breakfast on the Dastarkhan, Javed proposed returning to the city. His friend Manoj was the DSP there and could help in the search immensely. He said this with careful phrasing and due rehearsal because Abba Ji still had, even now, the ability to make him feel like twelve years old. After giving it some thought, Abba Ji nodded and said “I think you are right Javed. Your presence at the city will be more fruitful than here. Don’t worry about the people here. I will handle them”. He said with some degree of conviction.

They left that afternoon. As the bus pulled away Amina watched Abba Ji's figure shrink at the gate, even as he waved at them. She felt particularly sad as she understood the sorrow of leaving someone behind who deserves better than what life has handed them. Javed watched his village disappear from the window.

They reached the city late and found a rickshaw home to the two-roomed house where it all started.

From the next day, Javed took off along with Amina to start searching for Siraj. This was part owing to the love and affection for the boy but mostly due to the fear of official action as Siraj was still a minor and having disappeared from their care, they could be held accountable and it may have adverse effect on their job.

What also helped was that the city DSP, Manoj, was a school friend of Javed and when Javed reached out to him, he was very supportive and assured all assistance.

They split the search in 2 parts: Javed would work with his friend, DSP Manoj to locate the boy with the help of the police team and Amina with her brother would try to scour the neighborhood to find out the whereabouts of Siraj. Luckily, they had a photo of Siraj which was clicked when the family went off for a photoshoot in the local photo studio recently. As Siraj had become close to them as a family, they also invited him to join them for the photo. In the photograph, he stood slightly apart from the others, not quite sure of his place in the frame, but present.

The search went on for almost a week with the city police leaving no stone unturned to find the servant boy of Manoj Sahib’s friend. They rounded up all suspects from their list including child lifters, ex-felons, small time thieves and others with some criminal record. The search was so intense with police vehicle coming 2 – 3 times a day to pick up Javed that it led the neighbors to start developing respect for both Amina & her husband for their ‘higher’ connection in the police hierarchy.

The search of Amina with her brother also did not yield much results. The people in the neighborhood were sympathetic of their situation but could not help much beyond that. Looking at the photo, many thought that it was Amina’s kid that had disappeared but were not very supportive when they came to know that it was their servant that they were looking for. Some of them even showed utter surprise to see Amina getting so concerned about a servant disappearing. “These vagabonds roam around for few days and when they become tired & hungry, they all come back, eventually”. Was how an old grumpy lady summed up.

Nobody had seen him.

While Javed was anxious about this event snowballing and affecting his job, Amina was much more saddened in way a mother will understand. She missed the reassuring presence and persona of Siraj who, like an elder son always stood by her and was also a very loving brother to her children.

On the eighth evening, tired and worn out, more mentally than physically, Amina asked Javed to get some food from the local Muslim hotel Ajmatiya.

Ajmatiya was the old hotel on the main road, run by the third generation of the Habib brothers, famous in the Sultan Bazar area for its meat dishes. Siraj had loved the place. In his free hours he would wander over just to stand near the kitchen and talk to the staff. Maybe it was his way of socializing and fend off loneliness. Amina didn't think of this when she sent Javed.

She was just tired and hungry.

--------------

Javed pushed through the door of Ajmatiya and joined the short queue at the counter. It was the evening rush; a few regulars seated at the heavy wooden tables, the smell of mutton shorba and something caramelising in the back, the low murmur of conversation. He gave his order and stood waiting, half-watching the door to the kitchen for his order.

The door swung open.

Out came a boy carrying a tray, moving with the trained ease of someone who knew the room. Blackened hands, a smear of coal dust across one cheek, wearing working clothes with his head down and concentrating on the tray.

Then the boy looked up.

Javed felt the recognition hit him like a nuclear missile. The world seemed to go briefly spinning in his head. There was Siraj. His Siraj, their missing Siraj, the boy whose disappearance had cost Javed a week of sleep and a humiliating number of visits to Manoj's office. Here, in an apron, carrying food to someone else's table.

"Siraj!"

The word came out louder than he really wanted with every head in the room turning towards him. Siraj stopped. For one moment the boy looked at Javed indifferently with no guilt & surprise. It was an expression of a person who may have been found but had not been exactly hiding.

Javed covered the distance between them in four steps and grabbed the boy by the arm.

What happened next went fast like a blur. The tray went flying. The two men from the kitchen came through the door. A chair scraped. One of the Habib brothers, the heavyset one who managed the floor, stepped between Javed and Siraj with his arms out, trying to pacify him in low voice that Javed could not hear over the rage in his head. Javed tried to go around him. He couldn't and swung around and caught an elbow somewhere on his face or perhaps he walked into the wall, later he couldn't be sure. Suddenly, he found himself outside on the pavement, with a cut lip and a torn shirt and the door closing behind him. The Marwari Seth from the lane was passing by on his evening walk and saw him.

-------------

Amina heard the commotion from inside and came out to the verandah to find Javed at the gate with the Seth holding his elbow, blood at the corner of his mouth. Before she could get to him, he pulled his arm free and came inside walking past her. Then he turned and that’s when it all came out.

“This is your doing. You gave him too much liberty. You encouraged him. You treated him like one of the family and now look… look at what is happening now.”

She stood there and did not say anything. She had learned this over the years, that certain things were like monsoon squalls: they came, they went, and the only thing to do was stand still and wait them out, because whatever you did in the middle of them only made things worse.

She thanked the Seth, who left with a sympathetic look at Javed and a disappointed one at Amina.

Then she sat down.

Siraj had been at Ajmatiya all along. He had been working of his own choosing and full knowledge of the hotel staffs. He had not been kidnapped or lost or in any danger. He had simply left, and gone somewhere he wanted to go, and continued to exist cheerfully a fifteen-minute walk from their house while they turned the city upside down for him.

She did not know, sitting there, whether what she felt was anger or relief or something in the region of grief which could not be named. She lay down and stared at the ceiling.

That night she did not sleep.

---------------

The next day she took leave from the school after the farcical incidence of the previous day and found that Javed was also languishing at home. Unable to bear his sight, she took a rickshaw and bundled her kids on to it heading towards her parents’ home.

Getting back to one’s parents’ house is the most cherished and treasured moment for any girl, especially after marriage. Amina was not someone who was known to run to her parents’ house at the slight sign of hardship. However, this incident proved to be beyond her tolerance and patience and she needed a good break from all the chaos and confusion.

She does not know for how many days and nights she slept. Her mother would try to wake her up and feed her even as she stayed in a dazed condition. Again, she will slip back to the stupor, a dreamless sleep where you find yourself in a twilight zone, swinging between day & night, between clarity and confusion and between trust & betrayal.

“Amina, beta Amina… Wake up Beta, see Habib Sahib is here to see you”. Amina’ s mother voice seemed to echo and come as if from a far-off valley. Giving a faint smile in her dream, Amina changed side and went off to her sleep. Only after a strong jolt and violent shaking by her mother that Amina finally came to her senses.

Putting a Dupatta on her head, Amina walked to her father’s study where Habib Sahib, the owner of Ajmatiya hotel was sitting.

Seeing her come, he got up courteously and said half embarrassingly “Bitiya, sorry to trouble you and wake you up. I really wanted to see you and explain things so that you should not count me as guilty as I will have to show this face to Sattar Sahib in the Yome – Qayamat” He said almost embarrassingly and full of regret.

Keeping his eyes low, Habib Sahib continued, “Beta, I never wanted to take the fool Siraj as one of my staff. But what can I do, my sons would not have any of it. The staffs also know him and have gotten fond of him. I was helpless,” Said a visibly dejected Habib Sahib.

“On top, Siraj’s father came and threatened us that if we did not give him money, he will let you know that we have lured Siraj to join our hotel. Its only when I came to know that they have created ruckus in the village and also received confirmed news that they were trying to extort good amount f money from you Bitiya, that I said enough is enough and came running to you” Habib Sahib was now visibly shaken and disturbed, perhaps in the apparent guilt of being the culprit who has set off this unfortunate chain of events, started to shed some unabashed tears.

“On top of that, my wretched blood had also the temerity to mishandle Damad Ji... Chi, Chi, Chi”…. He started crying uncontrollably.

Amina’s father comforted him but he was beyond consolation. Izzat and Waqar (dignity & honor) meant a lot to people of his generation and he could not bear to see the same now run down to the ground due to the unfolding events.

That evening she took a rickshaw home.

---

The rickshaw came down the main road and slowed turning into the lane. Ajmatiya was on the corner, its doors were open and the evening smell of coal smoke and cooking mutton drifting out into the dusk.

And there was Siraj.

He was crouched at the side of the building beside the coal stove, extracting the spent pieces, sorting the usable coal with the same complete and serious attention he had once given to every task in her house. His hands and face were black with it as he was utterly absorbed in it.

He looked up as the rickshaw approached. Saw her.

His face opened into a smile: a wide, innocent, a flash of white in a coal-dark face. It was not the smile of a boy who knew he had caused trouble. It was the smile of someone who was simply glad to see her, and wanted her to know something without having the words for it; beyond the deviousness and plotting of his parents, beyond the accusations and allegations that everyone was heaping on him he wanted her to know…

“I am all right, Mother. I found the place I was always looking for. Don't be angry with me.”

Amina looked at him.

She felt the months of his presence in her house, the early morning crying, the doll fight, the two plates of rice, the stories about his village told while he swept; and she felt them pass through her without the sharp edge of grief she had expected.

He had not been hers to keep. He had been, for a little while, exactly what she needed, and she had been, she hoped, something of the same for him. It was enough. It was beautiful and as with every beautiful thing, it must come to an end.

She gave him the smallest nod. Just enough. Then she turned back to her children.

Imran had fallen asleep against her arm. Razia was watching the lane go by with her serious eyes. Amina tucked a loose lock of hair back from her daughter's face and held her close.

She thought about Javed. He would be home already, probably, sitting in the dim of the bedroom with his injured face and his bruised pride and the particular sullenness of a man who knows, somewhere, that he was wrong. She thought about the door she had closed so long ago and whether it was too late to open it, and decided, in the way you decide small things sometimes in the back of a rickshaw, without fanfare, that it was not.

That nothing was too late for people who loved each other, started a life together for the love and now bonded together by their beautiful children. Now, no matter how imperfect their relationship has been, there is always time for new beginnings.

She would go home. She would make the dal he liked, the slow Friday one, with the proper tadka and the whole spices and the patience that the Ajmatiya cook had explained to Siraj, who had explained it to her. She would put the children to bed. And then, perhaps, for the first time in longer than she could clearly remember, she would sit down with her husband and actually talk to him.

The rickshaw moved on down the lane.

The House with the Color Television

2026-04-28T21:29:00.000-07:00

I. The Kohinoor of the Lane

One summer morning in early 1980s, in a modest neighborhood of a sleepy town of Cuttack, my best friend Kuna and me, stood frozen, stunned, utterly dumbstruck.

A pickup truck stood right Infront of the Marwadi Seth’s house, and men loaded the household items one by one. Iron trunks screeched against the concrete. Utensils clanged and thudded. Furniture groaned as it was dragged out into the unforgiving morning light.

This awakened the neighborhood with a huff.

Our lane was a graveyard of ancestral pride, lined with rickety and crumbling houses that were once symbols of prosperity. Homes which were once made by proud and successful forefathers, now left in the hands of wayward children unworthy of that rich lineage.

A familiar sour smell hung in the air as the household waste water slushed leisurely through the open drains – a smell which was slightly inconvenient but well tolerated by the accustomed neighborhood.

However, to us children, this lane wasn’t an echo from the past but a joyful playground of infinite possibilities, with adventures waiting for us at every corner.

“Pintu, are you listening to me”?

Kuna rocked me like a goli soda bottle, forcing me to come out of my reverie.

“What”? I blinked, startled.

“Arrey baba” he said, voice heavy with betrayal. “Jignesh is a liar. He told us it was all a rumour. And now look at this!” said Kuna, dejected.

Now, the Seth family in our lane were all together a different story.

It is said that the Seth came from Rajasthan with nothing and used to roam around as a street vendor selling “Har ek Maal Saadhe Saat Rupaiaya” (all items for Rs 7.50 only).

Through sheer hard work and an entrepreneurial mindset, he prospered. First, he opened a small shop and then several more, and now is the owner of one of the largest garment shops in the city.

That is the success story of everyone who does hard work and shows perseverance.

It may appear strange how such a rich man landed up in a lane like ours. Some elders in the lane say that the Seth started his “Saadhe Saat Rupaiya” business from our lane and found the people to be very amiable and kind. As a result, when his fortune changed, he bought an old, dilapidated, large house and renovated it for himself and his family.

And some renovation it was.

The house emerged transformed, painted bright and proud, its windows always open. And Seth did something no one else in the lane ever did.

He invited us in.

Though we had seen it from the outside, what we saw inside blew our mind.

It seemed as if we had stepped in to a Bollywood cinema set - a large, lavish house with the latest furniture and expensive upholsteries with the latest gadgets and all items that comfort can want and more. The home had five bedrooms with a large drawing and dining room. Each of the kids had their own bedroom, with rooms painted in the choice of their colors, curtains and bedsheets carefully picked up by the Sethani which had Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters printed on them, smiling at you from every corner.

Once invited in, men sat on his sofas. Women admired the curtains. Children wandered without being yelled at. He did not ask anyone to leave. Everyone was welcome as the familiar warmth of Seth and his family embraced one and all.

And inside, glowing like a relic stolen from the future, stood the color television. It was indeed a rare possession for the lane and the Seth took great pride in showcasing it. It occupied a pride of place in his drawing room, sitting atop the teakwood table, polished and shining like a true Kohinoor diamond.

The first time I saw it, I thought it was alive.

Colors moved inside it. Actual colors, not the muddy greys of the black-and-white set that we saw in shops or other wealthy households. When actors cried, their tears shone. When songs played, dresses exploded with blues and reds I had never seen together.

With a VHS player.

And stacks of movie cassettes.

Little did we know then that this Kohinoor carried a curse of its own, and that our excitement around it would quietly grow into the source of many troubles and small miseries that waited for us in the days ahead.

