Ranjan's Blog => A Product of Silence

Suffering from NaMonia – Night Farts of A Drunken Lord

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sun, 13 Oct 2013 13:00:00 +0530

‘What the ****!!’

3AM in the morning - Lightning struck! The music in my ears stopped. I pulled out my ear phones.

‘I will drink to that!’ I told myself, enlightened; sat up on the bed and drank a glass of water, bottoms-up.

The writing was on the wall. I started staring at it like a lunatic.

‘What happened?’ my wife asked, worried; her left eye painfully open.

‘Nothing...nothing! Sleep...sleep...’ I whispered tapping her forehead, caressing her back to sleep like a puppy.

‘What is that smell? Did you drink and come again?’ she shouted opening her second eye. They were wide open, glowing in the dark, staring up and down at me.

‘No...no!’ I stammered taking my hand off her head in a flash.

‘Don’t lie to me!?!’ she thundered.

‘What..No..I am not...Promise!’

She slammed shut her big-bulging eyes, turned her back on me and rolled far away in disgust. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

‘Great...’

I lived to die another day; stealthily slipped out of bed, turned on my laptop, and sat down gently; my butt kissing the soft cushion of the squeaky chair.

‘I hope the light stays...’ I prayed opening up the task manager window.

I had seen the silver lining; the angry, midnight-blue clouds were howling; scolding me with a fluorescent stick to fall asleep. But I was determined, in no mood to listen to anyone. Drunk to the gills, struck by lightning I decided to have it down in writing.

‘I can also become PM…’ I announced quietly; my voice quivering. ‘Yes, yes, why not...?’ I gave it a confident second thought. ‘No wait! Hang on... I am drunk!’

Realization struck. I was under the influence of alcohol. It was not the best time to stand for the post of Prime Minister.

‘If not me then who else?’ I asked myself. ‘Rahul Gandhi?’

‘No! You are better than him!’ pat came the reply in unison. My heart and mind were unanimous in their decision. Sir Sri Pappu was out of the question and equation. ‘Then…in that case it leaves just one person…’

‘But will he be able to change everything? Something? Anything??’my heart screamed in pain.

Silence followed. The clouds roared. Droplets of rain started to pour. I was itching to break the silence, ask more.

‘Will…will there be no scams once he becomes PM?’ my heart dared to ask.

‘Have you ever bribed a government employee to get your work done?’ my mind shot back.

‘What?’

‘Yes or No!’

‘Yes, but I was forced to…’

‘No excuses!!’

I hung my head in shame.

‘What is the matter? Go on…ask!’

‘What about terrorist attacks? Can he stop them, if he becomes PM?’ my heart attacked, pumping alcohol adulterated blood in full force into my nerves. I could smell it at the back of my tongue.

‘Have you ever been vigilant enough to report an unidentified object? Have you ever tried stopping a crime from happening in-front of your eyes? Have you ever reported a crime, filed a FIR, helped someone in distress or called 100?’ my mind counter-attacked. There was nowhere to hide.

‘This is no answer…’ my heart choked flooded with questions. ‘I need answers not questions!!’ drowning, gasping, it cried for help.

My mind kept quiet. There was no help in sight. Yet, my heart had not given up the fight.

‘Okay…Riots…? What about them? Everyone blames him for Gujrat riots…Godhra kand! Am I to blame for that too?’

‘Good question! But when did I blame you for anything?’

‘What… Are you… Nothing! Forget it! Please answer.’ my heart requested.

‘Answer? What answer?’

My mind was playing games. My heart did not mind.

‘Godh…’

‘Do you believe in God? Have you ever worshipped idols? Have you ever discriminated people on religion? Have you ever mocked a person on the basis of religion? Do you ever…’

‘Stop! Stop!! Mercy! Have mercy on me please!!’ my heart begged; on it’s knees, trying desperately to stop the heartburning queries. My mind was on the attack. I had to stop the charge. ‘Why are you not giving me a straight answer?’ my heart asked, harassed.

‘The answer lies in the question… my dear friend! How crystal, clear, transparent or vivid do you want it to be? Tell me!’

My heart missed a beat. The blood in my veins froze. I was silenced into submission; shut my eyes in pain, trying hard to envision.

‘Okay, I get it! But if everything is to remain the same then why should I vote for him?’ my heart asked, promptly skipping the irresistible rape and the million dollar rupee question, saving itself from further humiliation.

‘Don’t vote! Vote for the hand! Rahul Gandhi will become PM and show you his middle finger!’ my mind mocked.

‘Non-sense! I will show him mine after voting his rival!’ my heart righteously rejected.

‘Good! But anything else you would like to do?’ my mind probed peeping into my soul.

‘I…I will change… change for the better! And do my bit to help change the society and the nation.’ my heart resolved taking a deep breath. The blood in my veins started to flow. My mind was gung-ho.

‘Great! Now we are talking!’

‘But what about the party members and ministers? Will they be as corrupt as the Congress and it’s allies? Will they support him to bring about change?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine! Everyone is free to do what they feel like…’

‘Rubbish! What kind of an answer is this?’ my heart cried out.

‘What is this change, change, change…? If you do not change anything, why do you expect others to bring about change?’ my mind

‘Because he is the leader...’

‘So are you! Every one of us is a leader, every one of us is a citizen of India, every one of us is responsible to change ourselves and the nation!! Don’t we?'

It dawned on me. I slammed shut the window. It was raining outside. I was sweating inside.

‘Errr…yes…’

As the clamour for Narendra Modi as the Prime Minister of India reaches a crescendo I rag my soul with these questions time and again. Change is certain. Time has come for a revolution. We have to fight for our next generation. It’s now or never.

‘What… What are you doing?’

‘Huh…nothing…nothing…’ I replied startled, shaking my head, wiping the beads of sweat off my forehead. My wife was up and awake. The tête-à-tête was interrupted.

‘Nothing…?’ she probed.

‘I mean just surfing…’ I said stretching, throwing my head backwards.

‘Is it raining?’

‘Yes…’

‘It is already 6 AM! When are you going to sleep?’ she interrogated, glaring at me.

‘I will… in…’

‘What is wrong with you? Have you gone mad? Don’t you have office tomorrow? Aren’t you planning to go to office today?’

‘Yes, I will… You go back to sleep. Leave me alone please!’ I pleaded, much to contemplate.

‘Do whatever you want to…’ she uttered jumping out of bed. Her hairs askew like a crow’s nest.

‘What? Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘None of your business!’ she retorted, storming out.

‘What the ****!!’

PS: I am no Tiger Boods. Juts went to bra and drinked.

Mind over Matter

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Tue, 25 Jun 2013 01:35:00 +0530

Preface:

Once upon a time when I was a small-little boy I remember reading a short passage from the epic Mahabharata; the story of Yaksha Prashna. The mighty Pandavas were serving twelve years of exile in a forest and at the end of their exile period the Pandava princes came across a Brahmin who complained that a deer has taken his Arani (The pair of wooden blocks to generate fire by friction) on its antlers and therefore he was not able to light the fire for performance of Vedic rituals. The valiant Pandava princes set out to retrieve the Brahmin's Arani and followed the hoov-marks of the deer.

In the quest of the mysterious deer, Yudhisthir, became exhausted and thirsty. Therefore, Sahadeva, the youngest, ventured to fetch water and found a beautiful lake. The lake was devoid of any living creature except a crane (Baka). When Sahadeva attempted to take water from the lake, the crane spoke, "O Sahadeva! The water of this lake will turn into poison if you take it without satisfactorily answering my questions."

Sahadeva, in arrogance, did not pay heed and hurriedly took water from the lake. Upon drinking the water which appeared crystal clear, Sahadeva died instantly of poisoning. The next Pandava, Nakula followed Sahadeva, found the same lake, saw dead Sahadeva, and was also warned by the crane. But Nakula also ridiculed the baka and died after drinking the water. In the same manner, both valiant Arjuna, and powerful Bheema, met the same fate.

Since none of the brothers returned with water, Yudhisthir embarked in search of his younger brothers and water. Upon following the same path, Yudhisthir came across the lake and found all his brothers lying dead. Before searching for the killer of his brothers, Yudhisthir decided to drink some water from the lake. But when the crane warned him, Yudhisthir harked back and listened intently. He instantly realised that the crane holds the answer to the turn of events. In virtuosity that Yudhisthir represented, he proceeded to answer the questions put forth by the crane.

But before putting the questions to Yudhisthir, the crane revealed itself as a Yaksha (nature-spirit). The Yaksha asked 18 questions with philosophical and meta-physical ramifications.

I am a chapter:

While reading the wicked questions to my utter surprise I came across a very innocuous one : What is faster than the wind? I read it carefully one more time, twice to be absolutely sure, thrice to lock the answer for Amitabh Bachchan's sake. Having studied science and the speed of light my lightening quick answer was: Light! "EUREKA! EUREKA!!" (No! I did not run around naked. Please keep your fantasies reserved for late nights. This is a family blog.) I just looked around expecting for a round of thunderous applause, few soothing pats on the back and lively Derek O' Brien to jump out of the TV with a trophy and declaring me the undisputed winner of the national quiz championship. But there was none to be. Poor me! Amitabh Bachchan and Derek O' Brien were too busy. Even my grandmother and grandfather did not oblige. They kept staring at me through their ten inch photo-frames. I was all-alone, left to study more.

Anyway, I did not care; cheered myself up and decided to cross-check my answer...just for the sake of it. But even before I did so, the tube-light in my mind suddenly flickered on. A new question arose, enough to make Einstein proud; If light is faster than the wind then what is faster than light?

It was a tough one. I put myself in Yudhisthir's shoes and could very well understand the trauma he was going through. "What could be faster than light? Einstein?" I asked myself seeking for help. I gave up after thinking for a while. Einstein was dead. He did not reply back. Nothing came to my mind except for a minute of imposed silence and the new movie of a young-suave Salman Khan with Madhuri Dixit wearing a red-hot saree posed beside him for the ultimate showdown.

I started drooling. The whistle of the pressure cooker brought me back to life. I glanced at the book with squinty eyes as if cheating in an exam. Read the answer, slapped myself and observed two minutes of stunned silence.

Light was out of the question; it was no where near the correct answer. The witty reply given by a nonchalant Yudhisthir was: MIND.

The question stuck with me forever and so did the answer; my mind was never the same as before and neither was I.

Letter to the Prime Minister

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sun, 2 Dec 2012 18:00:00 +0530

To,

The Honourable Prime Minister of India,

South Block, Raisina Hill,

New Delhi.

India-110011.

What is it that I shall bring to your notice? What is that one thing to which I can point out and say, yes, India is free, India is safe; India means peace, India means justice; India means business, India means growth; India is well-fed, India is highly-rated; and above all India, my dear mother is great! I may have gone a bit over-board given the opportunity presented to me but I come back to my point. So, what is it? What is that one thing? I keep the questions safely to myself, for I cannot simply hurl them at you sir, for I know the answer is not simple and straight-forward, for I fear they will bounce off your stony face and hit me flush on the forehead.

They say, our Government is a thug! I simply close my eyes and murmur; it is just our bad luck. They ask, why don’t you vote? I explode, for what shall I vote? For whom shall I vote? You chant young India, prosperous India, independent India, incredible India. I simply pray, God help India. My dear sir, I do not know what do you see in India, what do you feel for India, what do you think about India; but for once if you get even the slightest of chance to slip out of your security blanket, you will come across a river called young India; it’s blood piping hot, bubbling with anger, oozing with confidence, gushing forth in full force with a mind of its own. You will see them, marching forward, surging ahead aspiring to change the course of India at every step with their sharp ideas and a mere snap of their fingers. My dear sir, young India today knows no boundaries, young India today lives on a different planet, young India today is raring to gallop at a breathtaking speed but your abrasive, barbed system makes them recede. Your promises are like the wind blows. They come and go leaving behind a trail of perpetual sorrow. Your goal is to land on Mars, ours is to buy a small piece of land on this beautiful earth. You hold rallies, you talk big, you talk long; always shouting the same old song of a better India with a certain future; constantly harping on catapulting India forward but your actions fail to catch-up with your words. My dear sir, your intentions are right, your words fail to excite and your actions, leave a lot to be desired.

I visit any office of yours seeking prompt service and all your men do is play yoyo with me? Am I an object of ridicule or a big-fat joke only meant to cast my precious vote? For how much more long will this age-old problem live in our country? Does it have an expiry? Or is it that bitter pill which I have to swallow every-time I walk-in? Or is it that bickering bill which will never have a seal? I notice the landmark of democracy, I sometimes pause and peep inside the institution of democracy but all I get to see season after season, session after session is people of cattle class howling like stray cats and dogs. My dear sir, I am sorry to say but the institution that you call parliament resembles a mental asylum. My remarks are certain to draw your ire but I don’t care, for its high-time I throw myself into the line of fire.

Who am I? Where do I stand? I am not a politician, no saint; no economist, no scientist, not even a social activist. Not a person of any pedigree but a young Indian with a Bachelor’s degree; hanging on; stranded in the midst of a fierce political storm; whose only prayer at the start of the day is that the day ends in peace and harmony. My dear sir, in simple words I am just another common man being pickled in the daily run, lost in the daily hum-drum.

I hear you are eager on Aadhaar but I would request you not to stop there, as for once I do not want to believe that it is a mere political stunt but a positive step to empower the poor. I wish you do not prove me wrong. I wish my age gets added to your’s and you live for many more years. I wish you all the very best in your future endeavours.

Enough said, enough puffed, enough coughed I will let you have the last laugh.

Your’s sincerely,

Ranjan Dhar

Published in http://theviewspaper.net/ranjan-dhar-writes-a-letter-to-the-prime-minister/

New Found Land

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:18:00 +0530

The little stars had aligned. They were twinkling in the night sky. My dear friend had something special for me in-store. I sat quietly on the backseat, wondering, watching the lunatic hunter high above. The alien was stealthily following, keeping a keen eye on us through his antic binocular.

‘Wow! Ow...ow...’

‘Yes! And you know what the best part is?’

‘What?’

‘All the shopping malls, Big bazaar, multiplexes are right around the corner!’

‘Ow...Wow, really!’

The star-studded hunter had made his first move. The WOW signal had hit me. I was on the receiving end.

‘Yes, yes! Didn’t you see them all on the way?’

‘Errr...yea...ow...Wow!’

The hostile road was hitting us hard. My beaming friend Bulbeer was driving, leading the way. I was relying on him heavily.

‘Ow…ow…ouch! Slow Bullu...Slow down!!’

‘This road is the only problem...’ he lamented, manoeuvring his motorbike through the unending bumps.

It was edge of the seat stuff. The action was rear-guard. The terrain was out-of-this-world; junglee, rocky, dusty; the path ahead heady and pitch-dark. Bulbeer had gone out-of-the-way. He had found an exotic place to live.

‘Hmmm…ow…ow…’

‘Otherwise everything else is good. You will like it! Believe me!!’ he exclaimed, his voice quaking.

‘Yeah…’ I grumbled. ‘Ow…Where…where is his house? How long will it take to reach? Ouch!’ I asked, clinging on, bouncing to his tunes.

‘Just round the corner.’ he assured.

The hunter was whipping us. The Bajaj discover had lost it. It was rearing up and down like an old Chetak.

‘This is the place I was talking about!’

‘Oh…ok…’ I mumbled, busy cursing the stars.

We had at-last found a booming civilization. The rays of hope eased the pressure on my back. The back-lashing road had finally ended.

‘The building is going to come up here!’ he demonstrated, zooming into the developing society.

‘Eh..eh..chokre! Ruko, ruko!! Kisse milna hai? (Hey..hey…boys! Stop, stop!! Whom do you want?)’ the undressed watchman demanded scampering behind our vehicle. He was in civilian clothes.

‘Kyun? Kya chahiye? (Why? What do you want?)’ my friend retorted, parking inside the building premises.

‘Aah...ah...’

They were not coming out. I fell short of words. Stepped down gently and limped away writhing in pain. My cute tail bone was fractured in several places.

‘Entry karo idhar paihle! (Make an entry here first!)’ the rude-old-man ordered pointing towards the register.

I picked it up and passed it on to Bullu.

‘Kisko milna hai? (Whom do you want to meet?)’ he probed again.

‘Errr…Maa..haat…ma, Mahatma? Mahatma-ji se!’ I exclaimed reading out loud.

‘Chairman saab!! (Chairman sir!)’ he cried out.

The ghost of the Mahatma seemed to be haunting him. The old man was shaken up. He let go of the human race; started seeing stars in the night sky.

‘Haa…Haan Mahatma!! (Ye…yes Mahatma!!)’ I howled; my eyes enlarged, my voice underwent a drastic change. I suddenly grew from a squeaky rat to a hairy monster.

‘Haan! (Yes!)’ Bullu roared.

‘Teesra mala! Jao! Jao! Lift se jao! (Third floor! Go! Go! Use the lift!)’ he directed immediately. The information was half. The star-struck guard snatched the copy from Bullu’s hands.

‘Isn’t he your uncle? Don’t you come here often?’ I probed pressing the button.

‘He is not my own or cousin uncle...’

‘Oh…’

‘I just know him through a friend of mine.’ my friend informed.

The door opened. We fitted ourselves in. The elevator cranked up. It could carry only three persons at one time. We were of the size of four.

‘Nice surname’ I remarked closing my eyes. ‘Hope he gives some discount...’

‘Will have to!’ Bullu guaranteed, taking it upon himself.

‘Let’s see…’

The lift was quick. We had reached. The tiger was already loitering out. I was a sleeping duck. Opened my eyes hurriedly and scurried out of the three-by-four cage in the nick of time; my neck and limbs intact.

‘This way!’

Bulbeer was at it again. He was leading me.

‘D.D MAHATMA’

The name plate on the door rang a bell in me. I was feeling honoured. Bullu rang the bell. I took off my shoes.

‘Yes...’

The great man was coming; his voice overwhelming.

‘Namaste uncle.’ Bullu greeted.

‘Namaste’ I huffed bowing. My only chance went begging.

The gangly man dressed in shirt and baggy jeans was not a look-alike by any means; did not resemble Bapu from any mad angle.

‘Yes, what is your name?’

Disappointment writ large on my face I spotted the stark reality, eventually. The man was no Mahatma. He was not his great-son-in-law either; neither Bullu’s mama; just a mere chairman.

‘I am Bulbeer, uncle…I had come two days back…to enquire about the flat…’ my friend stuttered reminding over and over again.

‘Oh…yes, yes Bulbeer…’

‘This is my friend…’

‘Yes, yes come in! Come in!’ he welcomed grinning.

The living room was messed up. His wife was cheerfully away. We had to fill in. Gathered the clothes, newspaper supplements littered on the sofa and chucked them on the dining table.

‘Tell me! Have you guys decided to book?’ he asked facing us.

‘Uh…no uncle....’

‘Book it quickly otherwise the rates will go up!’ he opened fire. Bullu ducked, I leant back on the sofa.

‘Uh...yes...uncle, actually I brought my friend along to show him the area and get all the details.’

‘Ok, ok…but I have already provided you all the cost details.’ the smart-old chairman recollected.

‘Yes…but…can you give us the brochure?’

‘Book it quickly otherwise the rates will…’

‘Brochure...uncle?’ I reminded, interrupting.

‘I did not provide you the brochure?’ he enquired. I sensed it. The pesky-old-man was profitably and unarguably deaf.

‘No…’ I murmured. Bullu shook his head.

It was my first visit, his second. We were two-little innocent children. We had done our homework.

‘You sit here, I will bring it!’ the man groaned up from his plastic chair and headed inside. His own cushy sofa was occupied.

‘Come to the point Bullu!’ I whispered.