***

II. The Departure

The next day morning the final loading began.

What met me outside was an incredible scene where the entire neighborhood had gathered outside their house to see off one of the most beloved family leave the lane.

Women, stopped mid-way from their Jhoti - making Infront of their houses - a traditional practice of creating Rangoli with rice flour against a background of mostly dried cow dung on the road, which was beautiful, aesthetic, and very Odia.

I looked at Kuna grinning in that infuriating, devil-may-care attitude of his.

It was very much like Kuna and I looked at him visibly irritated.

“Sanga, why are you cross with me?” Kuna said.

“Arrey, naahin Sanga”. I jumped before he could answer. I am just so sad to see Jignesh and his family leave the lane. It feels strange,” I said, trying to be as sincere and with as straight a face as possible.

Kuna looked at me for a long second, then snorted. “Don’t give me that, Pintu. White lies and all.”

“What white lie?”

“Are you really sad that Jignesh is leaving,” he said, folding his arms, “or are you mourning the loss of the colour TV, the VHS player, and our shameless back-to-back ‘free shows’ at his place?”

This time I did not get angry with him.

For the first time, the fool made sense and paraphrased our shared emotions correctly.

Suddenly Jignesh and his family came out of their house, met the people of the neighborhood and piled up in two hand pulled rickshaws.

The truck pulled out of the bend and the last sight of the packed TV, perched atop the furniture, was a sight so heart rendering that both Kuna and I let out a shriek, startling the neighbors and infuriating our parents, inviting royal size slaps from our respective fathers.

Jignesh turned, confused, trying to understand why his leaving hurt us so much.

I don’t think he ever did.

***

III. The Failed Plan

Once the Seths departed and both of us went off to Kanika Kothi, the old palace where we hid when home felt unsafe. No one owned the palace, though its walls had broken and bats and rumors haunted its rooms.

Once alone, Kuna said “Actually, Sanga, I wanted to tell you that all hopes are not lost with Jignesh’s departure”.

He smiled with his eyes gleaming with the fire of a conspirator

“There is a house in our close neighborhood of Sri Vihar Colony where a drunkard lives. It is said that the drunkard is a wealthy heir and has the entire house and all the wealth to enjoy”. He said drawing an air of mystery around the tale.

He continued. I was dying inside with excitement at the mystery and getting irritated at Kuna for not telling it quick enough.

“The whole day the man does nothing except drink and lay in his drawing room Infront of a large imported color television with movies playing in the VHS, which is also imported. What’s more, the window is always open for anyone to see whenever they want to”.

Both of us happily shrieked and squealed as he blurted out the last few details excited of the possibilities that lay ahead for us.

There and then it was decided that Kuna and I would try to go for the movie watching at the drunkard’s house the very next afternoon.

Afternoon, of course, was the problem.

The tricky part was that it was peak summer vacation and most parents considered afternoon siesta sacred. It is not only a habit but an institution in itself in eastern India. People ate, melted in to deep slumber and awakened unreasonably refreshed and cheerful by afternoon 4 pm. Nay, in Odisha, afternoon was popularly known as char ita bele (4 o’ clock) as life truly geared up and resumed for the evening after that.

Stepping out then was dangerous.

Now I had my misgivings on this new adventure which I shared with Kuna.

However, he convinced me that this is a trip worth taking and that we should not miss it for anything.

Convinced, against my better judgment, we decided to sneak out the next day during the afternoon siesta.

The next day afternoon, two little boys tried to escape for their mid-summer adventure but barely made it past the doorstep.

One of us tripped over utensils kept for washing.

Unfortunately, it was me.

The noise woke up Kuna’s household as well.

They caught him mid escape.

That afternoon, the neighborhood could no longer sleep as it reverberated with the wailing and bawling of two innocent boys at the mercy of their fierce mothers.

Later that evening, we met up. Battered brothers who have fallen through hard times. Bruised, humiliated but our resolve now stubborn and hardened. Our plan was not going to die. We thought about the most opportune time when we could make the plan work without raising any doubt with the parents, especially the two heartless fathers.

It was decided that we will do it during the evening grocery run.

Evening grocery run was when each household will send their kids to fetch groceries from the local shop. As the fathers were too tired after a long day of office work & travel, it generally fell on kids like me and Kuna to fetch the groceries. Our incentive was a chocolate or a lollypop and if one was lucky, eat the tasty Dahibara Aloo Dum, the hallmark of Cuttack.

It was perfect. Trusted. Routine. Invisible.

So, two days after the last beating, we were handed our grocery lists and sent out. The two friends walked toward the local shop—

and quietly took a detour toward our cherished destination – the drunkard’s house.

***

IV. The Final Run

On and on we went, crossing roads, neighborhood and every rule meant to bind us back; with the breeze in our hair – truly carefree like the bird. The sun was setting; crimson light bled into the streets, staining the walls and stretching our shadows into uneasy shapes. The evening felt unreal, cinematic. It fueled us, pushed us forward.

We did not know what lay in store for us as in Jignesh’s case, we knew beforehand which movie will play. This uncertainty thrilled us & propelled us forward.

We finally reached the drunkard house. It was a palatial bungalow with long driveway and manicured lawn with a central fountain and our real point of attraction: the backyard. We snuck up the wall and landed on the other side of the narrow lane.

Through the open window, light spilled out: blue, yellow, impossible.

What met our eyes was unbelievable! A massive imported TV was playing the Amitabh Bacchan blockbuster Sharaabi - Fate had a macabre sense of humor, showing a movie about a drunkard to our very own resident drunkard.

Then we watched.

And watched.

Time evaporated as the movie took us through various twist & turns as a lovable drunk with a golden heart drink his way through daddy issues, falls in love, sings iconic songs, and somehow proves that being Sharaabi is a personality trait, not a problem. And inside the room the reel was playing out the real!

“Arrey, sighra asi ki cassette badala… Nua bhala filim laga” (“Come and change the cassette and put on a good new film”) The drunkard shouted in Odia to his man servant when the movie ended.

What bliss!

V. All Hell Breaks Loose

That’s when we heard a gasping sound and turned.

“You scoundrels! Do you know what you’ve done?” shouted Jena Uncle, our neighbor. “Your families have been searching for two hours. The whole neighborhood is out looking for you. Your fathers are at the police station; and here you are, watching movies like thieves!”

The noise drew people from the neighborhood. Hands grabbed us, pinned us down, just as we tried to escape.

Off went Jena uncle to inform our fathers.

All our bad luck.

That devil, he took the effort to take out his scooter and transport our fathers so that he can have a ringside view to the entertainment that will unfold!

No longer that Jena Babu hit the brake that both our fathers jumped out from behind and descended on us.

All hell broke loose.

Slaps, kicks, punches as if it was a WWF with no rules. Random slapping, kick, punch – all followed with generous number of unmentionable expletives which in some cases casted doubt on their genuine fatherhood and having sired the both of us. The pain & hurt was there but the shame cut deeper.

From the corner of our eyes, we could see the drunkard ambling out of his house to see what the commotion is all about.

Kuna, ever the wiser, pleaded, “Papa, please, everyone is watching. Let’s go home.”

That only fueled the rage.

This infuriated his father Mangaraj Babu so much that it tempted him to tell my father “whatsay Ahmed babu? These little brats have developed a sense of prestige and self-importance. Let’s give these fine gentlemen some more treatment so that they develop wider prestige all around” Said he gleefully. Trying to match his tempo, my father said, “lets drag this vagabond all the way up to home and teach them a lesson so that they will not repeat it”.

What followed was incredibly embarrassing and shameful with the best of Gaalis. Mothers and sisters reference were used so much that at one point of time we started to feel protective of them given how they were unnecessarily getting dragged and names getting misused.

In between, I mustered up the courage and told my father “maa – behen ke baare mein kuch nahin sununga” (“will not bear to listen anything related to my mother & sister”).

This infuriated my father so much and threw him in such a fit that he started hitting with greater intensity. That day everyone on the way just looked on stunned.

People stared. No one intervened.

The procession of the two fathers, their sons, Jena Babu and some onlookers entered our lane. The expletives stopped as both the fathers had some degree of social prestige in the lane and also, they did not want to come across as ungentlemanly in front of the ladies. However, the hitting continued. The neighbors poured out and formed a line along the lane as if giving a grand salute to us, the returning victors! while some thanked the lord and other philosophized about the transient nature of life, some old devils gleefully wished the two devils (us) had drowned in the muddy pond than to have caused such grief to their parents!

***

VI. The Redemption

By next day, the lane had gone quiet. The afternoon cricket seemed to have paused somewhere even as the chalked line of the cricket creases waited for its heroes to begin the fierce war of cricket. The news of the beating had spread across the length and breadth of the lane and beyond.

Just as the dusk began to settle resignedly, he suddenly appeared, swaying slightly as always.

It was the drunkard from the Sri Vihar colony.

Everybody was shocked to see him appear in the lane, almost from nowhere. He was someone whose reputation preceded him, and in not so good way either. Hence, his appearance was not only surprising but was considered to be inauspicious & ominous. His appearance did not help ether - shirt crumpled, hair unkempt and eyes strangely shifting beneath the haze. Behind him, two boys from the electronics shop carried a boxed television set and a second carton, a brand-new VHS player.

The lane stirred and suddenly came to life.

What is this? Who called him here? Who told him anything?

He stood in the middle of the narrow road, cleared his throat, and for once did not slur. “I heard,” he said quietly. “Heard what happened.” His eyes moved to our verandah where Kuna and I sat, visibly battered, silent and withdrawn. He looked at us for a moment, then looked away, as if the sight of us had confirmed something he had already decided.

“A TV is a mere machine. A box with wires & a screen with light”. He started, as if talking to himself. He turned to the people standing in the lane and continued “It should never become a reason for children to suffer.” As if a pointed references & reproach to the fathers who had gathered there. His word hung heavy and solemn in the lane. No one spoke.

“And it should never,” he added, voice tightening, “become the reason for love to disappear.”

Someone muttered that this was none of his business. He smiled, not offended, just tired.

“I grew up with the best that money can buy. My parents had three televisions,” he said. “Imported ones. Big house. Drivers. Servants. Everything.” He paused.

“Except time.”

“I would sit in front of those screens,” he continued, now his voice mushy & soft, “waiting for them to come sit beside me.” He swallowed & choked. “They never did.” There was no accusation in his tone. It was as if he was reading from memory.

“So,” he said, straightening, as if steadying more than his balance, “put this in the clubhouse. Let all the children watch together. Matches, movies, whatever they like.” He looked again toward the verandah. “No child should think a thing is more important than them.” The shop boys placed the boxes inside the small community room, the one with peeling paint and a broken ceiling fan.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, quietly, I & Kuna stepped out and walked up to the man everyone called useless. “Thank you,” both of us said. Not loudly. Not with any drama. Just enough.

The drunkard nodded once.

As he turned to leave, his steps were steadier than before. Both the fathers avoided each other’s eyes.

Inside the clubhouse, someone plugged the television in. The screen flickered to life; a blue glow filling the small room.

In the meanwhile, something else had changed in the lane. That night, more than one father sat beside his child: not in front of a screen, but on the doorstep, talking.

And the drunkard from Sri Vihar Colony?

For the first time in years, he did not stop for a drink.

He walked home under the streetlights, hands in pockets, carrying nothing and yet lighter than he had been in decades...

******

Modern Love Hyderabad Review

2022-07-28T22:27:00.004-07:00

Watched Modern Love Hyderabad 2 weekends back and was totally floored by the whole series. What rich tapestry of human emotions and hues of relationship delicately and heart warmingly woven into a tale of ordinary humans going about their ordinary lives yet standing out due to a unifying emotions tying them all together - Love....

Be it the tentative, now halting now overflowing love between a daughter and a mother held together by culinary delicacies and gustatory overtures, the trick that the mind plays as a two lovers find, lose and rediscover love through a common medium of slipper!, the agonising and lacerating tale of a young boy separated from her only support - the grandmother and wondering for a lifetime on why she left him only to rediscover the love through a tiny hand clutching his little finger & pulling him back to the circle of love, on the heartless world of cinema and daily soaps, the concern of a father for her growing & marriageable daughter and a girl trying to find her soulmate through analogies drawn from the animal world!

No series could have been as diverse as "Modern day Love Hyderabad" and the first thought any producer or critic could think of would be that it would land up in great disasters. But thanks to Nagesh Kuknoor for most part and other directors, no such mishap was seen. All the stories just warmed your cockles and few of them made you reach out for that box of tissues - I did especially for the episode "Why did she leave me there...?"

A refreshing departure from the run of the mill extreme narratives in all contemporary genres of its time, "Modern Love Hyderabad '' touches you deep within making the character relatable and in tales which are achingly beautiful steeped in love and romance which is soul touching. The series was so overwhelming in the beauty of the narrative and characterisation that I was unable to watch it in one go as I needed the time to soak in the bliss and let my soul bathe in the eternal tale of love, romance and relationships.

Folks, watch it at the risk of falling in love all over again....

Half Lives

2022-05-18T01:51:00.000-07:00

Shuttling between office and home,

shouldering the personal and professional,

one wonders if one is not leading a half life...

Leaving small cities with eyes full of dreams

and a resolution in the heart to make life fulfilling...

Fulfilling those dreams to settle in city of dreams,

yet looking back at the small city left behind…

the nostalgic memory and few places which seems to be frozen in history

as if waiting for you to return to once again embrace it...

A waft of morning breeze, a smattering of familiar smells,

bringing back suddenly waves of long past memories

deepening the feeling of half lives being led...

A promise of solidarity,

of being there with one's own loved ones

being relegated to the background in view of " life's priorities"

A journey which began in making the life full

now appears to be falling somewhere short,

showing the meaningless pursuit and mirages once chased...

I come to my balcony, looking at my piece of blue expanse

that I pay handsomely to get a view,

I hear the sudden catching of breath from my adjacent balcony...

Looking at my neighbour's balcony,

I see a reflection of me staring right back at me

with the same journey and question in his eye –

" have we all lived and continue to live half lives?"...

The Migrant Worker

2020-10-27T02:58:00.003-07:00

"Donon ka ik hi rasta hai

Donon jalti tapti sadak par

Suraj ki garmi se pighalte

Nange paanv

Apne thhake kandhon par

Apni bhookh aur pyas ki gatthri lekar

Jaane kitni sadiyon se yun hi chalte hain" (Javed Akhtar)

"And both are seeing it

Both on the hot burning road

Melting in the scorching sun

Barefoot

On their tired shoulders

Carrying their luggage of hunger and thirst

Don’t know for how many centuries

They have been walking like this" (Javed Akhtar)

The Covid19 lockdown was declared in the country on 24th March, 2020 leading to the massive mass migration of the migrant workers across the country walking back home thus evoking multitude of emotions. Well my post is not an analysis of the mass migration, the utter chaos and bad planning behind it. May be that is a topic for some other time.

My post is on the similarity and contrasts that migrant workers have with each other and how their lives intersect & diverge in reality and figuratively.

Having seen the moving image of the mass migration and having closely worked in providing relief to many such workers, the closest imagery that comes to me as a similarity is a moving image of someone close to me, someone I know...

And that person is me...

While the migrant workers mentioned here are at a basic subsistence level, one may argue on how do I identify myself with them? While I may be better paid many times over as compared to the workers in question, the other criteria that defines them also defines me.

Many may feel, at this point in time, that I am over romanticising the comparison and that it is taken out of proportion. Allow me to explain and then you may draw your conclusions as you feel fit.

When I am comparing myself and millions of other middle class sons and daughters coming from smaller cities to work in larger cities for better employment opportunity, actually I am drawing up a context, situation and reality which is akin, if not as stark, to the migrant workers under mention.

Millions of middle class youngsters like me set out to establish themselves in today's world through better education and training. However, when such an education is over and then they start looking for suitable opportunity closer home, such opportunity forever eludes them as it is simply not there. Having no other options, they take up jobs and career options in larger cities thereby subjecting themselves to the bondage of a life time away from their home and hearth.

Living in small cubicles which are called living spaces in modern cities, they get used to their little windows & balconies giving them a piece of the universe - which is always silent, does not talk to them and has no answer for them... With parents left in the smaller cities, the middle class son & daughter lives a dual life as one part of their being is with their parents - worried sick if they are doing well, depending on goodwill & charity of friends / relatives when they fall ill / have to be hospitalised and forever dying of guilt of how they can be of no use to their parents when they need their children the most...

They try hard to go back but as they progress in their career, it becomes increasingly difficult for them to go back as similar opportunity can never be created or are available in their home states. Grudgingly and reluctantly they continue to trudge along living a life, which though is full of comfort and better amenities but forever missing the joy, fun and the familiar camaraderie of an era gone by...

Such urban robots work their whole life paying for endless EMIs, bills and expenses hoping against hope that one day they will get a chance to go back...

Rushing through the maze of life in the cities, they however pause, even if for a little while, when they smell the earthy smell of the moist earth after the first rain, a random smell of food wafting through the air or the fun of kids playing a 'competitive' game of cricket on the road... The imageries achingly reminding them of a time when they were alive, bustling with energy and looking forward to life with hope and aspirations in their eyes...

Back home their parents are proud of them and would not stop showing off to their friends and relatives of the good job & life their children and grandchildren are leading... However, the parents are very careful to hide the sense of emptiness and hollowness which comes from the knowledge that their near and dear ones are not with them when they need them the most... The parents always encourage their children to do well in their life and march ahead in the competition but once in a while you will hear a silent whisper, almost like a fervent prayer to their creator, when they ask you this question over telephone while trying to sound casual " do you see any new openings in the state which may be suitable for you".... Hoping against hope that there is actually such openings which will ensure that their loved ones return home...

The longings, the fear, the insecurity and the sense of emptiness is the same in all types of migrant workers - be it the one walking back home or be it the one sitting in posh flats wishing that they could also go back home...

Is there a way out of it...? Is there a solution which will magically restore the migrant workers back to their native place...? Is there an answer to the many prayers that parents across this country are making to atleast have their family around them in the last leg of their journey... ?

I don’t know nor do I have the answer... Some of you may say that the answer lies in entrepreneurship and entrepreneurial spirit of starting something back home... The answer to such suggestion is that many lack the entrepreneurial spirit as in the India of 70s, 80s & 90s (where the current generation of white collar migrant workers grew up in) had families which stressed on education and finding good jobs to sustain yourself. Such an approach has not bred the spirit of entrepreneurship and there is a very miniscule of people from this generation who actually go back and start something on their own - the local regulatory & economic conditions also not being conducive to such start-ups...

So where does it leave the migrant workers at... Well that leaves us at the cross road of emotions, longings and a sense of emptiness & hollowness in what could have been and what the imaginary possibilities were... Till such time that one formally retires from work and returns back to the cherished land to find out that over a period of time you are suddenly considered an outsider by virtue of staying out of the state for a long time...

Hence the migrant worker, sadly, will always be a migrant worker - in search of his identity in a city which considers him an alien and which he equally considers as a foreign place, never adopting each other, never comfortable with each other and never belonging to each other... '

So the spirit of the migrant worker floats around eternally unable to find a place which he can call home and missing the era long gone by where he belonged, mattered and cared for.... Continuously searching for it in the earthy smell of the moist earth after the first rain, random smell of food wafting through the air or in the games kids play on the wayside...Reminding him of a time when he was alive, bustling with energy and looking forward to life with hope, aspirations and joy glistening in his eyes...

Blast from the past

2017-02-25T03:19:00.001-08:00

Our generation, brought up and constantly fed with the staple diet of Doordarshan and borne in an era of license raj who did not have the luxury of the Internet, cable TV, Netflix or X box or video games are a species to be marvelled at by the present generation... So how did we entertain ourselves, what is the things that kept us occupied or to use the latest in thing, what kept our mojo flowing...

So here goes the list of things that kept us occupied and made our childhood a memorable one to yearn for a lifetime...

1. Going to School:

While we did not have fancy air conditioned school buses to pick/drop us and neither took rickshaw to school (that was a really 'girlish' way to do things), we went to school like our heroes from 'Jo Jeeta wohi Sikandar" - JJWS (which become sort of a cult movie during our days for school going kids where everyone pretended to be from Model School and the others from Rajput school) in Streetcat and BSA SLR bicycles...

2. The friends that eat together stays together:

While the popular phrase is " The family that eats together, stays together" we kind of replaced 'family' with 'friends' and it was to a large extent true... While all of us were classmates, but among us also there were groups which stayed together due to shared sports, subject or other interests (now do I need to list down all interest areas ;) and sometimes even common tuition teacher ! The best part about this grouping was that they stuck together during lunch time, small breaks and other leisure times and met up over weekends/holidays... The best part of it was the lunch break or also known as tiffin break where everyone shared their tiffin with others...For some, actually it was the case of entire tiffin being transferred (as they really hated their home food and shared it with others who had mutual likings for the others' food).

3. The seeds for IPL T 20 was sown in our era:

It must be hard to believe and it will be so for today's kid... But to be very honest, the concept for the shorter version of cricket actually was sown in our era... After school, we had only 2 hours to play before the evening study time and all of us wanted to play as many game as possible... Hence came the concept of 5 overs per game or the corresponding concept of even lesser number of overs... It also allows us to play individually (by 'numbering' method) if number of players were very less (less than 5)... As since we played 'gully' cricket, it allowed us to refine our shots in a way which no international coach or net practice can teach...The option of getting out was so much that in order to survive and also to make runs, we played like pro...And caution was necessary & required as the rule was whosoever loses the ball will have to buy a new one!

4. Bollywood - The ultimate panacea:

For us watching a Bollywood movie in the theatre was an Utopian dream... The only close brush with Bollywood which we had was with the Binaca/Cibaca Geet Mala or the 9 a.m. songs on Vividh Bharati... The closest we came to seeing a new movie was during Chitrahaar when few selected songs would be shown as promo for the upcoming movies.. And there will be counting done on how many times the hero or heroine changed costumes...

The only time we were able to see new movies were during festivities when VCR/VCP will be rented along with colour TV to watch new movies over VHS along with the entire family. That too there used to be an 'ordinary print' (no guarantee on picture quality) or 'master print' (full guarantee with high clarity of picture) VHS tape. With the VCR/VCP came along with an operator who was accorded maximum prestige in the house especially by the kids...

5. The national Entertainer - Doordarshan:

What Doordarshan meant to our generation can never be appreciated by any other generation, for in Doordarshan, we found our ultimate escape to the world of Nukkad, Buiyaad, Ye jo Hai zindagi, Byomkesh Bakshi not to forget of epics like Ramayana & Mahabharat (I still remember, a crowd gathering outside our window each time when ramayan were being telecasted to watch the serial)... The good things about Doordarshan serials were that it came once a week and actually had some good subject and storyline and not like today's Saas-Bahu drama which is artifical and manufactured; not to speak of the concept which is done to death in umpteenth daily soaps...

Later we were introduced to the world of animation.. We still fondly remember He Man, Spider Man, Tale Spin, Jungle Books etc. We also remember the days when Shaktimaan was a crazy hit and kids started copying Shaktimaan and jumping off roof tops! Poor Mukesh Khanna actually had to oame on TV to demystify how these stunts were "engineered" with special effects which might have finally proven to be the cause of the serial's decline in popularity leading to it being finally taken off air...

6. Exam Blues:

Cometh exam season, when even the climate indicates through their change from the cozy and comforting wintery chill to a gradual warmth in the air which nay turns to an unforgiveable sweltering afternoon; make no mistake that exams are round the corner... And who knows it better than the young adolescent preparing for the myriad exams be it the 10th, 12th, competitive exams for Engg and medicine...

Our era of the baggy pants and Bazigar specs were no different. we somehow identified the exams season with not only the seasonal changes but with some Bollywood numbers which sticks to one's mind in a way which is difficult to separate from one's memory of the ultimate test of life - Exams...

6.a. Shardi Khaansi na malaria hua...

How can I or 30 odd of my batch mate appearing for 10th exams forget that fateful day when we had the most important paper of our life (Science) fall on a Holi day... Now let me pause here to explain... Since we were appearing in our 10th ICSE board exam and as per their (ICSE) calendar, Holi was celebrated a day before in North India as compared to eastern India (Odisha, W. Bengal etc)... So we were actually writing our science paper when the whole town was celebrating Holi... To make matter worse, our school was strategically located between the ladies and gents' hostel of the city's one and only reputed medical college, the SCB Medical College. This caused a lots of heart burn amongst the lovestuck pairs from both the establishment as we had encroached on the only vacant land which was supposed to be their free zone... So to take their angst out on us (we were also culpable of 'vitiating' the lovers' moment whenever they were having one ), they started playing the recently released Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman song on a loop for the whole day... The reason why this song stuck to me and many of my classmates is beacuse this was played on full volume during our 1st paper which happened to be the most difficult - Physics...

So to sum up, for all of us and especially for those who did not do well in Science exam, till date are left wondering that even though we did not have any Sardi (cold), Khaansi (cough) and malaria; why fate (and nay the inhabitants of the hostels) were unkind to us on that holi day in 1993... Anyways, bura na maano, holi hey...

6.b. O' priya priya.. Kyun bhula diya..

This became a common theme of pathos for our chemistry group friends who used to go for chemistry tuition from a 'learned' man who was living at the other part of the city. Now it so happened that the learned man developed a sudden liking for building his own house and with this endeavour all desire of our's to own good house went out of the window. As we regularly went for tuition punctually, we would find or beloved teacher missing with his new young bride coyly conveying the message that "Sir has gone for the house construction work"... We kept on following him and he kept on eluding us and as a result when we sat for our chemistry exams we were found humming this tune from Dil... RIP Chemistry...

So see, our genration had their share of fond childhood memories which, how one might say, is very ' organic' and actually meant real human interaction with friends who are friends for a life time... Still...

Who Knows...

2016-06-24T04:41:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I think that the reason why I am so creative or risk taking in my professional work in discovering new ways and innovations may be because I am deeply insecure and non-risk taking in my personal front…

So what could be the reason for such deep insecurity and risk averse nature? Reading Paulo Coelho and getting inspired from his oft quoted lines where he exhorts you to take risk and not get in to the comfort zone, I have taken life’s lesson from these writing and have got exhilarated and suffered too… am I not being very carreristic… too entrenched in my comfort zone… well I believe not… I have left jobs at the zenith of my work in the previous organisations to the point that one old super boss was forced to comment that” a rolling stone gathers no moss”…

Am I like the rolling stone which gets impatient after a ascertain period of journey in life and look forwards to explore newer territory? Well, l supposes I could be called that but for the fear of being left in the cold now that I am responsible for a family and have responsibilities…

So what does all this translate for me as a professional…?

May be I would keep exploring and trying till I find what is perfect for me… may be I may get in to academics which would open avenue for me to “officially” explore and satiate the adventure in me… may be I would just keep fixed physically at the same place and explore and create novel things… who knows…

Sometime I think that life is not fair… is it only birth, contacts, false utopian images one build about themselves etc. which gets people ahead in life… or is it the constant critique in people who love to criticise and take all other things as inferior and not unbecoming them is what causes them not to get ahead in life… who knows…

Wanting… no no… yearning dearly for things which will never come to you and yet pushing away things which are well within your grasp, is this what is called the irony of life… then will the irony help solve the riddle when the thing well within your grasp turns out to be a nightmare or vice versa… who knows…

In the older days it was very simple… invade a region/state/province/country and enslave their people… now a days Pension funds, house loans EMIs, education loans are the modern day tools for enslaving a man and his intellect with assurance of a better and secure life style when he retires… it all starts from birth… the theory of effort and reward… study hard for your 10^th and you will never have to work hard in your life… then comes 12^{th ....}entrance, more entrance, professional course, more entrance, interviews and jobs… and then the ultimate way of ensuring a man lands in his graves are the above said modern tools for enslavement… there is also other tools for enslavement post death but again that is the purview of religion and philosophy…. Is there any breakage from these bonds in life… who knows…?