‘Yes, yes…don’t worry!’ the tiger winked.

‘Ask him to reduce the rate at-least by two-hundred!’ I challenged.

‘Yes, yes…’ Bullu nodded.

‘And also some from the parking amount…’

I was not afraid of him anymore. The money-spinning, uncooperative Mahatma had irked me. I was in the mood to bargain.

‘Yes…’

‘And also ask him about those two buildings…’

‘Yes, yes…’

Bullu carried on nodding vigorously. His brain was in danger of popping out. The risk was too high. He had work to do, things to say on my behalf. I was alert, ready to take the diving catch and throw it back in.

‘Here it is…Hold it!’ the chairman presented stepping out. He was holding it in-front of my friend. An unmindful Bullu stopped rocking his head. I seized the booklet from his wrinkled hand and began studying it.

‘When will the construction start uncle?’ Bullu queried.

‘What is the rate now uncle?’

The monster in me growled pouncing on him. I jumped straight to the point. The tiger was lurking behind the bush.

‘Thirty-one hundred.’ he informed plonking down on his plastic chair.

‘Whew! That would be around thirty-five lakhs…’ I whistled. My calculator beeped up.

‘So, when will you be providing the booking amount?’ the greedy Mahatma enquired again.

‘This looks small! Don’t you think so?’ I suggested pointing at the miniature layout printed on the brochure.

I had no prior experience. The plan seemed flawed to me.

‘No, no it’s fine!’ the tiger roared, silencing me. He stamped down the monster. I turned into a squeaky rat again; lost, unable to find my way out of the fallen hairs.

‘Pay up the booking amount by tomorrow…’

‘Yes uncle…’

‘Yes! What yes!!’ I screamed inside.

‘But if you could talk to the builder and make something le…sss…’ the tiger hissed.

‘Less?’ he asked reconfirming, turning his deaf ear towards my dear friend.

‘Ye...yes...’

‘In this area you will not get a flat at such low price!’ he refused, shaking his head.

‘Just see uncle if you can…some from the parking amount…at-least...if possible…’ the tiger stammered.

‘Pay the booking amount first, then only I can speak to the builder.’ D.D Mahatma conditionally agreed.

‘And what about the two buildings by the side? Is he going to…’

Bullu was following my orders. He was doing his job, alright. I kept quiet.

‘Oh those! He will be demolishing them soon.’ he rubbished, waving his hands. I instantly demolished them in my mind. ‘He has got the FSI increased after all, so he has to!’ he reasoned.

‘Oh, great!’ the tiger let out, smiling. ‘When will we be getting the possession, uncle?’

‘Problem? No, no, there will not be any problem!’ he reassured. His left ear too was not working. ‘He will have to demolish...’

‘Possession uncle... When will we be getting the possession?’ Bullu asked again; his voice loud and clear.

‘Possession? Eighteen months! Give me the booking amount cheque by tomorrow!’ he demanded again.

‘Yes uncle, let us talk to our families’ first, show them and then we will come to you in two-three days’ time!’

The smart cat was expert at beating around the bush.

‘But hurry up! Book it quickly! If the rates go up I will not be able to do anything!’ he yelled.

‘Ow...ow...’

We fled.

++++

‘Hello?’

I called him back; desperate to have a word with him.

‘Sign here...’

‘Hello! Simon? Simon!’

It was my lucky day. He picked up my call on the second try.

‘Yes, yes... give me the documents by tomorrow...’

He backed away talking nonsense.

‘I...’

‘Give me a minute sir!’ Simon commanded.

I obeyed, hung on.

‘Yes... tomorrow, tomorrow...Bye...Bye...’

‘Yes, tell sir!’ Simon belatedly answered; his tone harassing, harsh. He was my agent. I was his customer. ‘Hello? Hello!!’

‘Errr...yes...are you talking to me?’ I queried.

‘Yes sir! What’s the problem?’

‘When is the disbursement going to happen? My builder is calling me…’

‘You haven’t paid up the twenty-percent amount to the builder till now sir! What can I do?’ he paused backfiring.

‘Uh…Wh…ho…’

Tongue-tied, I froze, stopped breathing. The bomb dropped on my head. It detonated instantly. I started sweating profusely.

‘When are you going to?’ he resumed, backfiring.

‘What...How? What do you mean?’ I spat out, finding myself lost in my own flat.

‘Come to my office, I will explain!’

My calculations went for a toss. I was praying throughout, had prepared well; spent nights on it lying flat on my back. The result was depressing. My confidence was shattered. I had failed miserably in my maths exam yet again. The banker flatly refused to clear my papers.

‘No! But how…I don’t understand!!’

‘Come to my office sir!!’ he invited me over, again, sternly.

I had hit a cracked-pot. The money was looted, delivered to the builder. I had nothing left in the bank.

‘Let me see…’

‘Moreover his property is not approved yet!’ he stated.

‘What!!?’

It was raining time bombs. The naughty Simon was dropping them on me at regular intervals. The demand letters were bombing my house weekly.

‘What is going on? What are you saying?’ I screamed.

The second one dropped near my feet. The brand new Reinforced-Cement-Concrete slab shook below. My sinking head quaked violently. The bomb fizzed out, failed to detonate itself completely.

‘No, no! Not there...sign here!’ he began talking to someone else. I was left gasping, drowning in dire straits.

‘Hello!!’ I recalled him back; my tone restless.

‘Yes! Pushkar properties na?’

‘Yes…’ I uttered gulping down my bouncing heart. It had made its way to my mouth.

‘It’s not approved!’ he announced.

‘But why?’

‘He hasn’t demolished some buildings, the on-site inspection report says!’

‘Some? There are just two!’ I blurted.

‘Whatever…but it’s not approved! His legal documents are also pending!’

The third bomb was the smallest. It was harmless. I caught it.

‘When is he going to then?’ I hollered, clenching my teeth, toying with the grenade. I was mulling to throw it back at him, send him up once and for all.

‘How will I know sir?’

I was not getting a favourable answer. The questions were haunting me. I was asking them to the wrong person.

‘Talk to him and tell him to provide the complete the legal documents! Nothing can happen till then! And you also pay up the twenty-percent!’

The line went dead. My brain pointed straight.

‘Hello! Mr. Jholkar?’

‘Hare Krishna…’

‘What is going on?’ I erupted.

‘Hare Krishna! What, yes tell me sir? When will the disbursement happen?’ Jholkar demanded.

‘Your property is not approved Mr. Jholkar!!’

‘Not approved?’ he belched. The reply was abrupt, the builder was corrupt and I was bankrupt.

‘Yes, when will you demolish those two buildings?’ I roared. The agreement was signed. I had the fundamental right to question. Fifteen-percent of the lump sum was prepaid.

‘We will be starting soon…’

‘So until they are demolished the disbursement cannot happen!!’ I relayed. ‘That’s what my agent…’

‘Do one thing. You apply again and get your loan sanctioned from non-cooperation bank. This bank has approved our property.’ he directed.

‘How…? No! I cannot do that! Nothing is pending from my side. It’s your legal documents and demolition job that’s pending!’ I shot back, hurling the grenade at him.

‘Listen to me sir!! It will hardly take ten days for your loan to get sanctioned.’ he cajoled, coolly.

Mouth wide-open, I stood still, stunned. The bomb had no effect on him.

‘Apply there...’

‘No…’

‘I know an agent…’

‘No! I…’

‘Can he come today and collect the documents?’

‘No!!’

‘I will message you his number, contact him! Hare Krishna!’

What’s up, Mannu?

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sun, 2 Oct 2011 00:05:00 +0530

‘Grrr…grrr…’

‘Rahu! Get up, Rahu…Get up baba!’

‘Hmmm...No momma! Let me sleep for some more time...’

‘What does this boy do, staying up late nights I don’t get it?’

‘Grrr…grrr…’

‘Watches FTV, what else!! Idiot! Keeps me up as well…’ I cursed scampering under the tube-light plank; my long-slick tail wagging out.

‘Grrr…bow…wow…grrr…’

Moily was keeping a keen eye on me. Growling incessantly; threatening to pounce anytime on me with those dark-brown sullen look of his.

‘Madamji!’

The unmistakable frail voice of the humanoid broke through, early morning. He was fighting hard to sneak his head through the door; a sky-blue turban and a pair of eyes the only parts visible.

‘Mannu!! What’s up? So early! It’s not even seven...’ a pleasantly surprised Madam enquired. Hairs rolled up she was busy adjusting the pallu of her cotton sari.

‘Grrr…grr…’

‘Madamji, please catch Moily! Please strap him away in another room...’ he pleaded, his voice trembling.

‘Grrr…bow…wow…grrr…’

‘Down boy, down!’ Madam commanded. ‘Don’t worry! Come in. He won’t do anything. I am here.’

‘Come, come…’

Mannu instantly felt confident. Madam was there to protect him. Sibu, Chidu, Pornie and Tuna marched in behind him. The emergency cabinet meeting was on.

‘Your eyes are red Mannu! Didn’t you get to sleep last night?’

‘I couldn’t sleep all night, Madamji!!’

‘But why? Sit, you guys!’ she directed the gang.

‘I am feeling unsafe, Madamji! Will they also take me to Tihar?’

‘Don’t worry, Mannu…No one can touch you till I am alive!’ Madam assured.

Mannu heaved a sigh of relief. His pot-belly deflated, strange noises were leaking out from inside.

‘Why is Rohu baba sleeping on the sofa?’ Pornie enquired.

‘He is not a fish Pornie! Get over it! Rahu…Rahu is his name!’ Sibu corrected.

‘Badabadi hoche Sibu babu! (Don’t act too smart Sibbuji!)’ Pornie warned; his tone stern.

‘I am fed up of him! I don’t know what this boy does late nights!’ Madam mulled perching high on her bar stool.

Rahu was sprawled on the sofa. The rest had huddled intimately on the opposite one. Dear Madam had no place to sit in her own house.

‘He is a good boy Madam. Don’t worry.’ Chidu stated.

‘Well Mannu did you speak to Mr. Hazare? What do you think; will he call off his fast today?’

‘Well, Madam I…’

‘Aye, Tuna I gave you hajar taka (thousand rupees) na yesterday for Petrol, when will you be giving it back to me?’ Pornie demanded pointing his double-ringed index finger at him.

‘Don’t speak rubbish! When did I take money from you?’ Tuna retorted grabbing his lungi. He was ready for a fight, just in-case.

‘Aye! Faaltu kotha maat boko… (Aye! Don’t speak nonsense…)’

Squeezed between Chidu and Sibu a steaming Pornie tried getting up. He failed, his butt was stuck in-between.

‘Pornie! Stop the nonsense!! We are discussing on an important topic here!’ Madam scolded eyeballing him.

‘Sorry, Madom…’

‘Start lowering the prices I will return the money to you in instalments.’ Tuna mocked.

‘So, Mannu what do you think? What should we do with Mr. Anna Hazare?’ she asked again smiling.

‘Well, Madam I…’

‘We should put that rascal in jail Madam!’ a furious Sibu intervened.

‘What do you say Mannu?’

‘Well, Madam I…’

‘I agree with Sibu! He is destroying the law and order situation in our country.’ Chidu remarked.

‘Ohaat (What) about the Mumbai blast? Ohen (When) you will be catching the kaalprits (culprits)?’ Pornie challenged.

‘I have some leads…’ Chidu replied coolly. His eyes fluttering, head rocking.

‘And may I know Ohaat (What)?’

‘Before the blast they ate idly-sambar in a restaurant. I have sent the plates for DNA testing. Don’t worry we will nab them soon!’ he predicted.

‘Ok! Fine! But what about Baba Kamdev then? Mannu? What should we do with him?’

‘Well, Madam I…’

‘Just leave it to me Madam! I will take care of him. He is just a fly for me!’ Sibu assured, digging his nose.

‘Ok! Fine!’

‘Rahu baba get up! It’s eight o’clock. Remember, we had a deal on a basketball match…’ Tuna coaxed. Lungi folded up to his knees he was set to dribble.

‘So, Mannu! Whose turn is it to go to jail today?’

‘Well, Madam I…’

‘I think Moron is next!’ Chidu jumped in.

‘Dhurrr…moshayee!! From Ohen (When) is this case ranning (running) I don’t understand!’ a miffed Pornie denounced.

‘Don’t get hyper Pornie! It’s all because of that idiot Maja…’ Sibu cursed, patting his aroused colleague on the back.

‘Rahu baba get up…’ Tuna continued.

‘So, Mannu you will be coming with us to Raj Ghat tomorrow?’

‘Well, Madam I…’

‘I will not be able to make it Madom. I have to go to the phish (fish) market.’ Pornie interrupted excusing himself.

‘Rahu baba get up…’

‘Mother-promise until Maya is kicked out of UP I will not become PM…errr…any minister…’

His eyes shut, Rahu finally responded to Tuna’s calls.

‘Ok! That’s it then!’ Madam cried out jumping down from her bar stool. ‘Mannu, do you have something to say?’

‘Well, Madam I was trying to say that I needed to use your toilet…It’s an emergency!’ he begged.

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Go, go! Hurry up!’ she cheered, giving him an immediate clearance.

Mannu tottered racing inside, unlacing. His Pajama wasn’t coming off.

‘Use the bathroom in the backyard!!’

I Deserve an Amrikan Ratna

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 00:09:00 +0530

Mind It: The views expressed here are mine and do not reflect the official opinion of my employer or my organization through which the Internet was accessed.

‘…..Awaiting your earnest reply, regards Chakit Gupta’

It was like any-other day in office.

‘What else do they want from me? What is this earnest thing anyways? Can’t they be a bit different?’ late in the morning, stirred up I asked myself reading the lingo mail. There was a deluge of them.

I moved on ‘Delete this one…delete this one…and all these…’

I was having fun. The mails irrelevant I enjoyed trashing them from the intricately designed folders created painstakingly in my mailbox. The hunt simplified I was going through my usual, every morning junk-mail-bulk-delete operation.

‘Phew! I am done for the day!’ I exclaimed within. ‘Except for that damn issue of-course...I am hundred percent sure that is also not an issue.’

The naughty orangutan hopped on me jabbing my sore back. ‘These In-Ox guys have a habit of making noise unnecessarily!’ I muttered jerking my lynchpin.

The scoundrel fell down. I kicked it aside.

‘Another mail? Now what?’

My eyeballs popped out. The dreaded thing had just taken place. The In-Ox folder had a fresh new mail.

‘Hi Ranjan, Any updates? Regards, Trilok Chand Gautam’

‘Are they insane? This Ox team has gone wild!’ I grumbled.

‘You there? Please call me!’

‘Give me a break!’ I told myself, replying half-heartedly on the instant messenger. ‘Yes. Ok’

It was Prannath; our technical director. The shared phone was three feet away. I had to dial in though.

‘Did you check the mail from In-Ox?’ he demanded; his tone intimidating.

‘Yeah…Yeah I did.’ I stuttered meekly. The hairs on my body spiked up. His loud voice had reduced me to a terrified cat.

‘What is the…?’ Prannath stopped-short investigating. The sudden outcry of his child muffled his words.

‘Papa, Daddy! Pick me up.’ his son pleaded.

‘What, Pran?’ I dared to ask.

‘No not now beta, I am on the phone na. Go play with mummy!’

‘What, Pran?’ I dared to ask the second time.

‘You are a big jerk dude!! Did you know that?’ the Americanized child screamed.

‘Hey!! Hey! Where did you learn that from?’ the father thundered in his rustic accent.

‘Booo…hooo…’

The shrieks were deafening, unbearable. I immediately held the receiver away from my ear, clenching my teeth.

‘Ritwik! Come out Beta! Daddy is working na? Don’t disturb him. Good boy, come to me, come, come…’ his wife cajoled.

‘Booo….Hooo….Hooo….Aaaa…Hooo…Hooo…’

The expat child’s wails were getting louder and longer. The receiver clutched in my palm was going far, far away.

‘Hello? Ranjan?’

‘Yeah…yeah Pran?’

The cries died down. ‘What, Pran?’ I dared to ask the third time.

‘Issue, issue!! Did you find out the root cause?’ he demanded.

‘Yeah…actually I have just come in. I will be looking into it in sometime’

My head throbbed with each word.

‘Ok! Find it out and mail me by the end of your day.’

‘Only to you…I mean shouldn’t I keep In-Ox guys in the loop?’

‘No! Only to me. I will cross-verify and mail them separately.’

Prannath was in good mood. He clarified for once.

‘I will also verify with Param Doshi and check if there is a problem from the Gateway end.’ I volunteered.

‘Yes! Please do that.’

‘Fine…fine, no issues. Will do, Goodnight, Bye.’

I felt relieved putting the receiver down.

‘Sir-ji! Hello!’ Trilok Chand Gautam greeted.

I swung my head around to find the orangutan standing behind me. He kept a keen watch on me.

‘Yeah! What is it?’ taken aback I mouthed letting loose.

‘That Fee issue? Did you get a chance to look into it?’ he poked me in his soft tone.

‘No! I will but later.’ I retorted. ‘I have other work to do as well.’

‘But it’s urgent! Can you look into it right-away?’ eyebrows raised he gazed at me for a favorable answer.

‘Don’t you get it?’ I hollered glaring at him. ‘I will reply my findings to Prannath. He will update you! Now go back from where you came from!’

‘But please ask him to reply soon.’ he gazed at me.

‘I need a break…’

I got up shaking my head. The wicked sensation on my tongue made me uneasy. I just had to smoke.

++++

‘Are you mad? No! I cannot come now!!’ I shouted.

The Ox people were at it again. One o’ clock in the morning and they were calling me in.

‘Prannath is calling you! It’s urgent!’ the nocturnal Chakit stated.

‘What is this? I have already mailed him regarding the fix. Didn’t he mail you guys?’ I argued reluctant to get out of my warm cozy blanket.

‘Yes, he did but that did not resolve the problem.’

The line went silent for a few seconds. I was busy cursing him.

‘Are you coming or not? What should I tell him?’ he threatened.

‘Mtch! Yes, yes I am coming!’

I gave in hanging up. Leaped out of bed, grabbed my clothes and dashed towards office. The machine was taking time to boot up. Hands on head, elbow resting on the chair-arm I shut my eyes.

‘You there? Please call me!’

Prannath wrote the moment I logged into my machine.

‘I have to disable this auto login feature…’

I took it up as an immediate action item dialing his number.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, Ranjan!’

‘Yeah…Hi Pran’ I uttered in a dopey tone.

‘Yeah! What did you debug man? The cache clearing did not work.’

‘But Prannath the issue is not reproducible on the UAT environment? I verified it several times it has to be a cache problem.’ I conveyed baffled by the revenant-nagging problem.

‘No! The problem must be somewhere else! Give me the UAT details I will check for myself.’

‘Wait a second!’ I said opening the crooked file to give him the details. ‘Here! Take it!’ I uttered hurling the message at him.

‘Hang up! I will call you in ten-fifteen minutes!’ he ordered.

‘Ok.’

‘Yeah! Call you? I bet.’ I mocked.

‘So many mails on the same issue…’ I told myself reading them one by one.

‘What the ****!!’

‘Pran, I have found the issue!’ I messaged him. ‘In-Ox guys have cleared the cache of the wrong machine. They have cleared cache of 9111 machine whereas they had to clear cache of the 9786 one.’ I typed hurriedly reading simultaneously one of their lousy mails.

‘Ask them to do it for that machine and check’ he replied.

I copy-pasted my Hitch-cocky observation to the Ox team immediately; unwilling to waste even a bit of my sleep-time.

‘Wait, we are doing it.’ the vampire replied.

The wait was tiring. I was dozing off intermittently. Prannath was away.

‘Hey! Good news!’

The much anticipated message finally broke through at the break of dawn.

‘What?’

‘The store manager did a transaction and it worked.’ he blurted, pinging me.

‘It worked Prannath!’

I relayed the heart-stopping message.

‘What is he typing so much?’

My heart pounded waiting for his spooky reply.

‘Yeah! I know. Great catch, Ranjan! Good job, keep it up. You can go home now.’

The Silent Moaner – A Malgudi Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sat, 5 Mar 2011 14:24:00 +0530

It was a usual bright morning in the quaint little town of Malgudi. Venkatesh an early riser was on his way to the vegetable market. A Physics teacher in Malgudi’s Albert Mission School it was a special day for him. Dressed in white, he wore a lungi folded up from his knees and a glaring white shirt. His brand new red moped twinkled under the sun. Beaming, he drove it at a snail's pace. The overwhelming aroma of a bottle full of coconut oil came off from his hair. He had neatly-combed them on either side.

‘Humpf!! You don’t get anything pure these days. Everything seems to be adulterated. What will happen to this country, God knows…’ he grumbled, shaking his head.

As if Mahatma Gandhi, just before slumping on the ground, handed him the responsibility of the nation. Entitling him as Ah.... Two long strands of hair had fallen on his forehead making him halt for the second time. Irritated, he turned off the motor, straightened them up and pedalled forwards.

‘What masterji!!? New moped?’ a man called out, returning from a field nearby.

A lota in his hand, wearing a chequered boxer and a white banyan he stood at the opposite side of the road. His boxer laces hanging up-to the knee he had his eyes fixed on Venkatesh’s motorbike.

Venkatesh quickly landed his two legs and killed the low dull sound of the motor.

‘Yes Thanappa! I bought it yesterday….’ he replied, flashing his white teeth. ‘You know it has a top speed of fifty.’ he bragged.

‘Arre, Venkateshji? Why have you fitted a torch in-front? Turnoff your head light….! It’s day, not night!!’ Thanappa laughed.

‘You will not understand that. It’s a bit complicated for you.’ Venkatesh retorted sharply.

A Physics teacher that he was he applied his knowledge wherever he could. A dynamo fitted on the pedal chain, a torch tied in between the handles, a thin wire connected both. His backbreaking pedalling made the torch flicker faintly.

‘Humpf! From where do such stupid people come from? Number one, joker!!’ he mocked the man within.

‘Achha? If it has a top speed of fifty then why are you driving it at fifteen?’ Thanappa asked. He had crossed the road and walked up to him.

‘I am leaving. I have work.’ Venkatesh exclaimed pedalling away fiercely.

‘Arreee…! Give an answer Masterji… Where are you going?’ he shouted trying to call him back.

Venkatesh hated such people who simply wasted their time. ‘Humpf! They will waste their time as well as my time.’ he rebuked. ‘Go and bathe first! Dirty fellow!!’

Finding himself in a tricky position he scampered away.

‘Who will take care of my family if something happens to me? He will…’ he declared inside.

His excuse, time but the fact that he was scared of driving relatively fast was his primary concern.

‘It’s my moped, my light. It is turned on or off, day or night…who is he to comment on it?’ he continued murmuring. ‘Humpf! There is no shortage of jokers in Malgudi.’

Venkatesh finally reached the market huffing and puffing. He parked his vehicle right at the entrance, looked around, touched the seat, prayed silently for a minute and went in.

‘I have to be aware. There are plenty of thieves in Malgudi.’ he mulled turning back time and again.

‘Have I locked it!!?’ he panicked. He ran back, took out the key unlocked it only to lock it again.

‘Namaste Masterji. You came so early today?’ a vegetable vendor greeted as a jittery Venkatesh approached him.

‘Yes, I bought a new moped so reached quickly.’ he replied smiling.

‘What will you buy today? It’s a very special day…’ the vendor lured.

‘Give these vegetables to me. Hurry up! I need to leave quickly.’ he said, jerking his fingers. The names and quantity of them were listed by his wife. He took out the long piece of paper from his chest pocket, uttered the names out promptly, handing over the muslin bag to him.

‘Wait, wait masterji...I don’t have everything...’ perplexed, the vendor exclaimed.

‘Give me whatever you have. Please, hurry up!!’

Venkatesh snapped his fingers, pleading. A shabbily dressed man lurked around his treasured possession. He had his eyes set on his moped. The vehicle in-sight, sparkling under the sun, he was wary of the filthily dressed man. The seller in the mean-time weighed the vegetables diligently and stuffed them in his bag.

‘Hurry up! Give it to me, quick!’ he asked looking away, worriedly.

‘That man...’ he uttered stopping abruptly.

‘He will steal my motor vehicle. I have to keep my eyes on him.’ he told himself, frowning.

‘What happened, Masterji? Who is there?’ the vendor asked. Perched on a cement platform he leaned forwards, searching.

‘Huh! Nothing. Give me the bag.’

‘It has everything except these two vegetables.’ he stated. Holding the list in-front of Venkatesh he pointed out the names. An inattentive Master looked away. His mind was full of grave thoughts.

‘Masterji! Are you listening?’ he cried out.

‘Huh! Everything is fine.’ he said, grabbing his bag. He paid the vendor quickly and scooted out.

‘Phew! God saved me today.’ he thanked feeling relieved on touching the handle of his moped.

‘Give me something to eat, sahab!’ the beggar uttered, trudging backwards. The strict school teacher kept quiet.

‘Sahab?’

The beggar called out again. He touched Venkatesh’s speckles white shirt.

‘I don’t have any money. Go, away, please...’

He unlocked his moped. Set the bag down on the narrow platform and struggled to get away, quickly.

++++

‘You did not bring pumpkin...and peas...?’ Sumitra, his wife asked.

‘I...’

‘You are leaving tonight, how will I manage the rest of the week?’ she criticized.

‘Sumitra...I had some work today so could not bring everything.’ he lied. ‘Where is Lakshmi?’ he asked changing the topic.

‘She is sleeping. But I had given you the list, how could you forget?’ she scolded.

‘You know what happened...!’ he cried out recalling the beggar’s dreadful face. ‘Thank-God that I reached on time otherwise...There are plenty of thieves in Malgudi. Even going out has become a problem these days.’

Sumitra kept quiet believing in his husband’s words. She continued hanging her clothes in the courtyard to dry.

‘My train is at eight o’ clock in the evening. Pack my clothes in the suitcase and also my dinner.’ he instructed his wife, getting up.

‘But the station is only fifteen minutes away, what will you do for one hour?’

‘Do these big trains run on time? I don’t want to take a chance plus it will also get dark by then...’ he feared, going in to his room.

‘Lakshmi, get up.’ Venkatesh commanded his seven year old daughter.

‘Shall I serve you coffee?’ his wife inquired, standing at the door.

‘Let her get up first.’ he replied in a stern voice. ‘Laksmi get up. You should not sleep so late otherwise you will become a bad girl…’

‘Hmmm...Pitaji, let me sleep, no!’ Lakshmi cried out.

++++

‘Don’t cry unnecessarily.’ Venkatesh told his wife; his tone harsh. Standing at the doorstep with his suitcase in hand he was ready to leave.

‘Take this torch and umbrella with you. It might rain any-time soon.’ his wife offered wiping the tear drop from her face. Gusty winds blew as twilight slowly faded away.

‘Pitaji, where are you going?’ a pony-tailed Lakshmi asked.

‘I am going far away, go inside.’

‘Hmmm...’ she emitted shaking her head.

‘Travel safely and please, come back quickly.’ his wife advised.

‘Take care of the house. Lock the doors and windows in the afternoon itself and don’t go out anywhere in the evenings with Lakshmi.’ he released a multitude of warnings. ‘As soon as I finish my work I will come back. It’s just a matter of few days.’ he said, tranquillizing himself more than his wife. With a heavy heart he waved his hands and walked away into the darkness.

Giant drops of rain had started bouncing on his nose. Looking up to the dark clouds, he clicked open his umbrella. Deafening thunder and dazzling lightning in the vicinity. The blustery winds threatened to drift his frail umbrella away; his hand in danger of breaking away along with it. The rain was getting heavier by the minute. Wet from his waist, Venkatesh walked swiftly towards the railway station. Seeing the station bulb lit from a distance, a sense of comfort filtrated down to his gut. The tracks just hundred metres away, a banyan tree the only dimly lit shelter he decided to run and post his half-drenched body under it.

‘Where are you going, sahab?’

A woman’s voice made him stop on his tracks. He flashed his torch on. A young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a tattered saree called out. Legs folded up, hands tied around them she sat by the roadside. Her body wet, her sleekly curved figure was visible from her soaked, transparent clothing. He shut his torch instantly, viewing it from a close range.

‘Who are you?’ taken aback by her sudden presence he shouted at her.

‘The weather is not good, sahab. Don’t go.’ she warned.

‘You don’t have to worry! Go, do your work.’ he told her, flashing the torch on her face to have a close look. The falling rain drops were skiing down her fair face. Her body attractive he switched it off looking down for a brief moment.

‘My house is close-by, you can take shelter there until the train arrives.’ her hand shivered as she pointed towards it in a sluggish tone.

‘I am living in Malgudi for the past thirty years. There is no house around except that of the station master. Am I a fool to believe in your words?’ he mouthed, yelling at her.

The lady a stranger Venkatesh was not a man to listen to any eerie person. He raced away and stood under the banyan tree. The rain had become torrential. The stormy winds swayed the bulb over him violently. It eventually exploded plunging the area in complete darkness. His clothes completely soaked, umbrella providing a weak resistance he remained firm braving the nature’s fury.

‘I should have listened to her.’ A thought crossed his mind.

Eyes squeezed, he looked around. Striving to see or hear anything but the relentless rain. A dim light glimmered at a distance, behind him. Trusting it to be the light coming from a reliable source he made up his mind to approach him.

The torch in one hand, he struggled to close down his umbrella. Groped for his suitcase, picked it up, turned around and ran frantically in the direction of the light.

‘Open the door! Is someone there? Please open the door!!’ scared, panting heavily, he knocked.

‘Come inside quickly!’

The door opened. He barged inside, turning off the torch light. His clothes dripping wet, his eyes closed, he trembled unrestrainedly.

‘I had told you, sahab, not to go.’

Venkatesh opened his eyes. He had a shocked expression on his face. It was the same young lady standing in-front of him.

‘I need to go... Open the door. Let me out!’ he panicked rushing towards it.

‘Where do you want to go? Can’t you see it’s raining outside. Just sit inside, quietly!!’ the lady scolded, screaming at him. She blocked the door with her hands and body; desperate to keep him inside.

‘No, I have to go. I will miss the train otherwise. Please free me...’ Venkatesh cried out closing his eyes.

‘What do you think? I am some ghost! Wait, I will prove it...’

The lady walked away. Venkatesh stood there helplessly.

‘Open your eyes and check for yourself...Open them!!’

He fluttered his eyelids up. Recognising dark-red blood staining the mud floor he backtracked immediately. The lady had cut her right index finger with a sharp object.

‘Now do you believe in me? What else should I do?’ she said wincing in pain. She grabbed the loose end of her saree, tore a long piece out of it and wrapped her oozing finger.

‘Sit in that corner.’ she ordered. Head hung low he put his suitcase down and tamely followed her orders.

‘Are you the only living person in Malgudi?’ she shouted in anguish.

Venkatesh had crouched himself at a corner. His body shivered continuously. He remained silent staring at the oil lamp burning in the middle of the room.

‘You know who you are? You are a terrified rat!’ she carried on in her rough tone, mocking his posture. Eyeing him menacingly she trudged ahead and sat in the opposite corner.

‘Humpf! Shameless beggar! Look at her clothes.’ he grumbled, looking down.

‘Why are you not looking at me? Look up.’ she ordered in a grave tone.

‘No.’ Venkatesh spoke out, breaking his silence.

‘Why? Just because my clothes are improper...just because my body is visible...?’

‘Stop it!’ he shouted staring at her.

‘Where do you live?’

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ he shot back, glancing at her meekly.

‘Why?’

Venkatesh remained silent.

‘Because, I am a beggar? That’s why?’ she glared at him, continuously. ‘Aren’t beggars human beings?’

‘What is your name?’ Venkatesh inquired. He could not help but stare at her resplendent face. Her voice full of life, he found it innocuously soothing.

‘What do you do?’ she persisted, disregarding him.

‘I am a teacher in Albert Mission school.’ he stated proudly.

‘You are a teacher!!’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you teach your children?’

‘Physics, Do you even know what Physics is? Humpf!’

‘I don’t know it but I know that I am brave.’ she gave him a terse reply. ‘I am not afraid, like you. What is the use of Juji if you cannot live happily?’

She kept on pelting awkward questions at him. Accustomed to reprimand children in school, he felt it a bit unusual on being scolded by a stranger. ‘Even my wife does not speak to me like this!’ he complained within.

‘Do you lie to your wife?’

‘Who do…?’

He kept quiet, giving the lady a cold stare.

‘Answer me!’

‘Because you were afraid that she will laugh at you and curse you? Isn’t it?’

He nodded, looking down at the floor. ‘You are a coward.’

Venkatesh felt restless from inside. The interrogation straightforward he found himself at a loss of words.

‘You are not a good teacher then!’ the lady stated.

An uneasy silence followed.

‘Do you want to eat something?’ she spoke out, lowering her voice for the first time.

‘What is the time? The train can come any moment now. I better leave.’ he panicked again.

‘No train will come. Can’t you see how bad the weather is outside?’ she rebuked him vociferously.

‘But I have to go, it’s urgent.’ Venkatesh retorted reasoning.

‘Go, I will not stop you this time.’ she said, ushering him out in a manner.

He mulled over it listening to the long thunderous noises coming from outside. His breath, bated. The rain lashing outside, lightning sparks occasionally breaking through the thatched roof he gave up the idea of venturing out in the dark.

‘Do you want some puffed rice?’ the young lady offered him the second time.

‘No! My wife has given me food. I will eat that.’ he declined her offer.

‘Yeah! Yeah! I forgot I am a beggar.’ she ridiculed, compounding his agony.

‘Where is it?’ Venkatesh cried out in a stifled tone.

‘What? What are you looking for?’

‘My Tiffin! I cannot find it.’

He searched his suitcase thoroughly but could not find his dinner.

‘Close your suitcase and take this.’ the lady offered her puffed rice in a dirty looking bowl.

‘I am not hungry.’ Venkatesh uttered locking his suitcase.

She kept the bowl near him. Lied down and turned her back at him at her corner.

‘You will not eat?’ he asked her sheepishly. Nowhere to go, stranded, starving, his stomach emitting weird noises he had no choice but to listen to her.

‘I am not hungry.’ she promptly replied.

He emptied the bowl in a hurry and sat staring at the lamp. Predetermined to go back home the moment the rain would stop.

‘Where am I?’

The sun beating down, dazed, Venkatesh strained his eyes open. He noted the time in his watch and sprang up in a flash. It was ten o’ clock in the morning. The night long and tiring he had dozed off inadvertently.

‘Lamp? Lamp!’ he recollected the events of the previous night. ‘Where is she?’ he asked himself looking around for the young lady. Hair strewn; clothes soiled he clutched his suitcase and ran out searching for her.

‘Is this my house...? It is my house!’ baffled he turned around and paced up and down; He had spent the night sleeping on the front porch of his own house. ‘How did I get here…? Who was she…? Why didn’t my wife open the door…?’ his mind was filled with endless uncertainties.

‘Sumitra! Sumitra!!?’

Perplexed he dashed towards the door and called her out.

‘Coming!’ a voice shouted back.

‘It is my wife!! But how is it possible?’

The door flung open. Venkatesh hustled in. It appeared as if he had set out to explore his own house. ‘Huh!! You came back so soon? What happened to you? Your clothes... your hair...is everything fine.’ Sumitra asked running towards him, clutching his hand from back. ‘Why are you quiet? Say something!! Speak up!’

He turned towards her and spoke out in a soft tone, ‘Shall I bring the remaining vegetables...?’

The Holy Dip - In a Drain

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 11:43:00 +0530

My life is not an open book. It’s just a dusty Playboy magazine. Hidden under the carpet, I sneak a look into it once in a while. Capturing the breathtaking frames only after my family of pirates is fast asleep.

The kindergarten days: Do you remember them?
I do vividly, for a specific and an extra special reason. It was the first time I had kissed a girl fondly. Fondly!! Woah, oh, oh, oh! What? What are you thinking? By now you must have started fantasizing. I knew it!! Dirty Mind!
I had kissed the curly haired one on her cheek more out of genuine affection than anything else. Hang on!! I remember kissing her, where…? It’s gone a bit blurry. Let me think…. ‘Hmmm…’
‘The blog! Romeo!!’ a voice reminds me, as I write, jolting me from my fantasy.
‘What blog? Don’t disturb!! This is much better.’ I shot back at him. ‘The feeling is divine.’
‘Dip? Drain?’ the voice echoed, dragging me away from the stimulating scene.
‘Diaper?’ I asked myself, absentminded. ‘But, I don’t have any children!!?’
‘Look up!! Idiot!!’ he shouted, slapping me hard.
‘Oh! Yes! Now I remember.’

I had just joined Don Bosco School, Siliguri. “Admission Granted – STD I” was what, was stamped, on top of my charismatic miniature photo; passing a strenuous little exam prior to it. The people alien, I roamed around the campus with my then only friend Arpan Chettri. He was the sole recognizable face when I shifted from my humble kindergarten school to this Richie-rich one. Like two brothers reunited in the lost and found section of the Kumbh-Mela. Arms around each other’s shoulders we wandered singing the Sholay tune.
‘Arpan! Look at this drain.’ I exclaimed, stopping abruptly; we as usual wandered during the break time.
The rainy season at its peak, an unrelenting drizzle characterized the day. Soaking the light rain I stood at the edge of the broad, two-three feet high drain. Gazing and hearing the gurgling sound of water gush away. The extreme force of it flushed down everything and anything that came in its path. Glancing sideways I noticed the other kids frolicking by its side. Some dropped leaves, some paper boats. Others tore up their boats to drop pieces of paper with their names written on it. All competing, racing along the gutter with their individual articles, set afloat. The speed of the current carrying them enabled them to decide the winner.
‘Arpan!!?’ I called out. Turned back and searched in my vicinity but could not find him.
‘He must have gone to the toilet.’ I told myself shrugging; continuing to follow some of the closely fought contests.
‘Splash!!’, ‘Shuh! Shuh! Shuh...’
These were the only sounds I could hear the next moment. The latter without any doubt uttered by me struggling against the tide. The burbling noise of the water entering my ears followed them. Picking my head, out of the water I looked up to find Arpan standing atop. A smile on his face to begin with, he broke out in a laughing fit. I got up on my feet immediately, displacing the cold gutter water on either side of me. Not able to get out of the drain after few tries I stood erect. My feet apart, enduring the cold current. My hairs, white shirt drenched. My light grey half-pants completely soaked, stained to a darker colour. Water slipped through the pockets causing my sensitive areas to become stiff. Shocked, panic-stricken I began forming small cups of water with my tiny palms. He backed off, viewing me throw the drops furiously in his direction, still laughing out loud. Nothing else nearby to inflict my rage on him I resorted to my last option. The helpless child that I was began crying. I sobbed inconsolably for a minute or two. Vowing never to forgive Arpan for his shameless act and never, ever talk to him again, till my last breath. Fortunate to have my two cousins studying in the higher grade of the same school I saw them rushing towards me. Grabbing their hands I pulled myself out of it, grazing both my knees in the process on the rugged concrete. One held my legs, the other my arms. My face skywards I forced it down, searching left and right. But Arpan was nowhere to be seen. I assumed, him to have run away seeing my cousins, probably scared of being beaten. Stretching me they both transported me to the assembly hall. The principal came running thereafter. Consoling me he offered me a Hawaiian shirt and a black pant. A unique, stinky smell came out of them. No other option I wore it; to be the odd one out in the whole class for the rest of the day. I had instantly become the center of attraction for no deed of mine. They giggled staring at me, others cracked jokes. Alienated, I glanced at Arpan menacingly but he sensibly looked away.