Freedom in professional life is more of a mirage than a reality… “You are free to do whatever you want to do”… But then “do not do this, don’t do that, do not cross swords with these, do not talk to them like that, that is not our purview, we are only the managers and not the core product etc. etc.” If this is freedom then what is slavery…. Who knows…?

Why managing conflict in work place is so hard… haven’t we done it at various places – among friends, relatives, cousins etc.… why do people run away from resolving conflict and in situation when their own team needs their support the most… If leadership can be defined by one critical factor on which it will depend solely for its future efefctiveness, it is the ability to resolve conflict and divert the energy for positive organisational changes… But who will bell the cat and who will make people see… who knows…

Welcome Back !

2016-01-03T04:06:00.000-08:00

“Namaskar Sir” (Greetings Sir) The feeble voice on the other end of the line crackled even as I strained to figure out as to who could be calling me on a Sunday afternoon…

“Kaun bol raha hey” (who is speaking?) I asked even as I was trying to guess the person on the other side as recently all my numbers got deleted due to a technical glitch…

“Hum Anil bol rahein hein Sahab” Came the reply… (This is Anil here Sir - Name changed)“ aaj bahut accha camp hua Sir… Ek camp se 521 patient hospital surgery ke liye jaa rahein hein aur ek camp se 200 patients… (We had very good camp today sir, from one camp we got 521 patient and from another camp 200 patients taken to the hospital for surgery)

As the voice crackled on, I was transported to about 1 and a half years back when a medium built, heavily accented and someone who wore his attitude on his sleeves was brought to my office and introduced as the team leader for Outreach in one of the newly opened hospital in the northern part of the country…

For the uninitiated, we are the largest community eye care provider globally and 80% of our services are provided free of cost to the rural poor who otherwise would have become blind in the absence of provision of basic eye care surgery. More of that later.

Anil came to us with substantial experience in community eye care having worked for 15 years with a local eye hospital carrying out community outreach. We had interacted with him through video conferencing and our hospital head also had interacted with him and we thought given the years of experience and the context, he was a suitable fit.

He came to Coimbatore for his training along with his team and that is where we first met each other.

We put him and his team through the standard training program which we have where the team is put in the field and gets exposed to all aspects of community outreach as conducted by us… Few days in the training and we received complaints about him from our team and later by his own team about addiction to tobacco and liquor which he has which he indulged in during his official hours also…

This was infuriating for us and I called him in to my office and along with the hospital head gave him a strict warning that if he is found to indulge in such practices in future then he would be asked to leave… He duly apologised and promised not to repeat it again…

The training was over in due course of time and Anil and team departed to our hospital in the north to start the activities of community Outreach…

Even as work started at our new hospital, I would often get to hear about Anil taking to his old practices not only in terms of addictions but also dishonest practices which he was used to from his earlier job… He also started throwing temper tantrums to increase the salary or otherwise threatened to leave the job…

We finally decided that enough is enough and decided to ask him to leave if he did not mend his way soon… This, it was decided, would happen during one of my visit during May/June when I was due to visit the hospital…

I reached our northern hospital in the blistering heat of peak summer and as soon as I landed up I had a brief meeting with the hospital head on various matters one of which was regarding Anil… surprisingly the unit head was now all in favour of Anil and said that he has reformed completely and there is no need for us to expel him now…. I was not convinced and wanted to meet the man and decide for myself….

The meeting was arranged between me and Anil in one of the afternoons in our conference room…. Anil walked in at exactly the appointed time and greeted me in a very humble way and stood there till I asked him to seat…. I was surprised to see the vast change in the body language but thought it may be some theatrics which he has adopted to beguile us…

I straight came to the point of discussion and told him that if he is not happy with the salary and working with us then he should start looking for other opportunities… Anil looked up painfully as if hurt and with folded hand asked me to give him some time to explain himself… Thus he started his story, one which was not only transformative but one which completely changed him as a person that he was….

“Sir I know, I have not been a good employee and despite what the organisation has done, I have not been able to reciprocate in the same manner” Began Anil in a meek voice…

“I agree that the incentive for leaving my old job was the thought the working with a larger chain of hospitals would give me more money and comfort… I will not lie but when I started work here I also started all the old corrupted practices of taking money from our local supporters and patients… I also indulged in addiction and got in to the habit of receiving favours from local camp supporters for unsavoury things… Given this practice, you are within your right to expel me and I will also not object… But before that please hear my story and how it has transformed me…” Anil paused to take a sip of water from the glass put infornt of him and then continued…

“2 months ago I went to a village to follow up patients who have not come for review… This is a village where I have also worked in my previous job and those people knew me well…whenever I used to come earlier in my previous job, they would insult me and hurl abuses at me for being corrupted and indulging in bad practices.. I used to let it roll of my back and ignore them for what they were saying was the truth and there was no point arguing them…”

“So I walked in to the village and I could see the village elders, young man and some of the panchayat members standing near the village pan shop…With thumping heart and with lots of apprehension I slowly approached them all ready to face the abuse that was going to start”

“As soon as they saw me a noise and commotion arose and I just clenched my teeth and closed my eyes for the 1^st roll of abuse to hit me… But then nothing happened and when I opened my eyes I could see all of the village elders and panchayat member encircling me and falling over each other in inviting me to come and sit while some young fellows were rushing to get me a charpoy… Some others were asking me whether I needed tea or lassi!...I could also hear some elder shouting to the young fellows to make it quick as Doctor sahib has come”….

“initially I though it to be one big joke where they were setting me up for some sarcastic leg pulling which will end up with abuses hurled at me… as one village elder tugged my sleeves other made way for me to occupy the charpoy…”

“I sat down, took a deep breath and asked them that is it some kind of joke that they want to play with me” surprised and hurtful they had this thing to say” aap aise kaise soch sakte ho doctor sahib… humein aapke naye hospital ke bare mein pata nahin tha par jab log wahan se operation karake aaye toh pata chal kaisa swarg hey woh” (how could you even think thus doctor sahib? We did not know about your new hospital but came to know of it when people had their surgery and came told us what a heavenly place that is”)

At that point of time, one frail looking old man with dark eye glasses like the one which people use after eye surgery, broke the protocol and jumped in to the conversation….

“Kya hospital hey aapka doctor sahib, itna saaf, safai ke saath aap log rakhte ho.. Humein toh camp se itne pyaar se sab log hospital le gaye aur wahan par aapka sab staff itne aadar satkaar se humara kahyal rakha… Khana, pina aur rehna itne acchhe tarike se diya… Hum aapko kya bolein, saare staff hum logon ko dada aur daadi ke name se pukarte the… Itna samman toh kabhi humko apne bacchon ne nahin diya… (What a hospital you have doctor sahib, so neat and clean it is maintained… we were taken from the campsite with much respect and at the hospital your staff took so good care of us with dignity, food was served with so much love as well as the stay…. I even feel choked now emotionally as I tell you this: your staff called us grandpa and grandma for all the duration of our stay… such love and respect we have never ever received even from our own children) at this point he choked and started crying…

“A feeling on guilt on time wasted and a self-loathing about the opportunity which I was just frittering out at Sankara overtook me at that point of time… unknowingly tears of gratitude on a second chance and also the respect of the poor and needy for me started to roll down heavily from my eyes as I unabashedly cried that day in that village which had forever scorned me but was now welcoming me with an open arm as one would to their own child”

I could see Anil wiping tears from the corner of his eyes and I was just overwhelmed to see this cocky and a man so sure of himself can also cry….

“That day Sir” Anil continued “I vowed to change myself and dedicate my life to Sankara and the noble work it is doing…. I do not need any salary hike nor any money for doing this work… I just need the organisation’s permission for me to do this work… For 15 years I did the same work but was always met with abuse and expletives thrown at me but never broke down under those feelings of hatred… This one moment of love and respect which the villagers showed me that day changed me totally as a person… Now, whether you decide to keep me or throw me out, does not matter to me… Even outside Sankara I would continue to work and help the hospital in its noble work…”

I asked Anil to wait outside and give me some time to think before I can arrive at a decision…. I just sat back and contemplated on what transpired between the two of us in last half an hour… What Anil realised and received 1^st hand is something none of our training manual, field exposure or theoretical framework can give him… This is the gem which one can only discover when one has really given that care and love to the countless masses selflessly which gets returned back manifold and becomes so transformative that it can change the total perspective of community work and can prove to be life changing…. This ultimately is for me is the real fortune at the bottom of the pyramid!

I conferred with the hospital head who is also a good friend and who listened to my tale of Anil with a smile on his face and asked me to take the final decision…

I called in Anil and asked him to sit down….

Slowly with emotion choked voice I said “Ab tak aap kahan the Anil…. Welcome back”

Epilogue:

Since then Anil has gone to work like a man possessed and has broken many earlier records in the state of reaching out and serving many poor patients through surgery and provision of quality eye care.

He also has enrolled himself in a de addiction program and is slowly limping back to normalcy even as we speak. Though his doctor has advised him complete bed rest, he could not resist to come to today’s mega camp which was one of his dreams which he had promised to me as we departed each other’s way on that blistering hot day of summer...

Rage, Enrage and Outrage - A collage in the day of a common man

2015-03-11T01:51:00.001-07:00

Other species of the animal kingdom on the "Holy Cow Approach":

1 2. Bangladesh entering the semi-finals of World Cup:

33. Amir Khan’s opinion about AIB Roast:

4. Pappu going AWOL:

5. Congress spokesperson before going to Newshour on the above topic:

6. Arnab’s reaction to the above:

7. AK after the national election:

8. AK after the Delhi election:

9. AK after the recent turmoil in AAP:

10. Best suited couple of the year:

11. Why did Sonam Kapoor get Swine Flu?

12. And finally… Aranb’s reaction to all the madness going around:

Whither the Sharukh we all loved?

2014-10-29T06:04:00.000-07:00

Watching Sharukh Khan Serenade Deepika Padukone in HNY (No!!! MY Gosh!!! I have not seen the film, stupid… Nor do I have plans to see it either… Just talking about the promos) for the umpteenth of time and also come up for promoting the movies in innumerable sitcoms, reality show etc. etc… and the help-me-get-Deepika-by-calling–this-number with a “boyish” grin on his face which is so “Rahul-ish (remember “ naam to suna hi hoga… hmmm… hmmmm…)

I mean come on man… there is a shelf live to actors and to be clinging on to the limelight long after the “expiry date” is over (so to say) is just to be plain naïve or pretending not to understand the writing on the wall… well what can we say… thank you Sharukh for all the DDLJ, KKHH,Darr, Anjaam, KANK et al et al… But don’t you get the message dude… move over uncle and pass on the baton gracefully to the youth brigade…

90’s was such a proud era for us when we saw you as the quintessential lover boy who could run around the girl in exotic locale or the character with a difference who could let his seething rage and caustic anger give vent to the injustice done to him in a manner no one else did or could… we clapped in dark theatres, over pirated video cassettes run in rented VCRs and colour TVs watching back to back movies sitting up sleepless to regale in your glory in the sweet gone by era… You somehow defined us… Our urge to be different from the earlier generation… to make a statement that here is a representative of our generation who can do it all and that too with style and panache… even the way you shouted Madan Chopraaaaaaa was simply ethereal…

Then all of us faded in to the eerie reality called middle age (some did it gracefully and some did with a bit of a resistance…but complied we all)… Then we waited and waited and waited some more… But then we never saw you join the bandwagon… No sir… Not you… You are so immersed in playing “Rahul… Naam to suna hi hoga… hmmm… hmmm…” role that you never noticed when the ferry called “middle age” left the shore… For fleeting moment thereafter we saw you mature in to meaningful (Chak De and Swadesh) and dare I say “age suitable” role (Mohabattein) which lifted our heart… but not for you Sir… You simply never could shake off the “Rahul-ish” role nor could you settle in to something meaningful because you never wanted to take the risk…

Now you could point out to me saying that I am just saying that coz I am biased and have an “evil vendetta” against you while the same parameters can apply to the other 2 Khans too… True Sir… True that with all my heart… But see, as far as Aamir is concerned he really does not matter to me…with just one film / year he does not even register in the Bollywood firmament and lately has started playing “ego satiating” roles which only he and his family can watch… Well Salman on the other hand is just become another Telugu star poaching on Bollywood… I care for him in a way that I would for a NTR Jr or a Ravi Teja… So here again I come to the last hope that Bollywood really had which was you (and you have shown glimpses of it in your otherwise “Rahul-ish” movies like rab ne bana di Jodi)… Now you chose to let it flounder as your cash register was ringing as you were forever raking in the moolah…

We have seen the fate of stars who failed to notice the writing on the wall what with a middle aged and obviously obese Rishi ”Chintu” Kapoor dancing away with heroine like Divya Bharati in sweaters to hide their middle age adipose from making a fool of them… But even they also had to exit as the niece (Karishma) joined the industry…

Well we hope that same is not the case with you as you wait for your daughter to enter the industry to make the final exit… There is still fire and that lil bit of “Madan Chopraaaaa” in you to make you redefine yourself and come back with mature roles a la Al Pacino, Harrison Ford or Tom Hanks…

Hence I rest my case with a silent prayer on my lips as we look forward to our favourite hero of the 90’s again come back with the same fire and passion and will only be too happy to watch you over sleepless night if not on rented VCRs and colour TV but on Blu-ray and flat plasma HD T.V…

Celebrating summer

2014-04-29T21:45:00.002-07:00

A child laid watching amaze struck at the night sky wondering from where so many stars have come from…

A summer night nay it was but not as merciless as the summer now…

Allowing bystanders, dreamers and children to lose themselves in the reverie…

A reverie which was scented with the sweetly fragrant smell of the night jasmine floating from the neighbour’s house…

The sweet scent was equally tempered with the delicious scent of dinner being cooked by mother in the kitchen down below…

In an era uninterrupted with the onslaught of satellite television, the friendly radio hummed mellifluous melody from Air India and Vividh Bharati as the family lay on the terrace enjoying the evening…

The child is happy and gay with the knowledge that this little heaven of his is going to last forever and ever as his summer vacation has just begun…

Ignorant is he of the complexity of life, its drudgery which is equally tempered with envy, jealousy and hatred which lay ahead of him…

Alas…the joy of innocence and the bliss of ignorance…

If life could go on and on in such a state, would it not be a heavenly affair…

As the child grew up and was blessed to see his second childhood, he saw the child in him come alive as the little one ran around and created joyful sound…

In celebration of another different summer…

A ride with Zakir Bhai

2013-12-21T01:46:00.003-08:00

“Sir, aap pichhe kyun beth rahein hein… Aaage baithiye… accha lagega (Sir, why are you sitting in the rear seat… sit in front… you will enjoy the ride…) said a very warm and friendly voice… I turned around to find Zakir bhai’s friendly face beaming at me with the rising sun… Zakir Bhai is one of the many drivers in our hospital and has especially grown fond of me during our brief conversation when he dropped me at the railway station during my last visit to our Anand hospital…

I was supposed to go to Ahmedabad today for a meeting with a NGO on some official work and needed to start early from the hospital to be able to make it in time…

We took the National Expressway 1 and were soon zooming and zipping past to what seems to be a flurry of trees and passing vehicles… we remarked on how cold it has gotten this time of the year and were comparing temperature from my last visit in Jan, 2013. Soon discussion veered towards the poster boy of Gujarat and soon to become the “power to be” in the world’s largest democracy.

Zakir Bhai talked with a glazed look staring blankly ahead reminiscing of the fateful day in 2002 which changed the entire socio-politico religious dynamics of the state. The state led massacre of thousands of innocent people and the brazenness with which it was done has left most of the people from the given community shattered and has broken their collective self-esteem and a belief in themselves to prosper in “vibrant Gujarat”.

Zakir Bhai recounted, with a sense of helplessness, on how jobs have dried up for the Muslim youth and how the secret unwritten code for recruitment especially in the public services realm has been to not recruit Muslims. Unemployed youth, in an ever materially prospering state which does not hesitate to boast of its material gains, gradually become frustrated and disillusioned with a system which for them is no longer “ours” but has become “theirs”.

Post riots were a difficult time especially for Muslims who were a minority in many villages and hamlets of Gujarat. Large settlements and ghettos of Muslim have been seen to be predominantly untouched in times of communal tension and unrest. This has, sadly, served as a really negative example for many a Muslim household to follow suit and thus universalise the mentality of “ghettoization” following the state sponsored fear psychosis.

After the aftermath of the riot, many a Muslim organisation came to Gujarat to provide relief, support and succour to the wounded body, mind and confidences of the community at large. One such organisation from Delhi, he recounts, while working with the riot victims, came to shockingly know the fact that at some places the community does not actually want to be re-settled back in the villages as they fear that they will ultimately be consumed by the fire of hatred that has been ignited in the minds of the majority community after Godhra. Following such revelation, the organisation proceeded to purchase plots of land at the outskirt of the city and constructed house, ensured all civic amenities was provide for and in the process actually created a ghetto for their brethren!

The fault line and deep chasm seen in Gujarat is irreparable and one is but shaken at the audacity with which the state carries itself both overtly and covertly. The poster boy of BJP in Gujarat, recounted Zakir Bhai, while addressing a rally in a “Hindu” stronghold, unaware of Muslim audience (or was it intentional!) said that the Hindus need to ensure that Muslims are kept “under their shoes” and never be allowed to raise their head again. As his voice boomed at the rally and as the news of the vitriolic message traveled to many villages and hamlets nearby, the Muslim community panicked and quite a few of them fled to migrate to ghettos for the safety of themselves and their family.

As I sat, listening to Zakir Bhai and his tells of misery, of how Muslim women are treated in times of riot and how the community is ridiculed during their festivities, i clearly saw an organised effort to systematically decimate a community – not physically but psychologically and mentally with clinical precision; I shuddered with horror of what will happen to the nation when such divisive forces are at the helm of affair of this country and take over the reins of governance of world’s largest democracy.

For a moment I just closed my eyes shutting out the voice of Zakir Bhai thinking of yelling at him to stop the narration… I imagined the impression of my beloved country with its ideal of encouraging pluralism, secularism and tolerance, where each Indian by nature is warm, friendly and tolerant of each other’s failings, idiosyncrasies and hypocrisy, of how we are this big melting pot of all culture and civilisation which has assimilated all foreign culture (coming either through invasion or through travellers, traders etc) in to the main stream culture and helped them assume an identity which added more vibrancy to our overall Indianness… and each time India has emerged as a strong nation.

I also imagined of how as a child in my school I would stand shoulder to shoulder proudly with other children (of Hindus, Muslims and Christians… did it matter!) to sing the national anthem with goose bumps all over me, how at that moment I stood tall proud to be an Indian… then and every time.. of how I would attend the various pujas and visit pandals during festivals getting blessed and in turn inviting friends at home to celebrate Eid and Bakrid, how as a teenager all of us visited the Jagannath temple with my friends disguising me with a Hindu name and what fun we had!

Are all this ideal going to be defeated because of the rise of intolerance and vested political interest vying for votes which will give them power to rule… has the NAMO effect become so powerful that one day it is going to eliminate the one big thing that all of us take pride in – being a part of the world’s largest secular, democratic country with so much differences that the even the English were confident that the concept of India as a nation is so ludicrous that it will crumble to dust once they left the shore of the country post-independence?

Suddenly I was brought to my present state to what Zakir Bhai was telling me…

“Lekin sir, hamara gaon ke log aise nahin hein… Hum 30-40 Muslim family hein aur baaki sab (400 families) Hindu hein.. Lkein hamare andar Bhaichaara abhi bhi hey… Hamare doston, jin logon ke sath hum bade huein, woh humein apna bhai maante hein.. hum unke mata pita ko apne Abu are Ami ka darza dete hein… Hum sablok milke saare tyohar manatein hein aur yeh humein kabhibhi pata nahin chalta ke bahaar Gujarat ke doosre jgahon mein Muslim aur Hindu ke bich mein itna jhamela hey (But Sir, it is not the same sitiation back at my village… we are 30-40 Muslim family in a village of around 400 Hindu families. But we have preserved the atmosphere of brotherhood amongst us. Our friends with whom we have grown up consider ourselves as their own brother and we also consider their parents as our Abu and Ami. All of us get together to celebrate each other’s festival and have lot of fun together… while in our village, we never get a sense of how difficult life is in other places of Gujarat for Muslims due to the tension between the two communities).

As a smile returned on the tense face of Zakir Bhai narrating tale s of love and togtherness in time of strife, I suddenly felt my doubts and tension dissipating… in Zakir Bhai’s concluding tale I found the flicker of hope that has kept this proud nation going even after bearing ravages and scars of history.

And what does this flicker of hope tells us during this uncertain time when the 2^nd largest community in the country is in a state of fear and apprehension of what will happen in 2014 when India elects its future leadership. Would the divisive, intolerant and communal forces take up the reins of power? Would the hopes and aspiration of the minority in this country find an outlet for expression? Or would it be a repeat of 1947 when many fled / were made to flee their homeland to contribute to the concept of “nation as a ghetto”?

The flicker of hope tells us that we the people would prevail, that we would stand strong against this divisive force which comes from within us and not outside, that we would win the war with love and tolerance as our forefathers have done and more importantly show these forces their place in the history where they ultimately belong.

Let there be Land... And Villas.. And Flats...

2013-06-26T05:13:00.000-07:00

The saying goes something like this - " alliance and the chances of acquiring a property is already decided in heaven" which must be true coz looking at both the proposition and the chances of landing a good deal in either, is a game of probability which can only be taken up by die hard mathematics scholar/fan working over a weekend during Christmas in one of the U.S Ivy league universities ...(hope you got the drift)

For me, luckily on the alliance front, things worked out pretty OK given that I was lucky enough to "net" a girl who has turned out to be a good companion for me over the years...

However, talking holistically,I am not so lucky on the property front...

Nevertheless, what I have encountered in my umpteenth attempt of landing a property (mostly in Bhubaneswar coz that is where I see myself spending my post - retired life), is the comic and almost hilarious situation that one finds one's self as the market bears down on you with all its force to capture you as a customer...

So here goes the list in no particular order:

1. The eager beavers:

And this I can say of almost all the property dealers... No sooner have you surfed the net and God forbids click on their property, they hound you down as how Sajid Khan does to his audience after they have committed the cardinal sin of buying a ticket to watch his umpteenth movies... Couple of years ago, when I was just an eager buyer looking for a plot of land in Bhubaneswar (God!! how naive was I? Are there any land left in Bubaneswar which does not belong to land grabbers, multiple owners, the land mafia or the government??), No sooner did I click on magicbircks that my phone started beeping with messages and I start getting calls. BTW, magicbricks should actually be re named as magictricks coz the myriad of ways they employ of tracking you down is mind boggling and is just short of sending you a flower bouquet with suggestion of property instead of a card.

Anyways, once I decided that I will have a go at it, I really started answering proactively to few of my "suitors"... It was like talking to a pimp for business (not that I have any first hand experience, I must confess). Sample this conversation:

Me: I read about your property in net. So what is on offer?

Dealer : (politely smiling) Sir, that depends on what you are looking for?

Me: Well you know the usual. Attractive, large and with enough space for freedom

Dealer: Well Sir, we have exactly the thing for you. Our property at XYZ location meets exactly what you are looking for.

Me: Ok. But what is the price we are looking at?

Dealer: (Smiling like Jeevan from an old Bollywood movie) Sir, all that can be negotiated. You can come for a site visit if you want to. Pick up and drop is our responsibility. Free of charge.

Me: If I don't like the property?

Dealer: No problem Sir. We would do it for you considering good relationship in future too. heehehehehe. ( I could just imagine the betel stained teeth through which such flowery smile was emanating from)

Once I stuck a deal with one such dealer, well to be precise 3 such dealers, and every body promised to pick me up at a prime location in Bhubaneswar if I just told them the date and time.I gave them the same time wanting them to beat each other to the chase and decided whoever comes first, will go with them. I had given 9 a.m to all the three and lo and behold! one of them actually came and met me with a SUV at 8.45 a.m!

2. The marketing pundit:

These are the group of real estate guys who believe in combining the power of marketing, social media and Internet to sell themselves and their product. Their website is the best designed website of the lot and their marketing executives are the sharpest. A perusal of their website would take you through a dream trip of the dream accommodation that they are trying to build for you and ONLY YOU! Looking at the computer designed layouts and gated community pictures, you are forced to exclaim like Bahadur Shah Zafar " if there is heaven on earth, then here it is, here it is, here it is..."

Now that they get you all mesmerised with their marketing gizmo, they will swoop down like agile vultures as soon as you give them a call (call you will my friend coz of the amount of money that these people have spent in getting the kind of talents to develop the content which is sure to arrest your attention)

3. The doomsayers:

These are real estate developers who will paint a bleak picture of the future where your wife looks like Nirupa Roy sewing cloth to make ends meet, you are coughing and withering away old man like Anu kapoor in Shyam Benegal's art movie or horror of horrors you are made to see a Sunny Leone movie directed by Sajid Khan !!!

But on a serious note, these people will "sell" their property to you by saying that they are running a special offer which would end by the week/moth's end and/or that you are the special customer who has won a lucky draw and entitled for a special discount...

If you are not convinced about the deal and show a lack of interest, then they would come down to the level of asking you to quote your special price which they would try and push with "senior management"!

4. The "Honey Trappers":

These group of people will have smart executive and office asistant from the fairer sex who would talk to you on a conversation path which will be similar to the following (please keep in mind that the voice will be husky, inviting and really seductive- a la Bips basu ishtyle):

Client: Hello, I am interested in your property ( now... not "her" property but the company's property! Horror of horrors man! What were you thinking!)

Executive: May I know what Sir is looking for coz we have so much to offer (with the hint of a naughty smile)

Client: (now all charged up) Well I had something happening in mind. I hope you understand. something which is not the mundane or ordinary. something which will make you sit up

Executive: I believe you have come to the right place finally (giggles). We have so and so property at so and so place which exactly meets your fine taste

Client: What are the costs?

Executive: (With a show of feminine artificial anger which the female species are so well capable of ) What Sir? You have reduced us to mere rupees and paisa? We value our customer beyond the money and property and that is why they hold on to us (Last I heard, one of their property which was on a flood prone area and the houses were literally washed away in the rain and people living therein were seen holding on to pillars and posts literally)

Client: Ok Ok. I am sorry. That was not the intention (obviously angry with himself for talking about mere rupees and paisa and spoiling the good relationship and putting the pretty damsel in distress)

Executive: (brightening up) So Sir, tell me when are you coming to meet me... errr.. us?

Client: (obviously unable to speak due to the surge of various hormones in his blood stream and also due to the fact that not only in his life time but in the life time of his entire extended family, has any girl not related to them, spoken in such a nice... errr... seductive way) heheehehehe

Executive: Tell me no Sir... When are you coming?

Client : ( To himself - If my wife ever spoke to me like this then I will keep on coming... pun intended) Well lets see... (see in these cases you should appear to be busy and not really care for the chick. That's what makes them go hot on you all over.) I am kind of busy for the whole of this month.... Hmmmmm. Well lets see, next month.... can be a possibility....

Exectuive: Reallllllllllllllly Sirrrrrrrrr... am so delighted... I... err... we can not wait to meet you. Make it fast Sir.

Client: Of course I will (you have no idea of how fast I want to make it. Why the hell did I say next month. I could go this month, this week... what the hell.. today... Well I guess its the male ego on me that always plays the spoiler :(

Well that brings me to the end of my brief experience with real estate with the hope of getting a propoerty. if you have any such experience do share...

Why I rock in mathematics !