++++

‘Maa!! Where is Arpan?’ I asked my mother coming back from school one day. It had been close to ten days since I had seen Arpan.
‘I don’t know. Why? Don’t you meet him in school?’ she asked.
‘No.’ I replied in short refraining to divulge further details; specifically my gesture of avoiding him consciously.
‘I also did not see his mother for few days….’ she stated, pondering. A frown developed on her face. Homes close-by, our mothers often ran into each other in their favourite grocery shop.
‘Leave it!! He will come soon… may be.’ I said shrugging, reluctant to entertain the thought of a rogue Arpan at length.
‘No, no!! Let’s go this Saturday evening and check what the matter is!’ she proclaimed, forcing me, shaking her head vigorously.
‘But why? What is the need?’ I cried out, opposing her decision in the strongest of tones.
‘Fine! You don’t go. I will.’ she said. Turning back she walked swiftly into the kitchen, seething.

++++

It was Saturday evening. Although I had protested, I did not want to stay alone in the house and be haunted. Lollipop, the award I trudged along with her to reach Arpan’s house. Burdened by a sense of guilt; not having spoken to my once close friend for that many days.
‘Don’t be naughty. Don’t play for too long. We have to go early and don’t ask for anything to eat.’ my strict mother issued me a host of warnings, ringing the bell.
‘Oh! Ranzzaan! Come! Namahste!’ she greeted both of us.
Entering, my eyes immediately began searching for Arpan. My heart thumping fast I was wary of how to start a conversation with him.
‘Nomoste, Nomoste! How are you? I…’ my mother greeted back.
‘Where is Arpan, aunty?’ I inquired, interrupting. Looking at her, I prayed that he be somewhere far-away from his house, playing.
‘He is inside. Go in that room.’ she replied, pointing. A purdah (separation cloth) hung, did not permit me to peep inside from a distance.
The dreadful answer received I went up to the room, leaving both of them behind. I moved the cloth aside and peeped into the room.
‘Don’t ask me…’
I could hear Arpan’s mother talking to mine.
‘He is sick for the past…’
‘Sick!!?’ baffled, I asked myself. Overhearing, I stood quietly at the door-sill.
Arpan lay there on the bed. His face turned in the opposite direction. His body covered with a brown quilt up-to the neck. Panic-struck, I turned around and exited the room. Afraid that Arpan would get up and start blaming me for his illness.
‘Go, inside! He is there.’ his mother urged. ‘He was taking your name in sleep for the past few days.’ she said, increasing my anxiety to abnormal levels.
‘Why?’ my mother inquired, smiling.
‘I don’t know. He was in his sleep.’
Caught in no man’s land I about-turned and entered the room, again. Arpan had twisted his face in my direction. His heavy, sleepy eyes marginally open; he gazed at me from the distance. The nervous I took out the second lollipop from my pocket. Holding it in my hand like a bouquet I moved towards him, taking measured steps. The wrapper on it served as the ‘Get Well Soon’ greeting card. Hoping that my gift would please him and more importantly he would not complain to my and his mother.
‘Here, take!’ I offered him. My voice wavered as I stopped close to him, by the bed.
Pulling his hand out of his cozy cover he grasped the stick.
‘What happened to your eyes and your nails…?’
Dismayed and perplexed I questioned him examining his nails and eyes closely. Pale yellow in colour they seemed to be a unique, eye popping occurrence to me. One, I had never ever encountered in my short life span.
‘Are you still angry?’ he queried in a stifled voice. I noticed; his face too had turned pale yellow.
Not knowing what to say I simply stared at him. Mixed emotions ran through me. I was not able to determine whether his mistake was greater, or mine was.
‘Forgive me, Ranjan. I made a mistake. I am sorry.’ he said, repeating one of our moral science lines recently taught in school. A tear drop streamed down from the corner of his eye.
‘I am sorry as well… for not talking to you.’ I uttered, clearing my throat.
‘Are we still friends? I don’t have anyone else to talk to in school.’ he asked, reasoning innocently.
‘Yes I am. I will talk to you.’ I assured him. ‘Eat the lollipop. It’s tasty. Tut… tut!!’ I told him, emitting sounds from my mouth.
‘Don’t eat that!’ her mother screamed from behind. She came into the room with my mother.
‘See!! The chap is suffering from jaundice and he wants to eat chocolates.’ she admonished Arpan. Frightened I backed off allowing his mother to sit at his side.
‘But mom, Ranjan brought it for me!!’ he begged.
‘Eat it later. You are not well now, no.’ she said stroking his forehead. Snatching the candy from his hands she kept it away from him.
‘I am feeling better now. Give it to me!!!’ he cried out in a shrill voice.
‘Eat it later, Arpan. It doesn’t matter.’ I said trying to calm him down.
‘Look! Listen, to what your friend is saying.’ her mother told, winking at me.
A wink: The meaning of which I understood later in my life; courtesy my mother. Five years down the line, I was in the same school, I played near the same drain, it was the same me. But Arpan, my friend was far, far away…

Thank-you all for reading; until next time, the moti-bhaddi aurat (fat-ugly lady) sings. It’s BYE!!

The Renunciation

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sat, 2 Oct 2010 22:28:00 +0530

‘I don’t want to leave this place, Ram! This is my birthplace. I just want to live here peacefully.’ I cried out, storming into the safe confines of the kitchen.
Expressing my revolt over the conversations going on outside, I slammed the heavy silver tray on the wooden table. The thunderous sound of it echoed in the large room, making us close our eyes momentarily. Eventually, the clattering noise subsided to enable us to restart.
‘Who is asking you to go? And Why?’ Ram asked, subsequently, in a perplexed tone.
‘I just heard them talk about some sort of separation.’ I stated, pointing towards the courtyard.
‘Here deliver the tea first. Come back. We will then talk over it calmly.’ Ram said politely. In an assuring manner, willing to hear my grievances the moment I returned.
I picked up the utensils one by one and placed them carefully on the tray. Two kettles, one filled with liqueur tea and the other containing hot milk. Three pairs of cup-saucer and a small bowl of sugar, filled to the brim. All articles splendidly designed and made out of glossy china clay. I gave the finishing touches by intricately arranging three white cloth napkins at the empty side. Folding them diagonally and setting a silver spoon on top of each one. Finally, placing an extra spoon at the side of the sugar bowl I completed the royal job. Etiquette learnt from my father, having seen him perform several times since I was a child.
‘What presentation!!? You have mastered it, Mian (Gentleman)! Bahut acche (Very good)!’ Ram exclaimed, attempting to cheer me up.
I glanced at him menacingly. Adjusted my pagdi (headgear) and set forth for my destination. Cautiously holding the tray close to my chest, I entered the courtyard. The voices grew louder and stronger as I approached them with nimble feet and eyes fixed on the finely cut grass below.

‘You realize, Mr. Jinnah, what you are just about to do?’ I heard Mr. Mountbatten’s stern voice. ‘The Congress would never agree to this.’
‘I am not worried about anyone else except the welfare of the Muslim people.’ Mr. Jinnah replied in a firm voice.
‘What would you do, if you were in my place? Mr. Jinnah!!’ Mr. Mountbatten asked aggressively, constricting his eyes.
‘I would have given Muslims Pakistan, by now.’ he uttered bluntly.
‘Pakistan? Has this man gone mad!! Isn’t Hindustan for all?’ I told myself placing the tray on the table, beside Mistress Edwina.
‘If India has to be divided into India and Pakistan, the same principle would apply to Bengal and Punjab.’ the Lord remarked promptly.
‘I will have my say when the time comes.’ he responded in an authoritative tone.
‘You are doing all this just for power, isn’t it?’ Mrs. Edwina Mountbatten asked raising her eyebrows.
She signaled me to leave, simultaneously, desiring to serve them with her own hands. I turned around and scampered back to stop at a distance near the courtyard entrance. I stood there like a robot, frowning humanely. With eyes fixed to the ground, unmoved most of the time, awaiting their next order. The restlessness and anger seethed inside me, hearing their divisive political conversations.
‘You realize, Mr. Jinnah, that this will cost you dear,’ the viceroy warned. ‘It will cost you the future of Pakistan, everything! You won't have a wooden table or chair in an office in your Pakistan. Or the money to buy an olive green army water bottle.’ he spoke out explicitly showing his contempt. His wife looked on at his face with dismay.
Mr. Jinnah chose to remain quiet, clearly perceiving the meaning behind the viceroy’s words. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, in an attempt to gauge his response. But the expression on his face suggested that he was in no mood to share the pie with anyone.
‘My people, the Muslim League has chosen me. Not you!’ he stated emphatically, sipping his tea.
‘You seem to be adamant. Just think over it for once. Don’t force anything for which you may have to repent in the future.’ Mr. Mountbatten advised, escorting him slowly to the main door.

I picked up the crockery and walked back hastily towards my designated zone. Dejected and surprised over the uncertain future of the country and my life.
‘What is the matter Bilal? You look disturbed.’ Ram asked in a concerned voice.
‘I don’t believe this. I just can’t believe this!!’ I uttered.
‘What has happened? Tell me? Is everything fine in Lahore?’ he inquired in a panic-stricken voice.
‘They are dividing this country, just for the sake of power and to satisfy their self-esteem.’ I declared.
‘Who is dividing it? How is it possible?’ he asked frowning.
‘Mr.Jinnah! He wants to create a new country for himself called Pakistan!’ I announced, removing the pagdi from my head. ‘And Mr. Mountbatten will create it by dividing Punjab and Bengal.’
‘Whatever is happening is not correct. But how can we stop them?’ he questioned throwing his hands up in the air. ‘I know they have the people’s support and have charged up their ignorance politically.’ I said.
‘Don’t you hear every day? News of trains carrying slaughtered bodies of Hindu’s or Muslim’s from different parts of the country?’ he said demanding an answer from me.
‘I know that Ram. But… what if the country gets divided? What should I do?’ I asked, hesitantly. A silent prayer to God followed for not allowing the day and my apprehensions to come true.
‘What do you do? Meaning? You have your family here. So we will stay here together like we do today.’ Ram spoke out, giving me a wary look. I sensed an unknown fear in his tone.
‘But my relatives and loved ones are in Lahore… How can I leave them? I… I have to take care of them as well!’ I stammered. A cold sweat developed on my palms making me ponder about their welfare.
‘Why don’t you ask them to come over here as soon as possible?’ Ram said figuring out an answer instantly.
‘No Ram! You just told me the news of the trains. It’s impossible now.’ I responded.
It was evident from Ram’s face that he had no solution to my problem. The realization that our strong bond of friendship and brotherhood would one day be destroyed and torn apart, had hit us hard. It was the first time when we eyed each other as a Hindu and a Muslim. I had no option but to follow suit. We remained silent, waiting helplessly for the political catastrophe to separate us.

‘Pakistan!! What is this nonsense called Pakistan?’ Mr. Nehru shouted.
I stood there at a distance from the table, staring down at the grass in the lawn.
‘You aspire to become the Prime Minister of this country. Don’t you?’ Mr. Mountbatten inquired in a mocking tone.
‘Yes! But…’
‘You must be Prime Minister of India. Giving away Pakistan is the only way... Don't start wavering now.’ he cautioned.
I spotted Mr. Nehru deep in thought. His agitated gait conveyed me that he was steadily giving in to the viceroy’s persuasion. ‘But how does he intend to form Pakistan?’ he inquired.
‘That is up to me to decide.’ the Lord declared beaming. ‘Half of Punjab and Bengal and the whole of Sind along with the North-West Frontier Province will become Pakistan.’
‘I cannot allow a man from the Muslim league to become the Prime Minister of this country. If that is what he wants let him have it.’ he said succumbing to his own pressure.
‘I will bring the date of the Partition closer and would want to leave as quickly as possible. Pakistan will have to scramble against itself, really!!’ he said demonstrating his ascendency.
‘Who will decide our borders?’ Mr. Nehru inquired in a baffled tone.
‘I have made preparations for that. A committee headed by Sir Cyril Radcliffe will be performing that job.’ he replied readily.
‘Do you have a date in mind?’ the, to be Prime Minister of India asked in a worried tone.
‘Huh? Errr… Fifteenth August next month!’ he said hurriedly.
‘How can he fix so casually? It is an important decision and he gave it so randomly and easily!!’ I wondered.
‘That early? How is it possible?’ Mr. Nehru asked, echoing my sentiments, hearing his prompt answer.
‘A civil war is staring at us in the face. What else can we do? We will speed up the process. It can be done in no time.’ Mr. Mountbatten assured.

A month was all that I had to pack up my belongings and vacate India. The feeling of leaving my friends and dear ones caused an overwhelming grief to rise in me.
‘Will I get such a respectable job there? Will the Pakistan I will be residing in be as good as my India?’ my mind was inundated with numerous such questions. I had no answer to any one of them. Only time would tell.
I came inside shortly after Mr. Nehru’s departure. Met Ram in the kitchen as usual. Our gossips and hours of jovial talks had been reduced to a mere formal greeting. On entering the room it I passed a cold look meeting his eye.
‘The date has been decided.’ I said in a depressing tone.
‘So? When are you leaving? Bilal Mian!!’ he asked with a careless attitude.
‘On fourteenth august Pakistan will be formed. Fifteenth India will get freedom.’ I informed him ignoring his taunt.
‘Fifteenth! But that’s Friday! They did not consult the astrologers?’ the Pandit (Hindu scholar) in him sprang up.
‘Why what’s the problem?’ I inquired, confused.
‘Tch… Tch… Tch… It’s a very bad day!’ he remarked.
‘Yes! I heard it too from some of the astrologers. But what’s so bad about it?’
‘Rather than accept it, the people of India should accept British rule. Under the calculations, August fifteenth is lying under the Zodiac sign for Capricorn. This sign is known for its hostility to all centrifugal, pulling-apart, forces. Therefore, it is the worst possible day to do a partition. And on that day, India would be passing through the influence of Saturn, a very unlucky and unfriendly planet.’ he stated, relaying the predictions done by the other astrologers, scrutinizing and cursing the day endlessly.

A month flew past in no time. It was time to go. The strong desire for power had separated my soul from the loved ones. I didn’t know what was in store for me in the unknown land of Pakistan. I bid goodbye to every one of my community except Ram. It was a moment not to remember, but certainly to die for. I marched towards the obscure border with my family not knowing the hazards of crossing it.

‘Oh! God! Where am I? Allow me to stay here….’ I said slowly closing my eyes, clutching the ground on either side of me. A hazy figure moved around me, finally wielding it’s sharp power on my neck… ‘Hey...’

Racing With The Dead

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Thu, 2 Sep 2010 16:32:00 +0530

‘Life is a race. If you do not compete you will be like broken egghs!!!’ Notable lines which I am sure we all remember, being uttered by VIRUS in the film ‘Three Idiots’. But it seems that many people in India have been following the literal meaning of it from generations. Why am I saying so? In what context...? Bear with me for a minute; we will get there pretty soon!

Riding on my friend, Milind’s bike; covering a distance of twenty kilometers back and forth on the bumpy roads, five days a week, to reach our office does take a toll on my body. Our spinal cords, predictably and irreversibly are slowly being deformed. I do not know about him but as far as my prophecy goes, I do visualize myself stooped, groping and walking with a stick in hand. A frightening thought, I beseech to God, to not allow it to come true. That’s not all! The adventure of eluding domestic and wild animals, rapidly moving erratic vehicles taking moody turns whenever they feel like thereby choking up the traffic periodically only flares up my existing aggravated distemper.

‘I am so fed up of all this man!’ Milind remarked stopping his bike at an entrance of a narrow street in Mundwa.

It was a typical traffic bottleneck one which we were familiar with, traversing the route on an everyday basis. I shifted my position within the limited space available in an effort to release some of the pain soaring up my spine from the squeezed tail bone.

‘Look behind! Is there any space to take a U-turn?’ he asked raising his helmet screen.

I strained my neck to look behind as directed and expectantly discovered a long snarl of vehicles littered all over the street.

‘Nope! No chance!’ I uttered. My voice suppressed because of the horns that blared.

We normally do take a detour, on finding the street choked up from a distance. But at that moment, a voice told me from within, “It’s a special day”. So, with no space to move backwards, we stuck around hoping for the situation to improve.

‘But for how long should we remain stagnant? Build a camp by the side and wait for the mess to clear up? Even there is no space for a camp!!’ I told myself as we were getting late for office.

The stalemate eventually ended with Milind showing his driving skills to find the smallest of openings between the obstacles and free us from the morning traffic ordeal. The race was on from that point onwards. We were already twenty minutes late because of someone else’s fault and we had to make up for it now.

‘Don’t increase the speed. Let it be late! I don’t want to land up in a hospital, early morning, bed-ridden for six months!’ I thought.

As I was about to express the same sentiments to my biker, he did the unthinkable. Milind increased the speed near the Kalyani Nagar turning in a bid to overtake a car, causing my heart to palpitate even more violently.

‘Oh God! No hospital! Better to die instantly than be in hospital!’ I prayed.

Milind safely overtook the car, though, halting at the signal near a bridge leading to Yerwada where our office is located. I stopped praying, for the time being, to change positions and relieve some of the pain originating from my tail bone.

The signal flashed green, enabling us to start our hasty journey, over again.

‘Smoke?’ he inquired.

‘Yeah! Let’s stop near the corner.’ I said.

I knew very well that we were late but ‘What’s the big deal if we are late by another ten minutes.’ I thought. ‘Completing work within the required deadline is important not the time we take, to reach office!!!’ I exclaimed deep down in annoyance thinking about the stringent policies.

We puffed our cigarettes calmly, to their butt, stubbing them out, the moment no smoke came out, from it and our lungs.

We sat on our respective positions on the bike to speed away one last time in the direction of our office.

Milind stopped the bike with a sudden jerk as we were approaching the Yerwada road, letting out a renowned cry. ‘Thok Diya!! (Banged it!!)’

I peered from the side of his head to view the ill famed scene.

‘Special! I knew it!’ I exhaled. But what followed was even more spectacular.

A cabbie, traveling at a fairly low speed had just touched the rear end of a bike causing it to wobble a bit on the road. Two decent, well dressed, probably educated youths were on the bike. I had seen them earlier that day maneuvering their vehicle and overtaking us and others at a high, rash speed.

‘Come out! Bastard!’ they both parked their bike in the middle of the road, in front of the Tata Indica and signaled the driver to come out of the car. Like two trained hoods.

‘Your father will come and fix this! Rascal!’ one of them shouted.

‘Sir! It’s just a minor scratch.’ the cab driver said politely and asked them to move their motorcycle.

I could clearly perceive the anguish in the cabbie’s mind as the two men approached his window.

‘Pull him out!’ they yelled.

The two seized the man by his collar and dragged his body through the window. Not allowing him ample time to open the door, let alone having a modest conversation. By now the horror on the cab driver’s face was evident.

‘Stop! Stop! What are you doing?’ the man cried.

The man fell with a thud on the road. The two youths then commenced their assault. Kicking him, on his stomach, his head, stamping on his hands intentionally as the man tried to save his body parts, wailing continuously in pain. Few people, who had already gathered around, tried to separate the rowdy youths from the cabbie, but in vain. As he was just being assisted by the people around to get up on his feet, the two caught him by the collar again. Now, they started hurling and depositing slap after slap in the direction of his face and ears. All the man could do was, hide his face behind both hands, folded on it. Trying to resist their thrashing and unruly behavior. Finally they were separated by the group gathered. The two youths sat on their bike and fled the scene immediately, probably fearing a police case or something. The face of the cab driver resembled a humiliated look. He was bleeding from the corner of his right eye with red and blue patches on his face, sobbing inconsolably. Some asked him to go to the hospital but he shrugged his shoulders and trudged back to his car. He sat inside and cried quietly for a minute, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, struggling hard to compose himself. He then ignited the engine of his car and fled away from the area shamefacedly.

I was close to tears viewing the whole incident from a distance and I am sure Milind must have felt the same.

‘No! Life is not a race!!’ I told myself. ‘But why do we have to behave like broken eggs!!’

‘Are we dead? Or have our consciences become extinct?’ I asked as we finally reached office.

‘Am I traveling with dead people around me?’ the questions started flooding my mind.

We remained quiet for some time. I, because of the trauma of it, enacted again and again before my eyes. We met at four over our daily dose of cigarettes and tea, recollecting the incident and venting our anger in the form of distinct curses and abuses.

To err is human but to beat him is insane, unpardonable and absolutely does not belong to this world.

Why do we behave like beasts sometimes? Are we really humans or animals disguised in the body of humans? Who has given us the right to hit anyone? Can’t a conversation solve a problem?

I am sure most of you might have encountered such ugly incidents while wading your way through traffic in Indian cities. I am tired of blaming the government or the administration, now. Justice can be done, following other unique ways as well. Let’s try and adopt them and make our India a better, more endurable place to live in.

A gross, inhumane episode, which I know is not the last one I have seen, but one which will always be forever etched in my memory. I hope, the corpses rise up from their death sleep and instill life in their souls again…

My Re-Discovery of India

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 23:59:00 +0530

Childhood is that wonderful time of life, when all you need to do, to lose weight, is take a bath. Our minds and hearts are filled with nostalgia when we remember our carefree childhood days. Playing around like nomads, roaming like a group of orphans from one playground to the other, trying out new unimaginable ideas and morally banned substances, imbibing and uttering, memorized, newly learnt abuses at each other without any prior knowledge or understanding of them and a horde of diverse, comical actions to accompany all of these. Amidst all this frolic and madness, the mere thought of returning to our homes would clog our hearts with unbearable pain of having to deal with the mental strain of mugging up the significant lessons published, mercilessly in the pile of drowsy books, causing us to become sleepy-headed immediately.

My days, of being a child were no different. A small incident which occurred when I was a ten year old boy enabled me to take an unprecedented turn in my life. Now, after analyzing myself all these years, I can firmly say that it was ‘The Turning Point’ which propelled me to drift away with the pensive current into ‘No Child’s Land’. I still get goose bumps when I vividly remember that day… I left my house early morning, as usual, to board my school bus which had it’s nominated stop at a distance of approximately one and a half kilometers from my house. The coldness of the morning air made my legs, exposed downwards from the knee, jitter, as I walked lethargically towards the bus stand. Midway through my early morning trudge, overlooking my shoulder I saw an unsusceptible man jutting his head out of the window from an advancing bus, moving speedily in my direction. Concerned, I hastily stepped aside on the pavement leaving the entire roadway vacant to allow the accelerating vehicle pass soundly from a considerable distance. The bus whizzed past me making my hair flutter as I shuddered violently to confront the spine-chilling blast of air generated and displaced by it’s speedy movement.

“See and walk you idiot!!!” the man whose head was protruding from the window shouted at me as the vehicle sped away disappearing into the early morning dense fog.

“Why did this guy call me an idiot?” I thought, not able to make any sense out of his curse, aimed specifically at me.

Suddenly a gust of cold air blew over, trembling me further causing the right side of my face, from where the bus had raced past, feel cooler than the left side.

“What’s the problem? Did I develop any abnormality?” I pondered as I touched the left cheek which I perceived, was absolutely fine.

Then I felt the right side, I was aghast to sense a slimy, foul smelling fluid smothering the right part of my face, gently streaming down from the side, just below the eye line in the direction of my chin.

“What on earth could this be?” I wondered, cautiously placing my right index finger on my cheek, groping, subsequently sniffing the fluid.

The realization of it eventually struck in me, the moment I made an effort unknowingly to inhale the filthy liquid… Yes! By now you should have guessed it!! The slimy fluid was nothing else but saliva splattered all over, at one side of my face. I demanded the man and the moment back from God so that I could thrash him to my satisfaction but later when I recalled the incident, leisurely, I realized that it was not such a good idea. The saliva in the meantime had reached the end of my chin, ready to start dripping at any point of time.

“I have to act quickly!! But how will I clean it?” I asked myself as my mind was occupied with the dilemma of cleansing it and getting rid of the repelling smell off my face.

I did not possess a water bottle because of my own silly fault, no handkerchief either, and I did not want to wipe off the sickening secretion using my school shirt, scared of the mocks my friends would articulate, when they would discover the offensive, stinking odor emanating out of my shirt.

“Is this what you call freedom?” I questioned the man in my mind. I still do not know, even after so many years, from where did this question or even the actions that I was just about to perform, flashed within me, being a small boy of ten that I was.

The words of my maternal grandfather, who was a passionate freedom fighter in his early years, later studied to become a benevolent doctor, resurfaced in me, providing an appropriate solution, thus rescuing me from the disgraceful position.

“Son!! Always remember, our soil is our mother, just as you love your mother, love and respect your motherland the same way. She will always come to your rescue!” my grandfather had once enlightened me when I was a small boy, perched on his dispensary table.

“Yes! The soil, it will rescue me!!” I said to myself delightfully and innocently picking up a handful and rubbing it over the spit.

The soil absorbed the saliva as it fell down to the ground in bits, rendering my face clean, emitting an endurable fragrance replacing my previously battered face. The transformation in me was evident from that moment onwards as I quietly embarked on a journey of my own which was to rediscover India, desiring to know her through my own eyes.

I started reading Jawaharlal Nehru’s book “The Discovery of India” after this incident, which, by the way is the first book that I have read, completing it at a tender age of eleven. But considering my age and power of understanding at that time, I was unable to grasp the intentions relating to the sequence of outrageous events with which the book had been written by Dr. Nehru. Few years down the line when I came across the dramatization of it in ‘Bharat Ek Khoj’ broadcasted by Doordarshan, the haziness cleared away presenting an evident picture of the horrific tales, frame by frame. Hindustan as it was earlier known, was always a land to conquer, from the Dravidians and Aryans to the British, it has constantly been raided and conquered by inhabitants storming from the north, despite the natural barriers provided by the Himalayas, vying for it’s rich and productive soil.

The widely acclaimed feature film ‘Gandhi’ was more of an eye-opener for me in many ways than a film depicting Mahatma Gandhi’s life. The Jallianwala Bagh massacre, the 1947 butchering of millions when India and Pakistan were crowned to be two separate sovereign states, dented my mind irreparably as I imagined my soul to be amongst those inhumanely acts of shame and disgrace. Looking back, glancing at the chapters of Indian History books that I studied during my school days, I could not find a single one to my liking where such cruel, barbarous acts were scripted at length, let alone the thought of penning a whole book on those gruesome days and times. Even to this day I cannot find one book on 1947 violent mass killings, made available in any school curriculum. What will our future generations learn? Freedom to us came at a cost!!! It just did not fall all by itself from the sky or heavens above!!! If our future generations do not learn how and at what cost India gained her freedom, our mother is bound to be vandalized again and again!

The land of Mauryas, Magadhas, Chalukyas, Guptas, Cholas, Pandyas, snake charmers, elephants… have given way to a land of famished beggars, perverts and money ravenous traitors. Did our ancestors win us freedom to visualize our ‘Bharat Mata’ in such pathetic state?

Does freedom mean spitting just about anywhere and everywhere? Does freedom mean, engaging in, corruption, eve-teasing, communal riots disrupting the harmony between states over trivial matters, burgling, playing petty politics with peoples life and money?

All of us want to be in a world of our own, enjoying life to the extreme. When an opportunity comes we all casually abandon our motherland and proceed to settle down in a foreign territory adopting an alien culture leaving our mother at the hands of hungry hyenas and jackals who keep scrapping her bit by bit, feasting on her, making her hollow from inside. The mother always feeds and shelters us throughout our whole life, and is this the way to repay for her unselfish deeds?

For generations our mother has been humiliated and most of us have stood beside her, watching calmly the dishonor caused by many of her and other extraneous people, how much more pain and suffering can she bear?

Why do we have to celebrate our independence on 15^th August? Why can’t we celebrate it every day? Why can’t we remind ourselves every single day that this is not the freedom that our freedom fighters had dreamt of, for them freedom meant driving away the British, thereby allowing their own people to live in peace and harmony, but did we manage to fulfill their aspirations? Rhetorical isn’t it? The answer well known!!!

Independence for us has acquired a different meaning all together, forcefully believing it to be a fundamental right of behaving in whatever way we desire, doing whatever we feel like and above all disregarding our mother and poverty stricken countrymen.

Yes probably by now our honorable prime minister may have hoisted the flag and delivered his Independence Day speech and some of us may have heard or slept over it, but does it serve the purpose? Even the flag hoisting takes place at a monument built by our invaders!!! Why can’t you celebrate the day in every other village… nominating one, in turns, each year???

‘Look around sir!!! We still have the same problems and difficulties which seem to have existed in our country for ages…’

‘How do you plan to eradicate them?’ if you ask, then probably another speech will be ready at his finger tips to be delivered and silenced.

‘Which is the first and foremost conundrum that you plan to work upon?’ if someone asks again, then I don’t think you will get an answer, because of the enormity of them. They leave behind internal matters and issues and roam the world for most of the five years term dealing with so called external matters and return back at the end of it to beg for votes.

Here is my question to you… How do we salvage the lost pride and glory of our mother?

As far as I am concerned we need to salvage her one at a time… taking up education and literacy at the forefront, in an utmost priority. Start it from your home, your own society…. We need to educate people and the future generations about her glorious past, the lives sacrificed in order to set her free…I know some people who have dedicated and still are in the process of laying their lives for our country; we need to join hands and extend our strong support towards them. My rediscovery and redemption of my mother, though carries on and will carry on till my last breath….

When the British administration led by Lord Curzon in 1905 ordered that Bengal must be partitioned into East and West Bengal, Rabindranath Tagore cried out to his countrymen by writing this song… translated in English by me… which I hope conveys my sentiments, paying a tribute to my mother…

‘O’ my mother, I bow down to your holy soil,

……

O’ my mother I sleep in your lap and will die here too,

…….

You have always fed me and given me everything, my mother,

But I cannot recollect anything that I have given back to you.

I have wasted my life in doing useless work,

But you have given me all the strength I needed, O’ my mother,

……..

O’ my mother, I bow down to thee.’

‘I have come with much expectation my dear mother; please call me near you,

Please do not return me empty handed, O’ my mother.

……….

No one loves the needy and the poor,

But I know you will nurture them,

………..

I do not need anything else, but to call you my “mother”,

I do not need anything else, but to lay beneath your foot,

If you will not nurture me then who else will care for me?

If you will not nurture me then where do I go sobbing?

……….

I have come with much expectation my dear mother; please call me near you,

Please do not return me empty handed, O’ my mother.’

Fire Your Manager

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 22:29:00 +0530

While pursuing my Bachelor’s degree in Information Technology in a college situated at a remote, obscure village in Maharashtra, India, I underwent a tense period in my life, mulling round the clock about my destiny, vividly desiring and guessing, what my ultimate software job would be? Will some software company employ me? What happens if I am not able to procure a decent job in a reputed software firm? How cool will it be to work in an MNC, with the I.D dangling in front, suspended from the ribbon gracing my neck? Will I manage to sneak into one of those posh buildings where most of the MNCs seem to function? I am certain that these fancy yet fundamental questions would have crossed your mind, regardless of whichever, inferior or superior institution you have graduated from or are in the monotonous grind of achieving the requisite merit.

The curiosity and apprehensions were infinite as my mind periodically oscillated from the heap of physical objects, consisting of a large number of pages bound together, and the bitter, harsh reality surrounding me, into the more charming, lustrous, unchartered territories. Eventually I managed to complete my degree within the stipulated time of four long-drawn years, allowing me to migrate from the overpowering, foul-smelling rural atmosphere, polluted by the constant emission of harmful gases released from the sugar cane factory, to the more urban, jazzy part of the world. Pune was my new destination and it was here that I got my first break after some expected hassle as a software developer in a reasonably noted, well!!! But not so lavish MNC. At first sight it looked to me like a secret society closely guarded and run by priory of sion, or in simple terms obnoxious, hostile managers. Even before I punched down my first lines of code, I could clearly perceive the strange exercise of fascism, annihilating the dazed spirits within. The uncanny environment made me instantly recollect a famous quote of William Shakespeare from the Merchant of Venice play “All that glisters is not gold!”. You cannot judge the heart of a girl from the beauty in her face; a bare fact coined by W.B Yeats in his poem “A Prayer for My Daughter” which holds true in these pretentious times and was sincerely, genuine in my case as well. Do all managers behave in such imperial way? I asked myself viewing the royal tyranny with which the managers in my company portrayed themselves. Some say “There is always a first time!”, Yes! This was the first time in my life that I had been exposed to such arbitrary, authoritative managers who would wield to find inconceivable ways to get there work done.

“All right!!! The corporate ragging is about to commence, be prepared for the mind-boggling agitation.” I warned myself after getting a hang of the professional atmosphere.

Thankfully by God’s grace I defied much of the torments, though few nominal ones are still left to be eluded, but at least for the time-being, the trauma, the mental, and physically exhaustive period is over. Subsequently, weathering the storm, I began wondering about the necessity and implications of yielding managers, who according to me are an ignominious, dispensable by-product of management. I patted my back in my mind, congratulating myself triumphantly for not taking the leap in management studies, which would have been a sheer, outright waste of time and my father’s laboriously earned money.

“These guys haven’t even completed a management course! What would have been their temperament had they done one? What? Which management book it is? How to become a management geek in twenty-one days? I bet another book will come out shortly, bragging over the title, how to become a nerdy manager in seven, straight days!!! Just reading a few, so called management strategy books, written by equally demented authors and you tag yourself as a manager?” I asked myself sniffing the sorry state of impractical self-learning theories adopted by our employed clergymen, to which most of us had meekly succumbed and fallen prey to!!!

I strained my neurons extensively, in an effort to dwell on much publicized management hysteria, as several basic queries cropped in my mind one of which is, how would you define a manager? A person responsible for getting people together, to accomplish the desired goals and objectives… that is what the bookish definition states. In most of the cases or companies for that matter the “accomplish” word is replaced by “dictate”, a false doctrine adopted by present, profane managers. I have asked myself several times “Do managers in every other workplace display such exorbitant, royal egos? Definitely! Yes! Of course there are always a few exceptions which can be discarded… but in majority of my active findings, adeptly carried out in my short career, I have found that the menacing statement is alarmingly true. MBA, another hyped abbreviation, righteously acquiring which, an individual develops a false notion to be a leader of some imaginary sorts, directing people in an uncouth manner to obey their orders. For me, a manager has to possess leadership skills to be qualified as a supreme ruler of people. Let’s face it; does an individual become a leader by gaining some management degree? Are leadership qualities inborn or can they be cultivated within a person by preaching astronomical, giddy, management course of countless varieties and quantities? You may debate over the fact that managers do not have to be inborn leaders, but just to harp on my point, if a manager’s sole responsibility is to delegate and oversee the working of a group of people, then I am sure, that very group of people may have some grievances or the other which the manager should be able to cope up with? If there are problems pertaining to the group then how can you confront them if you do not possess any innate qualities of a leader? Real time scenarios are much different than the case studies inscribed in the book, which is when our instincts and superlative abilities kick in. What if the team mocks their leader from behind and has been framed time and again, in full public glare, as a bad leader? Is the individual liable to become a manager? I am certain without any doubt whatsoever in my mind that everything cannot be taught from a pile of temple churning, baseless, character transforming books. Eventually it all boils down to the individual’s personality and the character traits exhibited.

Some of you still disagree? Well! Stimulate your hemispheres on it for a while! All those economic, promotional, strategists and gurus out there who promote MBA and other higher studies of management as impregnable and the only means of securing a stable high profile job, had to gobble down their own preaching during the occasion, recession had hit the world, big time, the previous year. Why were they hiding then? What happened to their boisterous sermons? Who were the people or high profile entities who lost their jobs? The skeletons were hanging out; adoring the slammed shut, isolated market galleries, with the truth revealed pitiably, right before your eyes! A classic example of bad management campaigned by the worst of managers.

There were times when people did not have the luxury of such extravagant courses, which begs a simple question… How did Narayan Murthy, Dhiru-bhai Ambani, Laxmi Niwas Mittal and a host of other eminent personalities construct such huge empires without receiving any management training? Let me assure you, having read the biographical excerpts, most of them rose from anything but humble or miserable backgrounds. You can disagree and project with evidence that they are exceptional cases but on second thoughts, research on the internet or wherever you find it convenient, how many small scale, private business enterprises setup, after Indian independence have made it into the global league today? The answer would be overwhelming and more than you can imagine. If they would have received such hardcore, illusive training, then I am afraid they would not have been able to function effectively and develop their businesses mighty efficiently, and scale to such enormous proportions, attaining dizzying heights.

Mumbai midday meal transporters, an organization of four thousand five hundred semi-literate dabbawalas, who collect and deliver lunch boxes, picking them up daily from numerous homes and distributing them to offices and repeating the whole process over in the evening by transporting the empty boxes back to the homes from the respective offices, What an ordeal, day-in and day-out, you may think? Feeding over one and a half million people of the city on a strict time bound basis, these meager human lunch carriers are a living example to the MNCs and other big companies who time and again boast about their management skills. The, time efficient, dabbawalas are no managers!!! They do not boast about a management degree, nor do they have any manager, leisurely perched on top of their heads, directing them, to complete their work skillfully and on time? Management studies are an obstacle rather than a boon, pursuing or trying to learn which, an individual develops only hyperbolic, inflated egos, harming their personalities and causing disruption in attitude among people, working under them. This discussion leads me to an imaginary story of office management, a boat race which most of you may have come across at some point or the other in absolute frustration.

The story goes… There was a rowing team nominated and represented by all the people employed in various multinational companies. So, the company rowing team agreed to compete in a boat race annually, who else! Other than the, Mumbai dabbawalas. Each team comprised of eight people. Both teams worked really hard to get in the best of shape with each formulating unique tactics in a bid to outsmart the other. On the day of the race both teams were ready and confident of winning, comfortably. The outcome of the race was that the Mumbai dabbawalas beat the company team by a mile. The mood in the company team was close to freeze point as they could not believe their eyes, mulling over the fact that how could they be beaten by a team of mere lunch transporters? So shredding off their disappointment, the management hired a group of analysts to observe the situation and recommend an appropriate, game changing solution. After detailed analysis and acute observations the analysts discovered that the dabba team had seven rowers and only one captain. Your guess on the company team’s investigation? Well! They had seven captains and one rower! What a contrast to the dabba team! Facing such critical scenario the management of the company team enlightened themselves by showing some unexpected and timely wisdom. They came up with a master plan of hiring the consulting company of analysts to restructure their team and lend some credibility to their vigorous efforts. So after several months of postmortem and high drama the consulting company came to the conclusion that the company team had too many captains and too few rowers. The job of the consulting company was to propose a solution and what a solution did they propose? Yes! The structure of the company team had to be revamped. But, how were they planning to reshuffle the structure and designate proper roles and responsibilities to the individual members? They decided that from now onwards there would be only four captains, two managers, with one manager on top, followed by the single rower!!! Besides proposing this ingenious solution they also suggested to improve the rower’s working environment and provide him excellent training facilities so as to improve his core competency.