2013-05-27T05:07:00.001-07:00

Now do n’t get me all wrong on this… The title is bit of a misnomer… To be precise it is a total doosra in the guise of a straight one… in fact I do not rock in mathematics… Its mathematics which rocks me to my grave…

To start off, I was not such a sucker for mathematics…In fact a careful perusal of my earlier academic record would prove matter to the contrary… Till the Vth standard I was a champ of maths… I still remember how I had qualified for the junior scholarship entrance examination and had scored a resounding 100% in mathematics…

Now what must be bewildering for you is why on earth a champ and an undertaker of sort for mathematics, be eternally petrified by numbers and their myriad permutations and combinations...

So here goes the chronological sequence of events which converted my deep love of the subject to something of an abomination…

1. The high school experience:

After passing out from the Vth standard I joined a local medium high school in Cuttack my native city... The school was supposed to be the best local medium school and was in fact a school run by the board of secondary education in Orissa… I was high on spirit after my latest conquest in academics in class V and was raring to go…

But there was a hitch here… A big road block awaited me…

We had a class teacher who was also happened to be our maths teacher… He belonged to the class of people who strongly believed… ok corrections… who strongly practiced the ephemeral proverb “spare the rod and spoil the child” with religious sincerity and dedication…

So come class time he will make each of us come to the blackboard and solve problems one by one… and there he will be standing behind with a cane in his hand and one slight mistake/error/omission, phat… the cane would come down with unforgiving force… So, much of our time was spent on anticipating the blow rather than focusing on the problem at hand… While the victim’s sense will be all sharp in anticipating the blow, others in the audience would be gleefully watching them twist, turn and get tormented with a sadistic pleasure which only children are capable of…

So for somebody like me for whom solving maths problem was a joy and a pleasure, it went on to become a burden and means of torture… from class topper in my earlier days I started topping from the bottom of the class…

2. The tuition experience:

Alarmed at the rate of deterioration of my mathematics skills as well as seeing me suffer in other subject as a result of the frustration that I was going through, my parent decided that it was time for me to get a private tuition… In those days there was no due diligence done or no "KYC" kind of groundwork was done by the parents to select the best for their kid… Most of the houses employed poor village student studying in the local university and who needed the money to fend for themselves… So in came our new teacher all of 20 and studying to major in English literature… So while I needed a knight in shining armour to rescue from my internal demons and restore back my old confidence, what I had in hand was a man who was happy discussing “the- relevance -of Victorian -literature -in -contemporary -society – An analysis” kind of discussion... Maths made him heave and yawn with strong dose of excuses…It was really becoming tough after a point of time to decide who hated maths most – me or my teacher…

3. The “De” fact finding mission:

By the time I was in class VIIth the damage was total and complete. Laden with a monster of a teacher at school and a no – do gooder as tuition teacher at home, the only direction I was going as far as maths was concerned was south…. Coupled with this the fact that we had recently changed house (from a rented facility to our own house which was actually far from school) was not helping either… Here I was totally at the mercy of my father who had taken up the responsibility of dropping me off on his way to office… which practically rarely happened as we would always be late reaching the school and most of the times did not make it…

I was in a similar predicament like how rejected lovers are… Lovers who have been rejected by their beloved and make desperate attempt at reconciliation, still nurture a slight flame of hope in the deepest recess of their heart of a situation in which one day the beloved will return… During such a time however, their mind plays truant and dark ghosts of suspicion raises its ugly head every now and then..

In a similar manner I began doubting the very intention of the questions in maths and started finding defects in the way they were framed (remember I had a linguist teacher who helped me hone these skills)… So all questions which stared with for “example”, “suppose”, “if“ (which constituted a sizeable chunk of English in mathematical problem) created a rebellion in me of infinite proportion… “why can’t they be straight and say that such and such are the numbers and situation and just find what the hell is needed to be found” I asked myself … By inserting such doubting words, they created more doubt in me of their genuineness…

4. The Gambia experience:

For 3 years we had the opportunity to stay in The Gambia, West Africa as my parents had volunteered their time to work as teachers in one of the mission school of our community. During this time, we studied in the mission school where other volunteers like my parents abound. We had a couple (known as the Ryan couple) who taught us. Among them Mr Ryan taught us Biology… To hear and see him teach biology was something of a spiritual experience… So clear were his thought and with such clarity he conveyed it to us that it left all of us spell bound… The guy took great pain in showing practical example of everything he taught us to the extent of getting a centrifuge and dialysing his own blood to show the various components of blood!

His dedication and sincerity kindled my interest in Biology and since then there has been no looking back…

5. My sister’s contribution:

My sis and I share a very close relationship being 1 and half years apart age wise. While her “ragging” and using me as a “guinea pig” is subject of another blog /book, her contribution to my failure in maths also begs for a place in history.

After one scuffle, which siblings usually have, she got so pissed off that she actually tore my book and hid it at a place of which she would not breathe a word. So I went book - less for a better part of 6 moths and as I had finished my quota of book buying I was not given any money to buy a new one. So I had to make do with key books and answer guides which are probably not the best way of honing your maths skills.

6. The college experience:

We came back after 3 years, joined in the 9^th Standard and completed my schooling with just about pass marks for maths… I joined college and had maths as an optional subject… However, my mother edged me on with words of caution that if I don’t keep mathematics then I am actually shutting down a whole new avenue namely engineering…

I kept dilly dallying and did not do study the subject for a better part of the first year… When things seem to go out of hand and I did very poorly in the internals that my parent got alarmed and decided to take charge… My mother being a teacher got the name of the best maths teacher and got me in to one his best batches even though it was officially full.

This old gentleman was a retired maths teacher... well to call retired would again be wrong as he, with all due respect, was a decaying old man. Already in to his late eighties this gentleman taught maths in the same manner as cooking lessons will be taught to the women from slums organised by the YMCA…

His drawing room would have lot of mats spread across the floor and you are supposed to sit in concentric circle looking at the maestro solve sums and problems with gusto and flourish… He would pull exercise book of students randomly and scribble on it like a superstar… The only thing I learnt here was how to sit on the opposite side of the fairer sex to have a ring side view as they squatted and leaned forward (Got the drift… Right) to absorb the mathematics gyan thrown to all and sundry by the maestro…

With such solid preparation I inched closer to the final exam… it was time for us to complete the registration for the examination and I think here is where I took the boldest decision of my life...

I replaced maths with Economics as my optional subject…

And I have been happy ever after…

However, having side stepped and finally taken out maths from my life, I sometime wonder if it is really out of my system as I am literally hounded by nightmares about the subject…

Sometimes I have the recurring nightmare that I am working in my job and have received a notification from my old university to come and appear the Std. X maths exam which I have not taken failing which all my other certificates and credentials will be null and void... I take a long leave of absence to come and re-enrol in my old school… I see all new boys excitingly discussing about maths problems and find out that the board exams are just 2 weeks down the line… I re-live the torture and hell through the 2 week as I see myself opening the voluminous maths book and staring at it blankly without a clue of what is needed to be solved and how…

I wake up with a start and sit up sweating…

How to Bullshit and sound intellectual

2013-05-07T04:16:00.000-07:00

Was reading a funny blog on how to sound intellectual even if you don't know S#%!... The piece was impeccable in every sense except somehow it failed to capture some of the other tips from the School of BullS#%!ing...

So here goes my list of tips as an addendum to the earlier list...

1. The "As in" Syndrome:

When you know that you don't know (which is mostly the case), start sentences with "As in"... By doing so, you are pre - empting any attempt of the audience to scuttle your attempt to "sound intellectual"... If really trapped conclude by saying that you were giving an example...

2. Jargonise your talk:

Use copious amount of terminologies like "last mile challenge/connectivity" , "syenrgise", "critical mass", "amortize", "collateral", "safety net approach" etc. For any doubting Thomas, this would put to rest any doubts about your intellectual capabilities.

3. Give practical example:

Give out generous amount of practical examples making the best use of the jargon that you have used above. For example:

"In ensuring credit reaches the poor, I had to deal with the last mile challenge which I solved by synergising my effort with local women's group to gain that critical mass which was necessary to amortize the loans of the poor against a collateral which proved to be the best safety net approach for the end client"...

This is bound to convert the doubting Thomases to believers and then on to your followers who will follow you like the tribe of Noah

4. Show your Gentleman"ners:

For "crude" and "brash" brats just out of B - School there is no perfect gentlemen to show the finesse and grace of the perfect gentleman than you. Show them how to talk and sound amused during a meeting/telecon/eating/S@#&ing, how to "strike up a rapport" and how you are that friend which everyman always dreams of but never could have. Show them how to present a presentation, how many slides, how many lines in a slide, font colour, font type, spacing and the list goes on and on and on... Finally show those brute what constitutes table manners... How to hold the fork, fold the napkin and how to gently "de-seed" watermelon or any other such fruits without looking like a jackass...

5. Be constantly on the BBM or office Chat:

During meetings and presentation, pretend to be busy by being constantly on the BBM and / or office chat and smile occasionally which is surely going to throw off - balance the poor guy who is presenting while all the time making him dread what would be the bouncers that you would be throwing at him at the end of the presentation. Look totally distracted and give him a sense of false security and just when he is slowly getting in to his lullaby mode throw him the ultimate bouncer by converting statement under point 3 in to a question... While the guy twists and turns for an answer (remember it is un - winnable like the Kobayashi Maru Test in Star Trek which was developed by Spock designed to accept defeat and experience fear) , you just relax back and enjoy the attention the audience is giving you on what a hot shot you really are.

5.The Ultimate Weapon:

If nothing else works, get the poor sucker to throw in a brave question questioning your credibility and in other words your "God"liness... Look at him with a "half - pathetic - half - amused" look and slowly ask the following:

" Was that meant to be a rhetorical question?"

Believe me it is better than the Brahmastra used by the gods in Ramayana and Mahabharata... This is the ultimate rejoinder as the response is going to be a long lull of silence - either the poor chap did not have a clue in the world on what it means and even if he has he does not have the courage to get in to the deep ocean of "intellectual"ism with a giant of an intellectual like you.

Well, there you go... Now we have told all that is there to Bulls#$@% , From hereon sky is the limit my friend.. The only thing that you have to remember is people who have truly excelled in this art and made a living out of it are the ones who have never been caught while doing it... So do what ever you have to but never get caught...

May the Bulls#$@% be with you...

Questions of my Child

2013-01-20T03:17:00.000-08:00

Often time I wondered have I met the child who confronts me with her endless list of questions…

Questions about the mundane happenings around or the unexpected dog who turns up outside or of the play of light and shadow…

As she runs around talking to herself carrying about her busy schedule, I am transported back in to the time where each day was a day of constant amazement at the world around and where innocence lived…

She tugs at my arm and suddenly I am shaken out of the slumber of my daydream

With a smile on her face she is again ready with her list of questions on things that she wants an answer to…

And answer she will have coz I see the confidence in which she carries out the myriad small activities of everyday…

I am sure she will have all that she has aspired for as she has been raised to face squarely the things she fears, fight her inner demon and learn to be her person in this world…

As I tell her to face her fear with a straight face till such time where her fear no longer continues to frighten her, it is kind of an inner purging for myself too as I cleanse my inner self too

As I reaffirm my faith in the fact that nurture is what should make a man and that nature should not be constraining factor in holding you back from making you what you truly want,

The small child again stands before me with her endless list of questions…

What type of Captain are you?

2012-11-19T04:07:00.000-08:00

Often in the course of life it all boils downs to what kind of leader you are. Well, some of you will ask why does one need to be a leader to be able to handle life’s vagaries. True enough… but is n’t that the practical fact... That when it all boils down to taking control of your life and making the best of it, you are your own leader…

My lessons in leadership actually began way back when I was a kid playing gully cricket... to the uninitiated, it means the cricket for the urbanites where high rises ensues that no credible patch of green is left for anyone to play…

We would play on the road of the gully which used to be a narrow lane with a dead end which ensured that we did not have much of a thoroughfare traffic and play continued mostly uninterrupted..

Though it was a beautiful setting for a typical gully cricket, what made it sometimes frustrating was a swamp which was on one side and a building on the other side whose owner proved to be more challenging than the swamp itself in retrieving the ball…

To ensure that the wannabe cricketers of morrow do not get adventurous and make the ball disappear (which by the way came from collective funding from all players), hitting on that side of the “ground” was taboo…

Now coming back to the game (and also where the ball went missing), it threw up quite interesting leadership types which was amazing and eye opening. Here goes the list:

1. “No-pain No – Gain” Captain:

If you happen to have a captain belonging to this criteria, then forget about corporate managers who are famous for screwing your happiness. This guy alone could make you regret the hit to the “forbidden land” for the rest of your life. Not only he will ensure that you go out and search for the ball but in the case of non – retrieval would ensure that you cough up the money or else given a life ban of the game (and believe me “life ban” used to be serious business in our kind of game from which it was quite difficult to “absolve” yourself)

I have seen this type of captain go on to become, and you have guessed it correctly, corporate managers screwing the happiness of all and sundry.

2. Risk diversification captain:

This type of captain had a sense of equanimity and equality which could parallel non others. They believed in the game being a team event for which each and every member of the team was equally responsible. Hence they also implemented the philosophy by asking each one to pay up equal amount to purchase a new ball.

I have found such player go on to achieve the highest of professional laurels and goals in life.

3. Blame shifting captain:

This category of captain would wait for the slightest hint of things (and in this case the ball) going amiss and then pounce upon the next unsuspecting victim in shifting the blame entirely. They were career cribbers who would go in to extensive length of how one’s action could have led to thing being in the mess that it is right now. If their view were not taken then they surely were to leave the game in a huff.

These people have gone on to achieve not a great deal in life while also putting their family life in a mess.

4. The “Deserter” Captain:

While the above category metamorphoses to this category quite late in the turn of events, this category of captains, it seemed, were made to justify the proverb that “when the ship sinks the rats are the first to evacuate” or one of its colloquial equivalent… the perpetual expression on their face would be you-mess-with-me-and-I- am- gonna-go-home…

These type of people have gotten in and out of low paid jobs while at the same time not admitting that the fault if any could be at their end not anyone else’s.