The next year the race was held again and this time the company team, with their new, overhauled structure were buoyed and ready to take on the dabbawalas. What do you expect the result of the race to be? The second time around it was no different, except for a slight adjustment in the victory margin. The dabbawalas had won yet again!!! But this time, by two miles. The mood in the company team’s camp was somber as they were heartbroken for the second successive year. The company team immediately expelled the rower, in an effort to make amends for their loss and restore their diminishing pride, but the bonus award was paid to the management for infusing strong motivation, that the team showed during their preparation phase. The consulting company showed their caliber yet again and laid out their outstanding, descriptive analysis in front of the higher management, revealing them, that the strategy was brilliant, the motivation was satisfactory but the used tool i.e. the oar had to be enhanced and the resource should be more experienced and capable of overcoming any hurdles. Currently the company team is designing a new boat, what for? Well! Your guess is as good as mine!

This story depicts what management is and what all steps are necessary to become a good, effective manager! Am I aiming arrows in the dark? Or, Am I projecting the facts with bitter sarcasm? What do you think? Are you ready for your CAT, XLRI…. and the horde of distinguished, career reviving, exams? Everyone wants to be a manager, the shepherd of the flock, of yet another cluster of managers!!! But, a mere, minor question, you need to ask yourself before taking the plunge and letting all hell break loose…Do you really, naturally, have it in you???

My Striking Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 18:25:00 +0530

It was that time of the year. I was in standard IX studying in Don Bosco School Siliguri, my month long summer vacation had just begun as my family was jovially laying out elaborate plans, preparing for a fortnight spanning holiday trip to THE most historic and political hub, the capital of India, Delhi. I was overjoyed by the divine thought of invading the picturesque places, the impeccable forts, feeling the sights and sounds of the landmark territory which until then I had only seen, imagined and read in my dull Indian History books, a necessary burden enforced in every grade of my schooling life. The excessive eagerness of envisioning history from the solemn eyes and paths of it’s esteemed creators leaped inside me like a wild horse galloping across a serene meadow. I whole heartedly thanked my dear father, endlessly but momentarily, for taking this monumental decision which seemed to be pending for ages, as we all stuffed our belongings and stepped out from the safe confines of our house.

“Yes! At last, we made it, Damn the books and their plethoric knowledge!” I said in my mind cursing them further, exaggeratedly, with a few relatively new abhorrent words that I had plucked up out of many utilizing my sixth sense.

We (me, my mother, father and sister) accommodated ourselves inside the auto with much painful grunts and anguish before settling in peacefully in our compromised places to allow the rickety auto to speed away in the direction of New Jalpaiguri Railway (NJP) station. The huge baggage dumped at the rear portion of the auto, protruding outwards perilously, intermittently exerted great pressure on my back as the vehicle turned left and right, carving it’s own way through the heavy morning traffic, making the start of my journey a very displeasing one.

As the auto was about to reach the entrance of the railway station, I recklessly threw myself out of it with the auto still in slow running mode, not able to bear the pounding anymore, my sore back had been undertaking. My mother expectedly gave me a stern look sighting my foolish suicide attempt, asking me through her harsh gaze to behave properly on the streets.

“I need hundred and twenty rupees, this much will not do. Saab!” the auto driver complained as my father handed him a hundred rupee note.

“What! You need twenty extra? We have been living here for twenty years now and we know what the rates are. Don’t you dare fool us? This is enough, leave now!” my father scolded as the dejected auto driver started the engine, ready to leave, suppressing his grumbles under it’s noise.

My father grabbed two huge bags out of the four present, as I mustered up all my strength to pick one of them with my mother picking up the other comparatively smaller one.

“Don’t do that! Give me the bag. You are dragging it.” my mother said from behind as I ran out of steam in an effort to lift the bag from the station floor.

“No! No! I will carry it. Don’t worry.” I said resolutely as I halted for few seconds to stabilize my breath and rest my aching right palm and fingers.

“Why don’t you guys get a coolie?” I said in frustration. That was it!!! I had invited the wrath of my father who gave me the second stern stare of the morning.

“Earn and then only you will learn.” my father spat back.

“See what kind of son I have, instead of helping me in saving money, I have to meet his princely demands!” my father added, rubbing salt on my wounds by uttering his hateful views about me, midway, in front of the crowd scampering by.

“Will you please keep quiet and just walk to the platform.” my mother said taking my side, perceiving the trauma, bearing which I was transporting the bag.

“Ah…! Thank God finally we have made it.” I said softly, mindful of the fact of not letting my words travel to my father’s sensitive ears.

We reached the designated platform well on time as we got few empty rusted iron seats to sit on, leisurely.

“I will be back in a while.” my father said as he probably left to inquire about the train and scan the charts with our names printed over it. Although I guessed the reason for his sudden absconding which was to grab a quick smoke, I kept quiet refraining from infuriating my mother again and also my father, in a way i.e. when he would come to know the name of the culprit.

“Mummy! I need to go the toilet!” my sister wailed out, the moment she sat on her seat.

“What? Let your father come back, I will take you then. Now sit.” my mother said.

“No! No! I want to go now! Emergency!” my sister wailed further.

“Ohhhh! What kind of children GOD has gifted me?” my mother uttered out as she stood up painstakingly holding my sister’s hand searching sideways waiting to find the nearest ladies toilet.

“Watch the bags carefully.” my mother ordered me as she left with my sibling in order to fulfill the job she was asked to do.

Amidst all this I found myself alone with strangers starring at me like they have never seen a boy, guarding so many bags and two empty seats to go with them, before.

“Great this was the perfect vacation we had planned!” I said to myself quietly.

“Where are your mother and sister?” my father asked hoarsely as if I was responsible for their absence.

“They have gone to the bathroom.” I said, rotating my head in the opposite direction in a bid to avoid any direct eye contact with him.

“These people cannot even sit calmly anywhere outside!” my father muttered as I tried to engage my mind in other thoughts refusing to hear his teeth clattering words.

My mother and sister soon became visible in my vicinity as I removed the two water bottles placed on the respective empty seats to allow them to sit and catch their breath.

“The train is five hours late! There is an ULFA strike in Assam!!” my father said breaking the horror news as my dear little sister did what she was not supposed to do i.e. pick up one of the water bottles and drink two sips from it.

“What?” my mother shrieked, enough to induce a stranger standing five feet away turn in our direction and have a close look at us.

“Now what should we do?” my mother said irritating my father even more.

“Yeah! What we should do now is lift our bags and head home!” my father said, sarcasm dripping from his face.

All my mother could do was, give him a dirty look and that was the end of that.

“Wonderful! Perfect! What a start to my vacation!” I exclaimed gathering the courage to speak out in order to wipe off the sarcasm from his face and divert his attention so as to prevent any untoward, ugly confrontation taking place with my mother.

Well, what else!! The third stare was inevitable, this time the only difference was, that both my mother and father gazed at me with disdain as I hung my head in shame.

“What is my fault? I was only trying to diffuse the situation!!!” I said, slapping my face in my mind for the untimely intervention in my parents’ volatile conversation.

The time passed by unpleasantly, tardily, as we all sat there wondering, occasionally munching and drinking, accompanied with frequent trips to the toilets, trying to figure out what to do for the next five hours, my father as usual juggling in and out at regular intervals for inhaling his cancer stick.

“I bet the toilet guard and every other railway personnel working on this platform must have known my family by now.” I chuckled sheepishly in my mind as the wait for the 2505 UP North-East express scheduled to arrive from Guwahati grew longer and longer.

The “express” train finally arrived after much speculation and atrocious delay, eleven hours late, boasting it’s presence by blowing the horns in an ear drum rupturing force as we all got ready with our respective bags to board the S8 sleeper class bogie.

“Oh God!!! What stinky smell! What crap train!!!” my mother denounced, covering her nose with her handkerchief with my sister following suit as we found our seats. My father and I avidly searched for every nook and corner below the seats in an effort to tuck in our luggage bags.

“Will you please keep quiet for two minutes, bear it for a while we are outside not at home!” my father remarked placing the last bag in an improvising way.

“Go right now and shut those doors! I am feeling severe nausea.” she said overriding my father’s plea as she directed me with her hands pointing to the toilets, pledging me to go quickly and shut the doors.

The smell of urine was unbearable; the train toilet doors were wide open as our seats were located, in the compartment just next to them.

Obeying my mother’s order was a challenge of a kind, one which I had never faced before in my short life. First and foremost, to accomplish my mission and come out of it unscathed, I had to overcome this strong nasal tingling, effervescent smell of nitrogenous waste. Secondly as I approached the doors though the narrow corridor I noticed a person lying down covered with a shabby shawl from head to toe, occupying the space between the two stinking rooms.

“How can someone sleep beside a dirty place such as this?” I asked myself in awe.

“Hey you!! Get up! I need to close the doors.” I said, waiting for a minute so that he would move or allow me to shut the damn thing but there was no answer from the veiled human.

“Hey you! Get up now, I say!” I said raising my voice to a higher decibel.

“Argggghhhh! Go away! You idiot!” the stranger grunted muttering out few sin words, scaring the wits out of me.

I had no choice but to find a way out to close the doors. The unpleasant odor by now had choked by lungs to death as I gasped for fresh air in an in-satiated manner. The decision had to be astronomical, I moved closer to the living being precariously standing directly over the unknown gender by stretching my legs and planting them on the edges of the toilet entrances as I tilted my body sideways in each direction once at a time getting hold of the slider lock screwed on both the doors, slamming them shut. A few more snorts from the concealed human, below, followed as the jarring noise irritated the person, seeing which I backtracked immediately in a hurry. I held my pose for a second, composing my balance just in the nick of time as the grunts horrified me further, inducing me to almost fall unintentionally over the individual.

“Mission impossible made possible! Who is this dirty creature? Bloody beggar! ” I said to myself, coming back to my compartment. As far as the rest of the journey goes the lesser described the better, the summer season was at it’s peak and being in the sleeper class the loo winds blowing in the hot dry summer through the rusted bars of the bogie windows made matters discomfortingly worse.

++++

The train finally reached it’s destination halting with a mild jerk at New Delhi railway station, a day after, as we all alighted from it lazily to gather a sense of the unfamiliar surroundings.

“We have to wait for three hours here. It is not safe to go outside now.” my father warned sleepily with a big yawn at the end of it as it was three o’clock in the morning.

My mother and sister occupied a few vacant seats as my father as usual disappeared for a brief amount of time to allow his lungs to inhale the cigarette smoke, with me strolling up and down the platform in excitement. The dawn ultimately broke through as the clock ticked six in the morning signaled by the chirps of the early birds singing aloud harmoniously.

“Let’s go! The taxi is waiting outside.” my father said as we all strained our bodies once again to pick up the luggage bags and dump them in the trunk of the standing taxi.

“Oh Bhai Saab!! Where? Which hotel do you want to go?” the Sikh driver wearing a colorful turban, emanating a sweet smell from it, inquired, realizing instantly from our appearance, of our inhabitancy from some other place.

“Take us to Pahar Ganj. Hotel Presidency.” my father said promptly.

“Do you have a booking there? Or else I could take you to some other good hotel. You know…” the sardar asked politely, searching for means to enhance his income.

“Yes I have already booked the room there. Just take us where I said.” my father said agitatedly.

“Ok Sir ji. As you wish.” the Sikh driver said reluctantly as he stepped on the gas boisterously.

We arrived at the hotel, settling in peacefully after my father completed all the required formalities. The extravagant breakfast was laid out invitingly as I attacked it, wildly stuffing my plate and stomach with hot aloo parathas (stuffed bread) and dahi (curd) to an innumerable extent, like I had been famished for food whole my life. The long journey had taken it’s toll on my body as I was tired and deprived of good sleep. The gut being full and the cozy bed to add to that made me slip into unconsciousness, dreaming and preparing my physique for the hectic days ahead.

The days ahead jaded us as we feverishly paced all over and around Delhi, viewing the widely acclaimed monuments of attraction, the Red fort, Qutub minar, Jama Masjid, Agra Fort, the magnificent Taj Mahal and the list goes on and on…

How could the memorial monuments (samadhis) be left behind? Coming this far and not visiting the memories and buried souls of our freedom fighters and eminent personalities of their time would have been an utter disgrace on our part, therefore in all respect and humility, joining our hands ceremoniously we paid homage to all the ghats, sthals and bhawans established extensively.

A trip to the holy cities, Haridwar and Rushikesh, and a two day visit to the cool sublime hills of Nainital marked the end of our vacation as we came back to Delhi to catch the return train to NJP, in a somber mood, halting for a day to get over the weariness our bodies had bore through these fifteen days.

++++

“Thank God! The train is on time!” I exhaled joyfully, reluctantly remembering our long arduous wait encountered at the start of the vacation.

The return journey seemed to be smooth as the 2506 DOWN North-East express cruised through the country side stopping periodically at major junctions running on impeccable speed and time as we were scheduled to arrive at NJP at ten o’clock in the morning.

“What kind of food is this? Isn’t there anything better to eat here?” I grumbled looking at the ugly pale color of lentils and rice served with an enormous price.

“Stop your complaints and eat as much as you like. Behaving like a king… eh!” my father said admonishingly.

“Why do you have to scold me always?” I said reacting angrily to my father’s coarse words.

“Why do you grumble always? Can’t you compromise; we are outside not at home. You will not get good food everywhere!” my father shot back frowningly.

“Yes we are outside not at home, so don’t scold me everywhere. Understand!” I said angrily now making my father raise his eyebrows and his hands along with it, in a bid to slap me at that very moment noticing my abrasive behavior.

“Will you please sit down? I will handle him!” my mother intervened with authority.

“No I will not eat now! Go away! I am going to sleep!” I said lamenting, climbing up to the top tier, creating a woeful scene in the compartment, in front of other travelers for my parents to bear.

“Son, come and have your food!” my mother said gently touching my forehead, coaxing me to come down and be normal.

“Leave him. He will come down by himself when he is hungry. Idiot!” my father deplored.

“No I will not come, I am not hungry and never ever will I eat again!!” I declared childishly.

My mother begged me few more times to come down from my perch and eat but I was adamant and did not heed her words. The hunger enraging inside me made my stomach pain acutely, emitting strange never before heard sounds from it as I struggled to close my eyes and sleep peacefully.

The train stopped abruptly with a vigorous jerk, characterized by an extended, noisy, screeching sound caused due to the intense friction between the wheels and the rails. People in deep early morning sleep in my compartment were jolted out of their senses, fearing the unknown, with some instantly predicting it to be a calamity of some kind, guessing intently, manipulating a disaster without knowing the actual facts.

“What happened?” my mother shouted without a delay, as soon as she was woken up by the jerk.

“Son, are you there? Are you fine?” my mother screamed as she and my father got up to view and confirm me and my sister’s safety on the upper berth.

“I am fine maa! What is the time now?” I said rubbing my eyes trying to view my surroundings.

“It is five in the morning. Get down.” my father ordered in a hushed tone.

“Must be some sort of a problem. I am going down to check.” my father said as I descended down amidst all the high pitched chatters and turbulent atmosphere early morning.

“I am opening the windows.” I said looking at other people sliding them open curiously in order to find out the problem.

I opened the dusty windows, carefully enough, evading the dirt accumulated on them as the cool morning fresh air stimulated my senses and blew into the compartment dissipating the heat and gases accrued overnight.

“Barsoi Junction? Where is this place?” I questioned myself inquisitively as I pulled out the bag containing the railway time table book.

The search for my train began as I glanced through the pages of the railway thesis.

“2506… huff!!” I remarked, exhaling in frustration due to the intensive search early morning.

“We are just five hours away from NJP. So we should reach by ten.” I thought, calculating the time from Barsoi to NJP.

“Shit!! Bihar!!! Oh no! Crap!!” I said in my mind, locating Barsoi in the India map, stitched in the same book, as my father came into the compartment carrying two hot cups of tea in each hand in a mud cup.

“Baba is this station in Bihar!” I asked trying to reconfirm it’s geographic location.

“Yes! It will take five hours from here to reach NJP.” my father ratified.

“What was the noise outside?” my mother asked.

“Not sure. A crowd has gathered near the engine. Must be some sort of a problem.” my father answered.

For the next one hour we finished sipping our tea and performed our daily morning chores, in turns, anxiously waiting for the train to resume it’s onward journey.

“Baba, why is the train not starting? It has been halted here for the past one hour!” I complained looking at the watch, the hour hand of which had just struck six in the morning.

“What! What do you mean to say? We are stuck here for twelve hours?” a man shouted as he went past by our compartment window.

“I will go and check what the problem is.” my father said as he distinctly heard the man’s voice.

“Sit… sit my man, where are you going? We are stuck here for eternity!!” our neighboring traveler said as he entered looking dejected.

“What is the problem?” my father asked hastily.

“Travelling through Bengal and Bihar does become a real pain sometimes, these guys are jerks and they can never progress! Uncouth fellows!” he abused raising my father’s apprehensions further.

“What is the problem?” my father asked again in a soft tone.

“I told you several times not to carry lime pickle in journey. Ridiculous!! See now what bad omen it has brought us!!” the superstitious man blamed his wife in a hushed way turning his attention to my father’s question.

“What else can happen? Some political party has called a strike and we have to suffer now! They are not letting the train move until the strike ends.” the traveler said.

“For how long will the strike carry on?” my father’s asked predictably.

“Twelve hours! We are stuck! They have beaten up the driver and dared him if he tries to start the engine.” he said echoing the rowdiness in the workers of the political party.

“Damned!! Why? Why does this happen to me always?” I sobbed silently cursing the political party.

“These guys do whatever they like! What will they gain from the strike God knows! By the way where are you guys going?” the traveler queried.

“Now what should we do?” my mother asked the dreaded, rhetorical question as I recollected her voice asking the same question at the start of the vacation.

“NJP.” my father answered curtly distressed by the situation at hand.

“That is just five hours away from here. You are so unlucky!!” the stranger said rubbing salt into our wounds.

“And where are you going?” my father questioned him back as they seemed to be bonded by the awful circumstances.

“IIIII…. I have a long way to go. I am going to Guwahati, it is thirteen hours from here. You see…” the traveler said beamingly as if the strike did not bother him. All we could do was nod back to him, with uncertainty writ large over our long faces.

The atmosphere was sticky and humid, the sweat dripping off from my forehead and back made matters even worse. I grew impatient trying distastefully to wipe off the foul, typically train smelly dirt emerging with bucketful perspiration pouring out of my face and body parts. We waited and waited and desperately waited…, every second felt like a minute, every minute an hour and every hour agonizingly seemed like ages.

“All right, it is time now!!” my patience subsided as I grouched in my mind, sitting like a sloth, idle for three long hours, boring me to death.

I got up from my seat, walked through the narrow empty corridor and stepped heavily on the cemented platform with a thud, determined to an extent to traverse the small station.

“Don’t go anywhere far!” my mother instantly warned me, keeping a keen eye on me. I had to comply…, therefore simply nodded in obedience without much fuss.

The adverse situation had it’s not so desirous effect on other travelers as they sat casually occupying the worn out wooden benches of the railway station, playing cards, cracking witty jokes at each other, some strolling nonchalantly to far flung corners of the station in an effort to pass their time, discovering and knowing every bit of the station as time ticked at snail’s speed.

All the station shops shut, no hawkers in view in far sight, the train’s taps eventually dried out with no railway employee available to supply water abode the desolated train. Life had come to a complete standstill, fearing the outbreak of unwanted violence from the party’s supporters roaming vigilantly in the area. The pantry personnel had stopped serving food and water after a while, the reason? Their near expenditure of the limited food stock and water possessed.

With my father in close proximity, I made up my mind to take the plunge, forcing my mind not to heed my mother’s words. The engine was far away from sight and as a kid I was always fascinated by it’s mammoth presence and aura, with the luxury of time being available at my disposal I determinedly paced towards it, thinking of minutely observing it today in every possible detail.

“Wow! What sound!! Hmm…But? The steam engine was more appealing.” I thought scrutinizing it as I came nearer to it.

The next moment I was hopping and jumping animatedly trying numerous times to peep inside the cabin when I finally managed to realize the absence of the driver.

“This is a good chance. Should I go near the cabin?” the dilemma hit me, the greed in my conscience now dictating me to trek up the stairway preceding the narrow path in the direction of the cabin.

“Should I go or just stay here and look?” I thought wrestling with the inquisitiveness growing in me exponentially, scaling dizzying heights.

I turned my head right and then left like a pedestrian waiting to cross a busy street at the right moment, scanning the boundaries searching around calmly, in an attempt to notice any undesirable movement.

No one in my detective eyes seemed to watch me or even look at me carefully. I put my right foot on the stairs as I tip toed sheepishly, hastily reaching my destination.

“God!!What are these?” I asked myself as I was amazed by the array of switches and colorful controls beautifying the cabin.

“Beware! Don’t dare touch anyone of them.” I notified myself in my mind about the potential unknown risk involved.

“What a great job it must be?” my infantile mind exercised trying to figure out speechlessly the operation of all the controls. Two hours flew in a jiffy as I stood there groping, vividly starring at the controls.

“Oh!!! Shit!!!” the thought of my parents momentarily clicked in my minds.

“I am a dead son now!!” the notion of hallucinating my parents panicky search sent shivers in me as I leaped from a dangerous height and ran with all my might towards the bogie. I could see my mother from a distance, standing at the coach entrance, gripping both the handles, peeping out in a coerced manner in all directions with a fiery look in her face.

“Where were you?” my mother interrogated, alighting from the coach.

“Why didn’t you ask my permission before straying?” my mother barraged me with questions, starring angrily, squeezing my ears annoyingly in full public glare.

“I… am Sorry!!” I said admitting my mistake in resignation as she loosened her tight clutch.

“Sit inside, until your father comes.” she said, pushing me inside with contempt.

The hunger in me bellowed, more because of the small sprint, knocking my stomach repeatedly as I recalled my previous night’s encounter, the appalling food then, suddenly appeared decent and edible to me. The starvation growing inside salivated my mouth unconditionally, as I pondered over the immature denial, filling me with heartfelt remorse.

“Maa is there something to eat?” my sister quietly asked.

“Good that she asked!! Thank you so much!!!” I thought letting out a sigh of relief.

“Send them out. Come, come outside!” my father said, appearing again in a short while, signaling from outside the coach conveying to my mother feebly to free me and my sister.

“Are you guys hungry?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes!” my sister and I said shaking our heads in the affirmative.

“What if the train leaves?” my mother said over hearing our conversation thereby raising a valid point.

“Please stay put. Nothing can move from here. It is a strike, they are not letting the train move, so how will it leave?” my father overruled in a harsh tone, dousing her suspicions.

We trotted the steep stairs, traversing the over bridge crossing the railway lines and platforms below to jog down and arrive at the main gate of the station. The air was filled with the inescapable, offensive odor of urine as people squirted their liquid wastes on a fungal wall located at a corner of the station street. I observed a small shanty eatery shack opposite to the wall presumably serving hot food to the people, being the only shop opened, it was packed like a can of sardines.

“What a place to eat? I did better go hungry than eat at such a dirty, unhygienic place!” I wondered making up my mind to bear the consequences.

My father made his way through the crowd ordering three plates of rice with piping hot daal and one plate to be packaged to go with it for my mother.

The food was on it’s way and I did not want to create another ruckus with my father by denying it, considering the efforts he undertook to feed our hungry souls. We managed to procure a small table at a less filthy side of the shop as a man came up with three leafy plates of daal rice dressed in a lungi folded in half from his feet with no cloth covering his black stark naked body.

The moment the food was served, the aroma of it blanked any inexplicable or foul thoughts in my mind. I ate like a hog ordering an extra two plates of rice and daal as my father and sister waited forever, for me to finish up my grand feast. The stomach was full to satisfaction and it was time to trudge back to our refugee camp.

As we slogged down the same path from where we came from, we heard the dreaded noise; the train’s horns were blowing in full animosity as if it was crying out to all the passengers to board it so that it could speed away any moment from the quaint station.

“Run!! Run!! Be quick!” my father uttered out a helpless cry as we the trio scurried through the over bridge to descend down to the platform where our train seemed to be halted for ages.

“Wait, wait for a second! No one is moving.” I shouted seeing the other travelers still sitting on the platform in their own lazy self.

The duo stopped abruptly on their tracks after getting a hang of my words and the surroundings as we all walked slowly towards our bogie to see my mother seated on the berth with a worried look on her face. I held out the packaged food that my father had bought, in front of her as she unpacked it and gobbled it up with content. Soon we realized that the horn was of a goods train which had also been kept waiting at the outskirts of the station.

Another four hours passed with us doing nothing, still waiting in intense anticipation for the train to resume it’s fateful journey.

“Twelve hours halted!! Man!!! This is cruel stuff!” I said in my mind. By now, we all had surrendered to the afflictive situation; our hopes had evaporated out by then.

It was five in the evening and the supporters of the political partly probably would have decided that it was enough for the day. Our bogie yanked slightly, I gazed out of the window demeaningly feeling the small movement. I noticed the objects going away from me ever so slowly in opposite direction, a ray of light flashed in me out of nowhere.

“The train has started!! Get in! Get in!” I uttered out a cry to my father who by then had boarded the train.

The horns blew in full blare, to the extreme as the train had finally resumed it’s forgetful journey, picking up top speed leaving the camped station behind, flaring the rails, encroaching the scenic countryside. We finally stepped foot on our NJP station at ten in the night, twelve painful hours delayed as we rushed to our home, sweet home, which had seldom looked so appealing to me, until then. Our eventful and deplorable vacation had at last ended with strike creating havoc and accompanying us wherever we went as the fifth member of the touring party.

The Smiling Maverick

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sat, 3 Jul 2010 13:37:00 +0530

It was May 11^th 1904. The sun had reached the horizon ready to set and mark the end of another day. The twilight rays diverging from the energetic star, casting it’s spell over the still waters of the river Ganges, illuminated the environment in a color concoction of it’s own. The skies were painted in golden orange as a soft breeze blew across, harmoniously creating ripples in the calm water, small waves effortlessly caressed the fertile silt, dragging it back and forth in it’s banks like a child playing with his mother. A nineteen year old boy, Jatin sat under the sacred peepal fig, a mere distance away from the ridge, like a soulful artist deeply engaged in admiring his masterpiece on the nature’s canvas, the beautiful, breathtaking scenery, the effervescent colors of which, filled the atmosphere with earnest delight and a sense of prolonged belonging. The aura of the twilight hypnotized Jatin as he seemed aloof from the rest of the world, his wide eyes locked on the horizon, unblinking, motionlessly gazing at the setting sun, casting a charm all around it. A lonely, small living being leaped on the banks of the sacred river, racing in, hastily, from a fair distance away, in a manner signifying serendipity of it’s final destination within close sight and would sacrifice just about anything to reach the target. Jatin observing the sprinted movement from the corner of his left eye turned his devouring gaze to the creature. Semi darkness had set in by then, making it excruciatingly difficult for Jatin who strained his eyes to identify the lone figure advancing deliriously towards him.

“Maa……ah… Maa…….ah… has asked you to come home quickly.” Ratan said gasping, holding his knees with both hands panting heavily in exhaustion after the sprint.

“Why? I will not go now. Tell maa I will come after a while.” Jatin said.

“Maa is very angry, she has asked to bring you with me while returning otherwise she will come herself and will not spare…” Ratan said as his words were cut short out of loss of breath, echoing his mother’s furious temper so as to persuade Jatin to go back with him.

“Ufff… cannot even sit quietly!” Jatin said in disgust as he stood up, noisily shaking the dirt from the backside of his knee length trousers.

“Come on, let’s go.” Jatin said hoarsely, restricting himself from the act of imposing corporal assault on the eleven year old, instead tightly clutching the hands of his brother, making him cry out of anguish.

“Leave my hand. I can walk by myself. You donkey!!” Ratan said, preparing to wail the next moment incase his elder brother did not loosen his reigning grip.

Jatin immediately released his hand in a bid to avoid any violent scene being enacted, keeping in mind not to infuriate further, his already distressed mother.

“Inquilab zindabad… Inquilab zindabad… Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Bharat mata kiii… Jai (“Jai” in chorus)…. Bharat mata kiii… Jai (“Jai” in chorus)” the slogans were relentless and the chants getting louder and louder by the minute as Jatin and Ratan turned corners in the deserted alley. Men and women carrying kerosene lit torches marched through the streets of Medinipur protesting against the British administration for their divide and rule policy. The dominant British proposed to divide Bengal in two regions East and West Bengal, an idea which the people of Bengal aggressively opposed. General Hastings was believed to be the one who was responsible for taking this heinous decision.

“General Hastings hai hai… General Hastings hai hai… “ the people shouted with resolve and no sense of fear as the procession was steadily moving forwards. Jatin instantly perceived the fickle situation sighting the procession heading straight at them.

“Hold my hand tightly Ratan! Run now, quick!” Jatin yelled overriding the emotional chants made by the crowd in unison. In a fit of despair and uncertainty he caught Ratan’s hand, hurriedly dragging him to the side of the pavement above so as to avoid the volatile crowd. The two ran with all their might wading through the mass of people to reach home safely.

“Maa… Maa…” Ratan shrieked vociferously, barging through the wide open doors of his house, childishly, trying to lodge an overstated complaint to his mother about his brother’s modest physical assault.

Jatin on the other hand liberated himself from his brother’s atrocious complaints and ran through the length and breadth of his house, climbing the stairs in a hurry to reach the terrace from where he could view the crowd, in anticipation of the likely series of events which were about to take place before his eyes for the very first time.

The sepoys in khakhi had made their presence felt, brandishing their long wooden sticks in their hand, barricading the procession, and standing face to face with the crowd which made them stop abruptly on their tracks seeing the khaki clad men from a distance. An uneasy silence stormed in, magnifying the stress and hostility already looming in the tense atmosphere. Jatin’s mind raced around struggling to perceive the subsequent developments, the noise of his heart beats punctuating his thoughts at regular intervals.

“Bharat Mata kiii….. Jai (“Jai” in chorus)” a man from the crowd shouted, shattering the silence in pieces.

“Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Bharat mata kiii… Jai (“Jai” in chorus)” the crowd chorused, warning the cadres to leave or face the consequences.

“Disperse the crowd! Beat them to death! Dirty mongrels!!” Brigadier-General Reginald Dyson ordered as the British sepoys started to march in, obeying astutely to their superior’s behest.

The slogans erupted beyond decibel limits, deafening, people screaming on top of their voices relentlessly. With the sepoys of British Raj now marching towards them in close proximity the rebels in an act of revolt started pelting stones at them, much to their dismay, which caught the hapless sepoys off guard. Unable to combat the shower of stones hurled at them, they ran helter skelter searching for a safe territory.

“Take your position, you scoundrels! Aim. Fire!!! Kill these wimps!” General Dyson ordered his infantry as he was irked by the sheer audacity and courage shown by the rebels, cherishing the moment so that he could set an example for others, for showing utter indecency.

The sepoys counter attacked, mercilessly obeying their general’s order as they set out on a killing spree. The scene was chaotic, men, women carrying their children ran for their lives. The hissing sound of the bullets shot, in all directions, exploding from the rifles stunned everyone. Human beings indiscriminately slaughtered like stray cattle, bodies of the dead ones lying around with blood oozing out of their bullet holed wounds, forming a thick red stream, tainting the streets of Medinipur.

“Don’t spare anyone!” the general ordered uncannily seeing the people lying half dead, with blood flowing out from their bullet incised arms and leg scrambling for a safe territory in order to save themselves from the General’s wrath.

Children and small infants rendered homeless in seconds, wailing in agony with blood on their faces and clothes, unable to make sense of the red pigmented bath precipitating on them. The howls and cries engulfed the night, people heard them from closed doors, miles away from the dreaded spot. The firing went on for fifteen minutes bringing a tame end to the daring revolt. The walls of the buildings nearby marred with blood. People thumping their chests in disbelief, grief stricken to an inconsolable extent by the tragedy and sudden unexpected massacre of their dear ones. It was a horrific sight, never witnessed before, never imagined in the wildest of dreams. Jatin stood overlooking from his terrace dumb struck, his hands and feet shaking in fear and utter disbelief of the grossly murders executed outrageously. The air was filled with the smell of gun powder making it difficult to breathe. Jatin felt a burning sensation in his eyes because of it as tears trickled down them, but he was unmoved, the savage killing which he noticed today would now be forever etched in his memory.

“What are you doing here? You idiot!” Jatin’s father said, scurrying towards him and dragging him by his collar to the presumably safe confines of his house.

“Baba… Baba… Did you see that? They killed them…” Jatin said sobbing, as he broke down on the stairs unconsciously unable to bear the trauma anymore.

“Maa… Why did they kill them? Please leave me… don’t kill me…” Jatin said repeatedly, his eyes closed, his body running on high temperature. The violent killings engraved on his mind flashed back again and again as he lay unconscious in a state of acute shock.

“Get up dada, get up. Will you not talk to me? Come we will play by the river side…” Ratan pleaded as Jatin was bed ridden because of high fever for the third consecutive day.

++++

Jatin slowly and steadily recovered from the pain and physical suffering to stand on his feet. His life had changed dramatically after the fateful day, he kept quiet not speaking to anyone most of the time, not playing or caring for his younger brother anymore, the killing scenes still fresh in his mind, kept haunting him time and again in his sleep. As days passed Jatin became more and more cynical, his parents realizing Jatin’s state of mind sent him to his maternal home in Murshidabad believing that a change of environment would do wonders and restore his normal playful self.

The loudspeaker bellowed in full volume as a local leader of Jugantar party in Murshidabad spat venom against the British policies. A huge crowd had gathered in front of the speaker listening intensely to Nitya’s speech, shaking their heads vertically in an agreement of the views expressed by him.

“What is happening uncle? And who is that?” Jatin inquired curiously, the car honked monotonously in a long tone asking people to shoo away and allow it to pass gracefully through the alley.

“That is Nitya…, Jatin he is like my younger brother and an activist. He will come to our house this evening, meet him then.” Jatin’s uncle said as they drove past him to reach their destination. Jatin was drawn at once by the charm and persona exhibited from Nitya’s speech, his krantikari voice reverberated in his ears drawing him to the activist like a magnet.

“Uncle I need some money to travel to Calcutta… I have to meet Subhash.” Nitya said, entering the room where Jatin and his uncle sat.

“Meet Jatin he is my sister’s son.” Uncle said.

“Hello Jatin… come with me I will show you the town” Nitya said as uncle handed him the money.

Jatin instantly agreed to Nitya’s invitation without any iota of hesitation. He delectably sat on the iron rod connecting the cycle’s handle to the lower part of the seat as Nitya paddled with minimum effort through the narrow streets stopping near the gates of his party’s office.

“Come come! I will introduce you to my friends.” Nitya said as he ran to the office doors and flung it wide open to join his friends.

Jatin had a good time joking and gossiping for the next two hours making friends with most of them.

Nitya dropped Jatin at his uncle’s house and left the next day for Calcutta chalking out plans with his counterpart Subhash for the future of Jugantar, which they had formed to counter the British administration.

“Brother I want to join your party.” Jatin said to Nitya one day as he narrated the sequence of events taken place before his eyes in the Medinipur massacre.

“Jatin, I respect your feelings and your patriotism towards the country, but will you be able to take up the challenges?” Nitya questioned Jatin’s commitment for the country.

“Dada I will die happily for my country if given a chance.” Jatin said, his chest protruding out as he was filled by the love for his country and the revenge for the innocent killings which was due on behalf of his people.

Nitya was impressed by Jatin’s spirit and selflessness. His induction in the party was a boost for Nitya as Jatin started taking up important responsibilities allowing Nitya to divert his attention on more serious stuff, planning strategies for diminishing the Brtish Raj.

“Dada I need your help, I have a plan to share with you.” Jatin said boldly one day.

“What? Go ahead.” Nitya asked as he turned the pages of the newspaper.

“I want to take revenge for the murders. I want to go to Calcutta and kill General Hastings.” Jatin said with a glow in his eyes.

“What? What are you saying, do you know that?” Nitya asked as he was stunned beyond limits.

“I know what I am saying. I need your help dada.” Jatin said the mass assassination still afresh in his mind.

“And would you please let me know, what is your magic plan to execute such brave act?” Nitya inquired mocking Jatin’s childish behavior.

The next few minutes Jatin explained his idol trying to coax him to agree to his patriotic yet foolishly violent intentions.

"Can you do this grim work?" The leader now openly asked him.

"With your support, what is impossible?" Jatin answered him with a question and firm belief in his plot.

"This is not as easy as going to jail. Do you know what will happen, if you are caught?" Nitya asked him in a tone of warning.

Jatin said calmly but firmly, “I know. At the worst they can hang me. Brother, I take it as a boon. Bharat Mata is my father, mother and all. To give up my life for her is an act of merit. My sole desire is only this. Till our country wins freedom, I will be born here again and again, and sacrifice my life."

"Is that so? I am very glad. Get ready for the journey. I will go with you." Nitya said, inspired by the dedication and devotion shown by Jatin towards his motherland.

Assassinating General Hastings was the order of the day as the two spent days and nights thereafter preparing, fine tuning their plan. Finally the two lads set out with two revolvers, a bomb and a little money, and blessings from their elders who knew nothing of their daring plan.

The eventful day at last had come for them to execute their bold plan and put it into effective action. They knew about the consequences, the fate and their destiny, they will end up with, but being a born patriot and possessing the exuberance of freedom in their hearts the freedom fighters set out to mark another chapter in the history of Indian Independence.

++++

It was a gloomy day in Calcutta, a blanket of drizzle covered the whole city, and it felt as if GOD was showering the nectar of immortality, in a way bestowing his blessings on Nitya and Jatin enlightening them towards the path of absolute freedom. Nitya and Jatin hid themselves suspiciously behind a bush located at a distance away from General Hastings lavish house. They had sneaked in with a help of a friend of theirs who worked as a guard in Hastings house. The two waited patiently for the man of the hour to come out of his house, obscured thoughts raced through their minds as their plan was about to take shape and become reality. The death of his people, the innocent, merciless killings executed at the General’s behest motivated Jatin as he crouched up and down overlooking the bush for any signs of sighting the cruel man.

“Dada, Dada!!! I see someone moving. Yes he is coming out!!” Jatin exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Where?” Nitya asked suppressing his voice and excitement.

“There you see him!” Jatin said, rasing his eye brows pointing to Hastings direction.

“Yes Yes! I do see him.” Nitya said recognizing the assassin.

“Get low, be ready, his car will pass at any moment now.” Nitya said warning Jatin to hide.

Jatin took out the fatal bomb keeping it ready in his hand, waiting to throw it on the car as soon as it comes tantalizingly close to him. The moment had arrived, the car’s tyres were beginning to emit a crackling sound as it was slowly passing over the small pebbles and rubble scattered throughout the dusty road.