5. The “emotional” captain:

This type of captain would agree to keep the cricketing kit at his home, carry them to and fro the playground and also keep the wicket ready for the game to begin. For him it always seem as if he is organising his own domestic function… running around and doing things which was beyond the call of duty… such captains have typically large heart but get hurt at the smallest of things… in case if a ball goes missing, and he is pressurised by the blame shifting and/or the deserter captain, he not only agrees to pay for the full amount but also throws in some homemade sweet at the end of the game just to keep everybody in good humour…

Such type of people have gone on to be achievers in their realm... because of their passion and commitment they have achieved greatness in life but however are unable to retain it as they get miffed and offended at the slightest of provocation/offence

6. “On the sly” captain/player:

This type of people would never Donne the mantle of captainship but would wait for the right opportunity to make gains. So when a ball would go missing, they would notice where it went but would make it appear as if they are clueless and mislead others who may be looking for it. Once the game is over and everybody goes home, such creatures return with a torchlight and retrieve the ball to be used for in house play. The next day they will be the one who will be seen missing from the cricketing scene.

Such people have not done a whole good to their life - always on the lookout and waiting for the jackpot moment when they can make a fast buck which never comes about.

The Storm Within

2012-07-19T04:08:00.002-07:00

The restlessness in me makes me to look out and assign a reason,
is it my belongingness that is a cause?
or the fact that life may get stagnant causing the worry?
or is it the constant challenge in me getting the better of me?

In the quest for a reason, I set out to a far off land,
hoping to find solace there only to be disillusioned later...but alas!

The restlessness in me gets the better of me...
Goading me to go on and find yet something divine, something perfect something surreal...

The storm within is yet to be analysed...
to be seen in slow motion to understand and be understood...
To comprehend the dynamics and dynamism of it...
Till then I will remain an unexplained mystery,
who could have been The One but alas!

In this journey I hear "well wishers" wishing that I would slow down, settle down a bit,
Let the restlessness find a "resting place"...
"Life is not like a railway station that you can get down at each station", they tell me...
How can I show them the storm within me is looking for something novel, something fresh, something extraordinary...
A challenge which has not yet been challenged...
A challenge which will cause it to slow down and find peace within...

Till such a time egos will be bruised, vanity will be trampled upon and scant regard paid to the slow runners...
For within me is a force which has not learnt to wait, watch and be reclusive...

Memory from a hazy morning

2012-07-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

The rain pittered pattered the whole night long on the asbestos roof above

While the family slept safely oblivious to the force of nature outside,

The backyard pond swelled up like a fertile woman

Whose womb has been sown with the seed of a resurgent tomorrow,

Frogs croak merrily sitting on the leaves of lilies waiting for the heaven to open up and pour herself down yet once more

With the hazy light of the morning the children slowly wake up to the story of nature’s ravage of yester night

Slowly they come out of the house with eager faces to see the aftermath

But what an aftermath that meets their eye!

The ‘ravages’ of nature has created such a scenic beauty outside

With the dry hot parched earth having quenched its thirst…

With the sweet smell of moist earth titillating the nostrils…

With the fresh and cool breeze caressing the skin softly…

With the myriad voices of nature adding a beautiful symphony to the riots of scenic beauty…

With horizon dark and not so menacing promising of more grace from heaven..

Comes the reassuring voice of mother from inside the house…

“It seems it’s going to rain the whole day… you kids need to stay back at home from school today…

Pure bliss and ecstasy…

The quirky fate

2012-06-06T05:24:00.000-07:00

Just after 1 day of drafting this post, I came across the address of Michael Lewis at Princeton on the vital role that luck plays to what happens to be the most important aspect of our life - success. As luck would have it, here I had keyed in a post on luck but albeit on a different aspect of life - love, loss and conquest.

Have you ever believed in divine intervention? The thing that people term as the invisible hand or the doing of the gods? The advocates of rationality will argue that there is no such thing... Everything has a cause and an effect.. While the believers will say that indeed it is the only way which ensures things are in perpetuity and continuity... How else do you explain infants/children surviving aircraft crash or natural disasters... A passenger missing his chance to board a train which meets with a terrible accident later or even KKR winning the final ;)

Jokes apart, this is a topic which has intrigued me in more ways than one... What is that X-factor which ensures fortune swings your way when there is every likelihood of it turning the other way...Such incidence takes me far away to an era where I was still a student (believe me, there was such an era too! ;)

It was during the days when I was doing my medicine and had recently got transferred from a lesser known college to the best college of the state (which was again closer to home)... This was like a dream come true and I was more than happy to join the graduating class of 2004 in the 1st year (1st year was an ambiguous term for what happened to be an actual duration of 1 and a half years in the curriculum)... I still remember the Month of April, 1999 when I joined the class...

The class consisted of students equally represented across gender (and that means male and female only!)... A bright lot, it was an inspiring experience to be one among the best with them... The class was divided in to pairs (not study pairs!) of boy and girl at various points in the friend-buddy-soul buddy-lover continuum...However, what was intriguing was just this one girl...

This girl, for the sake on unanimity, lets call her Mamta, was different from the rest... Though dusky in colour (God! how much our country places a premium on fair colour;)), Mamta had a glow of radiance and aura about her which was mystic, distant and yet had an alluring charm to it... Being a new comer I was also taken in by her charm (as I had just come from a college which had a very poor repertoire of such beauty to boast of) but for the records resisted it to pursue mundane activities like academic excellence...

The thing with boys and for that matter men is that unlike the fairer sex (who are just busy praising each other in a till-death-do-us-part way or cat fighting among theme selves) they just have only one topic to discuss about- and you are wrong... Its anatomy.. for that was the dreaded subject in 1st year and of course girls.. ah... now I see... You got the drift... Any ways, as luck would have it, I struck an instantaneous friendship with the boy gang and was welcomed with open arms.. Instantly all of us fell in to the hot topics which included the one discussed here too...

In the course of the discussion, I came to know that although most of the chaps were paired/stuck with one girl or the other, Mamta was one who had kept herself away from such bonding.. In fact, soon enough I found out that most of the guys were totally smitten by her and were at various points in the lover-crazy lover-maniac lover-psychopath continuum... No I am dead serious here... It was famously narrated that one chap was so enamored by her that he shut himself close in the room for close to a week when the final rejection came... There was another, who though spurned, would regularly cut cake and gave out chocolates to all and sundry in the hostel on the day of her birthday... There was another one, who threw himself down... now, now, hold it... he threw himself down from the bed when the final word of denial came...

Such was the might and influence of Mamta that let alone our batch, even our seniors were bewitched by her... I still remember a very married senior pursuing his post grads would come in the scorching heat of the afternoon on some pre text or the other so that he could give her a lift from the ladies hostel to the nearest kirnana shop which was not more than 200 m away... I have seen seniors (both grads and post grads) fight like nitwits among themselves just to be near her...

With such a long queue of her fan and her ephemeral charm, Mamata literally could have anybody she wanted but kept herself away from such activities... Such abstinence and abstaining mutli folded her love for the multitude of her lovers who would be happy for months if not years if she as much as glance at them and/or smiled (even though it was meant for a fellow batch mate or other friends from the ladies hostel who may be behind)... Though many of them knew about this reality few acknowledged it and feigned/pretended as if it was meant for them...

Now to cut a long story short, Mamta remained 'single' and was not ready to 'mingle'...

Then entered the real hero....He was a 5 ft 2 in bald, pot bellied caricature of a human being who spoke in a shrill womanly voice... He was supposedly the topper of the P.G entrance that year... Having come from a private college, rumours were rife that he has done some serious under the table dealing for the seat as well as the position... Be that as it may, our hero was an ambitious and colourful person and was such a powerful package who to be seen to be believed... As he entered the campus and the hostel, he declared gleefully that he will charm and befriend the most 'happening babe' in the college... Pathetic as it may sound, we had no option but to nod our head in agreement as being juniors we were the gullible audience :(

Our hero proved himself to be quite the worthless rogue that he was in academics within the first fortnight... However, what he proved himself to be worthy was his earlier promise which he had made... He was quick to identify the most "happening babe' who happened to be the jewel of our batch... Then with the utmost of sincerity he launched himself in to the "Mission Impossible" of wooing her... Firstly as any unsuspecting wooer, he approached her directly only to be rejected in the most strongest of words possible... We have seen many guys getting rejected at the hands of Mamta, but never before has a rejection been this strong... We thought our hero had it... that either he will reform and concentrate more on studies or pack his bags and be off... As competition waited patiently to see his back, our hero had designs of his own...

Withe a strange stubbornness which one can but associate with fools, he pursued her relentlessly wherever she went only to be chided in the harshest word possible... Words which will put the fear of the almighty in you... But our hero was made up of sterner stuff... He tried formula no. 444... The friends route...

One must appreciate the kind of groundwork he did here.. He not only found out her friends, but also who were "the best friends" to her... A complete stoppage of all activity (during the groundwork)was cheering up the competition brigade to the level of ecstatic joy totally unaware of the final assault that the wily general was planning... Having identified 2 of her best friends, the hero focused all his attention on both of them... so come breakfast, they will find him waiting with delicacy "from home" each day which every time somoehow coincided with products from in the next door sweet shop... He was also careful in understanding their likes and dislikes and showered gifts on them and the occasion would pop up like club soda - his b'day, his sis b'day' relatives 'b'day etc etc... However both the friends (hailing from a certain business section known for their 'austerity') were more than happy to accept it without finding out the reason behind it... So come new academic year, they will find new books (hardbound medical books especially purchased from Calcutta costing minimum of 2000 bucks apiece), stethoscope, Blood pressure machine, diagnostic tool (knee hammer, ENT sets etc) finding its way to their study table literally as surprise gifts... The man was like a consummate Santa Claus giving away free gifts... The only difference was that the benefactor for this Santa Claus was just limited to 2 only...

What such investment meant was that such 'benevolence' created a 'tinge' of sympathy in the heart of the so called sisters (now he has made them his sisters) for their "cutey lovable" brother... In retrospect, the world could have gained a lot had they taken advise of this astute investor in preventing the economic slowdown witnessed after dumb jackass people calling them selves investment bakers brought the financial world to a grinding halt...

Each day the sisters would carry tales of heartbreak, sobs and tears (running nose and phlegm not withstanding) to Mamta who will look at them with an expression "even- if- he- is- that- last- person- with-whom- I- would- have- to fall- in- love, I- would -never- do- it". Though I do not have professional training in human psychology, but I could tell you this with some amount of confidence that here ladies and gentleman, was a fine game of peer pressure coupled with an image of victim hood and associated sympathy played to perfection....

Now you must be eager to know what are the outcomes... Well ladies and gentleman, we regret to inform you that the inevitable happened... The epitome of grace, patience and steadfastness finally succumbed to the pressure and took the bait....

So one fine day, lo and behold! many young lovers heart were shattered beyond recognition, as they saw their lady of fantasy going past them slowly on an age old TVS Avanti (for those who are unaware, TVS Avanti has been discarded after independence and has been declared a national treasure to be preserved in the museum for its 'impeccable speed and pick up") with our hero...

What followed was a passionate love affair quickly culminating in what most young rebel from my era did... A court marriage... So while the affair continued, behind closed doors and suppressed whispers, news were exchanged of how the marriage has indeed happened and how so and so has seen the marriage certificates etc...

At the end we can just conclude by saying that fate does strange thing to people and even now when poeple say that so and so and such and such thing may never be possible, I prefer to take it with a pinch of salt...

Circa 2012:

The epilogue to the story is as follows:

Mamta's family could never accept her and she and the hero settled down in the city to what was a life full of hardship. Though I have never seen Mamta after our college days, from what I have heard she's become a pale ghost of what she was in the past... With hubby dear being chucked out of P.G after umpteenth failure to clear the 1st year, she is the sole bread winner of the family which now has a little daughter as the new member... Fortunately for Mamta, she just got a P.G and is continuing her education...

The Cyborg Countdown

2011-12-21T05:17:00.000-08:00

There are some actors (yes and that includes both actors and actresses) who age, and there are those who age gracefully and there are those who become a Cyborg... By definition a cyborg is one who has the best of human and a machine.. How else do you explain the literally 'freeze in time appearance' of many of our actors even though their arrival seemed to have preceded the Big Bang Theory...

So ladies and gentleman, here is presenting you the enviable list (in ascending order) of actors who seemed to have attained the distinction of Cyborg' hood...

10. Dev Anand:

While not wanting to be too harsh on the 'ever green actor' of India (especially after his death); one can not be aghast at what the man showed off at the age of 88. While mainstream journalism limited itself in dealing grace with grace, the comments in the audience was anything but encouraging.. Terming him as a caricature of a shrimp who still wants to dress up as a teenybopper and romance young girls". While Dev Sahib could have laughed his head off at such comparison (seriously taking it as a big joke while being totally unaware that the joke is on him!), the fact remains is that we are the real butt of the joke having seen umpteenth of his flops during the era of the Doordarshan (Censor, Sau Crore, Charge Sheet et al et al)... Given the respect which we have him for his earlier 'saner' movies, we place him at number 10...

9. Shekhar Suman:

Having successfully dabbled his hand in Comedy (Great Indian Laughter challenge, Comedy Circus, Comedy ka maha Muqabala etc) , Shekhar Suman decided that he wanted to the epicentre of all jokes... Off he went 'six packing' for a debut album called "Kuch Khwaab Aise" in 2009 (I bet you heard about it.. Come on lets give him some hope) where his deep cleavage on display was threatening to move attention away from Rakhi Sawant... At one point of time, rumour had it that his well developed physique and new dhanssoo personality was threatening son Adhyayan's love life too!... Be that is as it may, the fact remained that he sure caused some flutters with his new cyborg look not so long ago...A talented actor who debuted with none other than Rekha (another celbrity cyborg on our list), he has ultimately earned his tag being Cyborg no. 9 in our list

8. Sachin:

See, now you got me all wrong... What is it with our obsession with a man of 165 cm in height wielding a willow and bashing leather all around the park.. I am talking about Sachin Pilgaonkar.. The baby faced actor from the movie "Geet Gata Chal" (trust me, he still is a baby faced boy/man/cyborg)...Having got his first Fimfare Award from the 1st President of India, he sure stands the Chance of becoming the number one cyborg in our list... However, though he has managed to maintain his 'eternal smile' in a 'death-do-us-part' manner, he has not caused enough flutters to climb up the list... Understanding that little awaits him at Bollywood, he made an early detour to television back in the 90s itself with wife Supriya.. Seen now in non descript Marathi movies and Hindi sitcoms; Sachin ensures he stays visible enough for people not to forget him by signing up for reality show which has non other than Anu Malik and Alisha Chinnai as judges... Well, that says it all and we'll stop here... The no. 8 award goes to Sachin...

7. Anil Kapoor:

This Jhakaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas actor refuses to fade off.. If Bollywood does not give him the chance then he flies off to Hollywood to have a minuscule of a role in the latest Tom Cruise starer.. Never mind if his entire appearance, in the movie, ahem, to say anything but embarrassing trying to seduce the leading lady by showing her paintings from the Kamasutra and getting slapped/ hauled over by her... That's sooooooooo like our our verrrrrrrrry nuaghty Biddu Anil Jhakaaaaaaaaaaaas Kapoor... However, there is something that we have to give it to him.. he is a fighter and would come through, hairy body not withstanding, any stiff competition... last heard was World Wild Life Federation issuing a red alert for preserving otters using his bare chested photo...

6. Jitendra:

Jitendra, gacch (tree in English) ka bandar... that's how I was introduced to the great iconic actor in my child hood... Jitendra in the 80s had become somewhat like the old man's Viagra with his reassuring advertisement of 30 plus capsule for ... u know what...

In an era bereft of Sunny Leone, Rakhi Sawant, the Desi babas and babys, Jitendra was what the world will term as India's kamasutra albeit the modern version.. Dancing gleefully with buxom maiden from South, he was the Indian equivalent of Aphrodite... Even now his boyish look and grin gives son Tushar a run for his money... Always wondered how this wonderful man could have created something as aghast as his daughter and her daily soaps...

5. Dimple Kapadia:

Watching Dimple Kapadia gyrate and do the ooh and aahs in wet silk sarees and preying on the likes of Anil Kapoor, Sunny Deol, Jackie da and other youngsters (the last that was heard was she was planning to do a movie opposite a new hero debuting in Bollywood) one can not but help feel a tinge of sadness for her..Was it because of the sudden separation between her and the Dada of Bollywood which threw her in the arm of unsuspecting males like Anil kapoor in Jaan baaz (the glee on his face was something to be seen in the movie) and other such forgetful fares...Sometimes one wonders what kept pushing her to do young and younger roles when her daughters had started doning the role of heroines themselves.. Seen now a days at page 3 parties and playing fewer and fewer roles in bollywood movies; she portrays to us the image of a cyborg of high order if not the highest..

4. Rishi Kapoor:

When you mention Dimple, can Rishi Kapoor be far behind ! A fine actor and a seasoned man of the trade; the only failing in his career was that somehow he did not realise how the years have zoomed past by and adipose tissue have generously started ensconcing themselves in and around the abdominal muscles.. Oblivious literally to things around, Chintuji danced away with young lasses almost his daughter's age in exotic locations... In an era which did not have a superstar (AB was away for a long time and had just made a disastrous comeback and the Khans were still a non descript entity) producers lined up at Chintuji's door with film offers.. Chintuji also did not disappoint them.. Donning his sweaters to further ensconce the adiposes (what else did you think he was wearing it for .. cold... nah) Chintuji danced away as if there was no tomorrow... Then suddenly came the rude shock ... it was as if somebody rudely awakens you with a shove from what happened to be a nice afternoon slumber... niece Karishma was ready for the camera and reluctantly Chintuji had to say good bye to what has otherwise been a glorious career.. here is saluting the man who had a never dying spirit.. age and adipose not withstanding...

3. Mithun Da:

To say something amiss to god himself is a task so arduous that it is bound to fail even before it started... Mithun da epitomised my era which was literally getting a kick with the raw and energy filled pelvic thrust of the god of disco.. While the west was busy going ga ga over Elvis, Michael Jackson et al; our own man in golden chain (who else but Bappi da) was busy getting 'inspired' by those tunes.. and what is more important.. the god himself danced to those tunes.. With the song, dance, soliloquy, monologue and dialogue sequence in Disco Dancer (bet you would not get so much combination from songs of any genre world wide) Mithun da bought the hearts and minds of an entire genration and kept them captivated even for his lesser versions decades laeter with Hitler, Jallad, Cheetah,Mawali No.1 etc

The greatest mistake that god did was to launch his holy son Mimoh.. Mimoh has done more damage to Mithun's career than he ever has done to himself with years of B grdae movie. Everything said and done, the man is a miracle in himself and choose now a days to give limited darashan by acting as the gurkha in Dance India dance (for his oft repeated grand salute ). We however congratulate him getting the no. 3 spot in our countdown. a befitting Grand salute to god himself....

2. Rekha:

You ask Rekha her age and the chances are she will roll over her eyes, blink and look at you as if you are an alien from another planet and then give you one of her benevolent dismissive smile. The secret is that she herself does not know what her age is.. What the heck is all about age when Botox is helping break barriers of age, gender and identity...

The 'agelessness' that follows Rekha (like Sidharth Mallya following Deepika) has to do with her decision not to even age for one day after the Great Split from the Big one of the film industry.. This also marked her role in more 'meaty' role (like Dimple kapadia) in KamaSutra, Khiladiyon ka Khiladi, Aastha etc.

Rekha is also afflicted with the 'Dev Anand Syndrome' where a hypocritical audience and a dishonest press places you in an Utopian world where you are made to believe that you are beautiful, graceful and charming while reality reflects just the opposite. Though thankfully such time has not come fully for Rekha, but has helped propel herself to almost the top of our countdown at no. 2. Mubarakan...

1. Simi Gerewal:

Lets repeat the question that we had put to Rekha in the above section to Simi Grewal. chances are that she will not even notice that somebody even talked to her. The reason is two fold- the amount of Botox in her face has literally paralysed her facial and eye muscle to caste that look on you (from wherever the hell you are standing while asking that question) and secondly you would be simply invisible to her (the optical industry has almost given up years ago manufacturing power lenses that can match up to the failing vision of Simi).

The reason why Simi takes the cake is coz we have seen her since our childhood; from her movies through "India's Rajiv" to the umpteen talk shows and now her latest "India's most Desirable"; yet somehow she has fascinatingly (or should we say horrifyingly) stayed the same through the last few decades. We have heard air brushes and make up do wonderful thing to human face. In this case we are just left wondering whether the same are from the construction industry...

Seeing her on t.v, one but wonders if it is not a preserved version of a mummy from Egypt... be that as it may, let us all join hands to congratulate Simi Gerewal for such a stupednous success (she has very little to write home otherwise as regards her film career) competing with such deserving cyborgs. May her 'Cyborg' ness enhance day by day as we see the import and sale of Botox in India sky rocket. Amen...

We the Insensitive

2011-11-11T20:40:00.001-08:00

There was seething anger all around... Tempers were flying around... Sense of utter hopelessness and dejection giving vent to sheer frustration at the failure and futility of the system abounded... In short there was palpable tension among the people...

Here if I do nt give you a clue you are apt to run away with the impression of a write up of about yet another " Main Anna Hoon" rally and its associated hullabaloo . The scene was not really a lift up of India Against Corruption Campaign but was from the Studio of NDTV where Barkha Dutt was having a public forum to debate on the dastardly murder of Keenan Santos, Reuben Fernandes on 20th Oct, 2011 in a very populated area of India's financial capital and the heartthrob of many - Mumbai meri Jaan...

The story in short is as follows:

"On 20 October 2011 Keenan Santos, Reuben Fernandes and a group of their friends, who were standing outside Amboli Kitchen and Bar, in Mumbai, were assaulted by a mob. The assault was in retaliation to an altercation between Reuben & Keenan’s friends and a member of the mob, who was drunk and had fallen over one of the girls in the group. In the fight that followed, Keenan Santos was killed and Reuben Fernandes succumbed to his injuries 13 days later at a hospital in Mumbai"...

The rest of the story told in media time and again and discussed widely unfolded in the studio.. Keenan and Santos were murdered brutally in front of around 40 people who chose to be silent spectators and bystanders to the whole gory spectacle...

Is this the modern India we are living in..

Can life be worse under, lets say, some syphilitic dictator in Sub Saharan Africa..

Is it the same India which boasts of its rich human capital.. Human capital for what... Using your education and learning for earning a miserable livelihood.. Whatever happened to values, ethics, standing up against injustice and respect for human life which comes naturally with education...

In the show the father of Keenan was called who said that he is proud of what he's son had done and had no regret. Some of the panelist and audience commented that in such a situation one should always weigh the option and if the battle is 'unwinable' then it is better to quit.

To this the valiant father had the following reply " I understand that my son and his friend could have quitted and left from the scene...and that would have been the end of the matter which otherwise resulted in such a costly price... But just imagine, these goons would have got encouraged further and this would have led to a shift in attitude slowly of Mumbai which prides itself on its non partisan and gender friendly culture"...

Heavy and idealistic word... eh... And that too coming from the father of a son who lost his life barely few days ago..

I think as a society we have become so apathetic and 'comfortably numb' and "if- the -incidence- does -not- affect- me- I -really -am -not -bothered -with -whatever -the -hell -happens- to- others" attitude is one day going to land us God knows where.

Each era and generation has stood for something worthwhile and path breaking for which the coming generation remembers them proudly... For India the pre independence era marked zealous and patriotic Indian sacrificing their life for what they believe would be a free and progressive India. The period from Independence to the 70s was marked with people who dedicated worked as one for nation building through technology, industrialisation and education. Late 70s saw our parents' generation stood up against the tyranny of emergency and the threat to the very edifice of our independence and freedom. The 80s saw the path breaking revolution in the form of 'Green Revolution', 'White Revolution' and making India the super power... The 90s saw Economic liberalisation the fruits of which all of us reaped. But come 2000 and the subsequent decade, when it came for our generation to give back something it was totally found wanting. Have we grown so selfish, self centred and self obsessed that we do not see anything beyond 'me, mine and myself'... Only when tragedy strikes us that we roll our eyes in exclamation, carry out our candle marches and cry ourselves hoarse of ' mein Anna hoon'.. That is as much as we can do... What do you say.. Symbolism.. Think whatever you have to.. We care the least.. In the same way we do to numbers of injustices, violations and gross misuse of powers in our state, city and neighbourhood each day..

Till such time that we are physically subjugated and colonised like the Bristish did, we shall be happy and continue to be carefree, easy going, mall visiting, multiplex viewing and India shinning aam aadmi...

As for the murder, I feel sorry.. But itnin herogiri karne ki kya zaroorrat thi... g/f ko impress kar rahein honge.. ab gaye na kaam se... on another front bro tell me one thing which I even shudder to think... how so many people just stood there... Really brave of them.. For me I would have run away from so much gore and blood...

And do nt worry, now that you have told us the story, we will create a facebook page and do some 'viral marekting' of the issue on Twitter.. And yes.. we shall take out a candle march also... See dats d most I can do.. For a no good couch potato who is 24x7 glude to his computer/T.V set this is the most I can do...

In the meanwhile the words of Keenan's father reverberates asking for answer on why his young son was killed in cold blood for something that was right and was the most logical thing to do...

Just Let it Go!

2011-11-02T04:50:00.000-07:00

Often times I have wondered what is it that keeps people rooted in their past refusing to let go.. To let go of feeling of hurt and emotions of a bygone era... It is as if they are letting their past dictate their present as well as future...The one word which I often visualise in such case is "ruminate".. The word is most appropriate for the exercise it undertakes...

While we lose ourselves in such 'rumination', we close eyes to the world of infinite possibility that is waiting to unfold itself if only we allow it to happen...We close eye to the infinite possibility which is within ourselves waiting to manifest itself.. we also deny the blossoming of the great possibility which our near and dear ones have if only we would cast an appreciative glance or turn a 'listening' ears to them... In a single word put, and forgive my linguistic, 'we choose to screw our lives as well as the lives of others who are linked to us by love or fate"...

Here I undertake what I would recommend others to also do as an exercise and analyse (as far as the 'wound' or the thought of the person and/or circumstances which apparently caused those wounds):

What was it that was taken from me from such an action?... Nothing...
What does the person causing such hurt means to me?.. Nothing..
What do I mean to the person in his/her scheme of things?...Nothing..
How is this event going to change the course of my life?..In no ways...
Do the person who has caused me such hurt ever thinks for even the millionth fraction of time as compared to how much time I spend 'ruminating' about him/her?... Hardly ever...
Do I need to put my my entire being in all my relationship and activities in my life now that I have been through this 'hell'... By all means
Does the incident/event in any way shows me to be inadequate/ill equipped or plain stupid.. In noways
If given a chance would I try to avenge for the treatment I got...Never...
Would I let my past, the act of some moron, affect the way my life will be shaped hereafter.. Never
Should I make use of the lessons I have learnt from my experience to better my life from henceforth and use it to become a better person... By all means...

I strongly believe in the fact that nobody has the power to make you feel small or belittle you until and unless you yourself allow it to happen. A valuable lesson that I learn early in life is the axiom 'its all in the mind stupid' stands true to this day... Thinking ourselves small and feel belittled due to the frustration and hatred of a given man is no excuse to dishonour the gift that we have within ourselves..

On the other hand the behaviour/attitude of the person who have 'hurt' you or caused you to feel small; should invite pity and sympathy from you. We should really sympathise and try to understand the dissatisfaction, hatred and negative energy which a person has got bottled up inside to such an extent that the same oozes out as hate, derision and frustration at others... This by no mean is a reflection of who you are, what you are capable of and how your life will shape in days to come...

I have strongly come to believe that it is possible to bounce back from such phases if we have strong believe in our abilities and faith on our own goodness which will help us go higher in life and become a better person.

So friends, live in the present... live in the now... look at the bright futures which beacons to you with open arms and always remind yourself that " if not here then where and if not now then when, if not you then who...."

And in the meanwhile Just Let it Go...