“The car is coming, get ready.” Nitya said alerting Jatin as it came perilously closer to the bush.

“Vande….ee Maataram…mm” Jatin screamed as he slit the upper part of the bomb and threw it directly in the direction of the car. He saw a lady sitting on the back seat of the car briefly as he hurled the explosive in her direction.

The bomb flew and landed straight inside the car making it’s way through one of the open window’s. The rest was horrifying; words seemed to be at a miss to describe the ghastly scene.

A huge explosion rocked the place, the car ripped off with it’s parts flying in all directions, mutated, charred bodies lying in flames inside the car. The body parts had mingled with that of the car as they were unrecognizable, projecting a horror sight. The chaos was prominent in the area as people rushed to the spot carrying buckets of sand and water in an effort to douse the fire, but it was too late. Nitya had a split second eye contact with General Hastings from the corner of his eyes as Jatin was throwing the bomb, instantaneously he realized their failure of the mission. Nitya held Jatin’s hand as they fled from the place leaving behind the deafening explosion and unimaginable heat from the flames emitted.

“Hastings was not in the car!” Nitya said as they were running.

“What?” Jatin asked stopping in his sprint as he could not believe his ears.

“Come run or else they will catch us!” Nitya said as he dragged Jatin forcing him to run again.

“We have failed in our mission?” Jatin asked to reconfirm the truth from Nitya, his voice quaking.

Nitya kept quiet which was enough confirmation for Jatin to believe in his leader’s words. The two ran frantically barging into a friend’s house as he was prepared to receive them and give them much needed shelter.

General Hastings life had turned for the worse, his wife and only daughter being killed in the gruesome act, their bodies unidentifiable to any extent; the face of Nitya and Jatin was sculptured in his mind as a nationwide hunt commenced in order to trace them. Their sketches were drawn and pasted in the walls, lamp posts, and streets, published in newspapers, and just about every nook and corner possible. Nitya and Jatin had become the centre of discussion for whole of India as everyone from children to elderly spoke about their bravery, praising them endlessly for their heroic act. The Britishers in the mean time condemned the act, chasing the notion of capturing the killers alive by levying a huge sum of bounty on their heads.

Nitya and Jatin spent days inside their friend’s house unable to move or go out in fear of being captured for their incomplete mission. The guilt of killing the wrong people followed them as it reminded them their failure to execute their plan perfectly. Nitya could not bear the thought of being ruthlessly killed by the Brtish any longer, one night he committed suicide by taking poison which he had secretly held from the day he had set out to murder Hastings. Jatin was now left alone to survive; he cried endlessly repenting on the loss of his only support. He made up of his mind taking a decision, to move out of his friend’s house secretly and stealthily fleeing to Delhi. He met a friend of his named Khayyum in Delhi who was his schoolmate, he immediately agreed to protect him by giving him shelter in his house, fully aware of the crime Jatin was involved him. That day Khayyum organized a secret feast feeding his starved friend heartily, charismatically bonding with him. The next morning Jatin heard a loud noise on the door, he searched for Khayyum in the house so that he would open the door and let the outsider in, but the house was empty. Hesitatingly he opened the door to find two British sepoys standing in front of him to his utter shock and surprise. The realization of his friend’s betrayal for the huge sum of money struck him hard as he helplessly surrendered to the sepoys.

A case of murder was lodged against him, the news of Jatin being captured spread across the country as millions gathered fearing the end of his life.

“Hang him till death!!!” was the final verdict of the judge as he broke the nib of his pen announcing the expected judgment.

“Deport him to the Calcutta prison” the Judge ordered.

Jatin’s days were numbered as he waited lonely in his prison cell looking at the rays of the sun coming through the window, remembering the evening when he sat freely by the side of the river Ganges.

One day before he was to be hanged his mother came to pay a last visit to his brave son. Jatin was called to meet his mother, the rustling sound of the iron chains tied in his hand and feet made his mother weep from within as she composed herself to give required strength to her son in order to meet his destiny.

“Why are you crying?” Jatin’s mother said with a shaky voice as Jatin kept quiet.

“If you had to cry then why did you decide to perform such a brave act?” his mother said questioning his audacity and patriotism.

“Maa I am not crying out of remorse, these are tears of happiness. I have seen you after a long time. I am your brave son and pray to GOD so that I am reborn again and again and can sacrifice my life in freeing my motherland.” Jatin said with deep emotion and exhilaration.

“Keep this babu!” his mother said as she left feeling honored, a sense of pride made her smile thinking about the good fortune she possessed to have given birth to a freedom fighter like Jatin.

A huge crowd had gathered around the prison anticipating the body of their hero, to be brought out and being handed over to his family anytime soon.

"Bring the convict here." the jailer beamed preparing to hang yet another Indian insurgent who would supposedly die meekly at the hands of the powerful British.

Jatin asked the guard cheerfully, "Is everything ready?”

Jatin walked gallantly, selfless, pride of devoting his life for mother India poured in him, his eyes starring the hangman as he climbed the stairs of the small podium approaching the elliptical rope destined to hang him, which in all likeliness would serve as a garland, a mark of honor shown by the hangman, to the, to be martyr.

The jailer had noted down the time as he signaled the hangman to tie the black mask round his neck covering the face.

“Any last wish? You swine!” the jailer asked Jatin, the teen-aged boy reluctantly, more out of compulsion than intimacy.

Jatin took a long deep breath, as he uttered out a cry “Vande…. Maataram” his red eyes wide open, smelling the intricacies in the fresh air of his country one last time. The silt of the river Ganges presented to him by his mother the day before was held tightly in his closed palms as he opened them and smothered the rich soil all over his forehead paying tribute to his mother, praying to her to allow him to come back again and dedicate his life for winning the all elusive freedom for his nation.

“Bharat mata ki…” Jatin roared as the rest of the people gathered outside the prison expressed “Jai” in unison. This was more than enough to infuriate the British jailer.

“Hang him!!!” was his next order to the hangman as the hour hand of the clock ticked to five in the morning.

The lever was pulled immediately producing a cranking sound due to lack of animal fat applied to it as Jatin’s body plunged into the pit below, the rope strangulating and twisting his neck down causing his death. A mournful silence fell all around the prison hearing the grunted sound of the lever.

“Get his body out of there. Throw it outside. Bloody bugger!!!” the jailer remarked crudely.

“Sir, sir please come here quickly! You need to see it!!” the hangman exclaimed as he ripped off the mask from Jatin’s pale blue face.

“What is it? Damn it!!!” the jailer cursed himself unable to believe the sight beckoning him.

Jatin’s body lay dead, calm and motionless, bearing a bright smile even after his last breath. The brave warrior of freedom although had not attained his purpose, still made sure that at least his last breath, breathed in fear in the hearts of Britishers.

We do not need a day to salute our martyrs or celebrate our freedom. When you tuck in your bed tonight for a warm and safe sleep, remember there were thousands of Jatin’s who made your country a free nestle - just for you.

Destined by Adminis-traitors

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 17:12:00 +0530

“In the air and OUT!!! Caught superbly at deep third man, diving low to his right, plucking the ball inches off the ground. Another reckless shot and another wicket gifted away by the tail enders as Karnataka are nine down, they are snatching defeat from the jaws of victory here.” honked the commentator unable to keep his disappointment down.

“Karnataka still need three runs to claim the all elusive Ranji Trophy, where as the thirty eight time champions, Mumbai need just one wicket to put the trophy back in their shelves.” reminded the second commentator, excitement and drama buzzed in the air at the Gangothri glades, Mysore cricket stadium, as the final match was gearing up to a nail biting finish in the last over of the day. People witnessing the thrilling match from all possible vantage points, stood up, gasping patiently for Karnataka’s last recognized batsman and the only centurion of the innings Vaman Reddy to seal the match with a authoritative shot and bring home the coveted trophy of the most prestigious domestic cricket tournament.

“Right, so Vaman will be on strike, the youngster has played out of his skin for his century but this is his real test, he is the only hope for his state now.” the first commentator said in anticipation, trying to build up the cacophony in the rather dull atmosphere, the domestic matches are played in.

“Will he be able to cope with the pressure situation and guide Karnataka to a well deserved victory?” asked the second commentator, more to himself in excitement than the audience, watching the close encounter unfold dramatically.

Last two balls of the match left, the bowler was trudging back to his mark solitarily as the captain came anxiously running in from the slip cordon trying to give the bowler some undesirable suggestions, waving his hands animatedly in a bid to set the field proactively and precisely for Vaman’s next shot. Vaman surveyed the field with keen eyes, scanning each fielder’s position thereby creating a mirror image of it in his mind. Vaman took his stance as every fielder including the captain marked their individual positions and settled down. The composure in bowler’s face by then had turned into apprehension as he started charging to the mark in a jittery manner.

“How did that miss the edge!!!?” the second commentator said as the ball thudded into the wicketkeepers gloves.

“What the non-striker is trying to do there?” the first commentator screamed as he jumped out of his wobbly seat, seeing the non-striker setting off for an improbable single, but common sense prevailed as Vaman turned it down, taking the onus on himself to strike the remaining three runs of the last ball of the over.

“It was a length delivery which moved away just a fraction to beat Vaman’s brandishing bat.” clarified the second commentator, trying to bring some tranquility back to the situation.

“Last ball left and still three runs needed, can Vaman do it for his state? It’s now or never!!!” the first commentator said in a seething manner, in view of the tight, droopy situation the game had winded, to his liking.

Vaman on the far end was preparing himself mentally for the last hurrah, talking to himself, gazing at the bowler in resolve, in an effort to outthink the bowler, who, in much the same way, composed and readied himself at the other end, after an intense discussion with the captain, clearly showing dissent at the field changes the captain had decided for him, without giving much weight-age to his inputs.

“Played uppishly, that is it, Game over!!!” the first commentator shouted in exhilaration.

Vaman leaped in the air punching his fists in glory, prior to which he came dancing down the track converting a yorker to full toss, the bat coming straight down to meet the ball with perfect timing, scorching the grass and speeding away to the cover boundary for four delightful runs. His teammates, who until then were unsteadily perched on the pavilion, stormed, racing down into the ground in total chaos and jubilation, forcefully pushing Vaman off his feet onto the turf, smothering him all over, enchantingly hugging him in the moment of unsolicited joy and victory, hailing their new born hero, signaling the rise of the phoenix from the ashes.

“Mumbai have been beaten fair and square here by one man, they are bitterly dejected, shock expression on their faces says it all, I feel sorry for the bowler…” the second commentator lamented.

“This is Vaman’s fifth century in the Ranji season, one he would remember for a long time to come, voices of his inclusion in the national test squad for the upcoming India-Australia test series is eminently doing the rounds, time has come to give this young man a chance to showcase his talent in the international arena.” the first commentator said with authority.

“Vaman, maga, barri illi (son please come over here) !!!” a distinct, weighty South Indian accented voice made it’s way to Vaman’s ears, amidst all the euphoria, making him look back curiously in confirmation that the voice he heard was indeed that of the person he had notably met and admired earlier. He was startled to see the chairman of selectors, Mr. Chaitanya Swaminathan, standing in appreciation, in the aisle leading up to the players dressing room. With all humility and respect Vaman swiftly moved towards him, tucking his victorious bat in his left armpit, as the chief gave him a thumbs up on his super performance.

“Hege idhira (How are you), sir?” Vaman said, as he bent down to touch his feet, asking for his blessings to which Mr. Swaminathan duly obliged.

“I am fine. You played very well!!!” Mr. Swaminathan responded as he patted Vaman’s shoulder in appreciation.

“You have made my task tougher now for the forthcoming test series.” Mr. Swaminathan said, pacifying Vaman with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sir, I am happy that I have played well and made my team and state proud, the rest is on the administrators.” Vaman said, confidence and sense of excitement emanating from his voice.

“Ninu ondu bahumulya vajjra eh… (You are a priceless diamond), Go, Enjoy now!!! Hope for the best.” Mr. Swaminathan said with a smile and reassuring voice as he raised Vaman’s hopes for making it to the national team. The “vajjra” word uttered out with a typical south Indian tone, instantly striking a chord in him, which made the man of the match inhale a surplus quantity of air causing his chest to bulge out, feeling the pride and incalculable monetary associated with the word.

“Thumba danyavaadagalu (Thank you very much) sir, I will surely play harder and perform above your expectations.” Vaman said humbly and politely in an attempt to hide the pride and dazzle which had quietly illuminated in him.

“Nimmannu nodi santhoshavaythu (Nice to meet you.), sir.” Vaman said, soon they both departed in opposite directions after exchanging some more pleasantries.

It was a day to celebrate for Vaman, with his friends and teammates, more so, after having received accolades from his near and dear ones and a well deserved appreciation from the chief selector on his performance. It rocketed his confidence sky high as he was feeling on top of the world. At the same time, amidst all the victory chants, he vowed from within to play harder, much more than what he had done so far and bring glory to his nation.

A car screeched to a halt the next day near the cricket headquarters in Mumbai in between all the media glare, Mr. Swaminathan stepped out graciously to accompany the rest of the selectors to pick the Indian squad for the upcoming India-Australia test series. The selection panel usually comprises of five representatives from, east, west, north, central and south zones, an embodiment of democracy from outside but satanically biased from inside. The rest of the selectors had already marked their presence, having a gala time, mocking the chief selector’s south centric antics, passing cheeky jokes on his tongue twisting bits and pieces hindi phrases, which usually took time to decipher given the staunch South Indian twist associated at the end of it. Mr. Swaminathan’s hindi speaking skills was of much amusement as it provided great entertainment to the rest of the people who interacted with him, outside his and neighboring South Indian states.

“Namskaram, gentlemen. Great to see you guys again.” Mr Swaminathan said, a mournful silence descended in the room, as he walked in and across the conference room diagonally, greeting his esteemed, diverse panel, shaking hands with them on the way through, to occupy the head chair, with his panel seated unequally on his left and right sides.

“An important series coming up eh…! I feel like a superstar of South today!!!” Mr. Swaminathan said, making a trademark Rajnikanth gesture, by creating a V shape with his right index and middle fingers, stylishly fitting his pen in between them by taking it out of his chest pocket and tossing it in the air, causing the pen to somersault. He got hold of the pen again, jamming it within the same fingers as it descended down, releasing the cap this time in the air, to make it land perfectly on the back of the pen, an act, he had perfected over time. He laughed erratically on his own antics as the other members were bemused, looking at each other with annoying faces, contemplating as to what reaction they should follow up to the south super star’s antics.

“Bhalo… errr… Good… Good…” the east zone selector said meekly, concealing his disgust, correcting himself in a hurry for speaking out his customary mother tongue, kind of extraterrestrial word to the chief’s hairy ears, trying to learn which, would have caused him to sink in a black hole and vice versa for others, who ran the risk of rupturing their taste buds in an effort to by heart the South Indian languages and it’s manicured pronunciations.

“I am going to read out the probable names, then I am sure we can discuss on them.” the chairman said with authority, reading out the fifteen names in one go without letting anyone to interfere in between. The selectors fell quiet after listening to the names from the chief’s mouth; the room was submerged in an uneasy silence like the lull prevailing before the unknown storm, as everyone had a serious look of disagreement and dissatisfaction on their faces.

“Mr. Chaitanya, pehle dus to thik hai, lekin ye baki paanch kaun hai… uh? How are they? (The first ten are fine, but who are the rest five?)” the selector from central zone said in his scrappy english, conveying his resentment over the de facto selection of the last five names.

“They play no in IPL, inko kabhi dekha nahi to kaise khilayenge, How play them? (They never played in IPL and we have never seen them playing then how can we play them?)” the central zone selector said, opposing and coaxing others into the argument by thrusting his biased views on the table.

“When I had asked all of you to come and see the Ranji matches, phir aap garaj se kaise nahi aaye? (why you guys did not even bother to show up? Illa (No), this is not going to work. I have included players on performance be it whichever state or zone.” Mr. Swaminathan said in defiance in his south toned hindi, causing a murmur among the rest of the selectors.

“Usko bolo ki kaam ho jayega, baar baar phone na kare, main abhi gilli danda ke meeting mein aaya hoon, baad mein call karo. (Tell him that his work will be done, ask him to call later, I am in a meeting now.)” the president of the association entered the room as he hang up the call on his cell phone. The murmurs had gone away as all eyes were locked on the president’s autocratic conversation.

“Anna, mere khiladi ka kya hua? (What happened to my player?)” the president said in an intimidating tone.

“Sir, we are discussing the list here, selection of players will be based only on performance.” Mr. Swaminathan said, as he tried to oppose the president.

“Thik hai, dekhenge. (Sure, we will see later)” the president said, turning to the rest of the selectors for further enquiry on selection.

“Sir, inhone hamare zone ke players liye hi nahi is series mein! (He did not include players from our zone for this series!)” the selector from north zone said.

“Swaminathan ji this is absurd, we have to follow the quota understanding we have set amongst ourselves! How can you do this?” the president said, shedding off his hindi, in seriousness of the matter, shouting at Mr. Swaminathan on top of his voice now.

“Mr. President, maine sabse zyada matches dekhe hain, aur jo logone perform kiye hai unko hi liya hai, Yeh koi mamuli series nahin he, ki kissi ko bhi select kar le! (I have seen most of the matches and those who have performed have been included regardless of quota. This is not a minor series that we can select whosoever we want!)” Mr Swaminathan said in revolt.

“Eta chol be na… ye hum hone nahi denga, yaarki hoche naki… chagal nahi hai hum!!! (This ain’t going to work, don’t fool around, we are not silent goats!!!)” the east selector spat out viciously, degrading himself yet again in true Bengal style by his choice of obscene words.

“Mr. Swami, we cannot select players this way, we have taken some responsibility and we need to fulfill it.” the President said, as he and the west selector stressed on the “responsibility” and “fulfill” words in unison.

“So you want to select your players, go ahead and select them, gampa (leader of fools)” Mr. Swaminathan said in disgust as he tore the paper and hurled the pieces in the President’s direction.

“I resign from this post. Go select your gully cricketers!” Mr. Swaminathan roared as he banged his fists on the table in frustration and walked out of the room belligerently.

The same day the selected players list was out, the media on receiving it first hand, hovered around the office premises, getting hold of the outgoing chairman in the process, probing him, posing uncomfortable questions over the non-selection of deserving players.

“Sir, What about Samay? Why was he not selected?” one reported asked.

“Why didn’t you select Vaman? Please give a justification sir” the other reporter pleaded.

“No comments. Please. It is the best possible squad we could have selected.” Mr. Swaminathan said firmly, wading his way through the sea of cameras and reporters, disguising his emotions in public as he jumped into the back seat of his car and directed his driver to speed away to the airport.

“Vaman have your food, son” Vaman’s mother yelled, as he was glued to the television, surfing the news channels, keenly anticipating his selection in the national squad for the future test series.

“Just a minute, Amma!!! they are about to show the names on TV.” Vaman shouted back as one of the news channel started displaying the list of selected players, wildly contemplating on their inclusion amongst their expert panel of ex-cricketers.

“One… two… three…….” Vaman began verifying in a suppressed tone, as his eyes lit up examining the crucial list, expecting his name to feature at the end of it.

“This is impossible. It cannot be true.” Vaman said in a hushed tone, a quiver in his voice now.

He scanned the names again, rapidly as the channel, at their presenter’s behest, would make it vanish anytime soon, but his name was nowhere to figure in the prejudiced list. His heart now beating uncontrollably faster, he picked up the TV remote with his shuddery fingers and changed to another channel, believing that the previous one may not be showing the correct list or might have simply neglected to mention his, not so famed name, in a hurry, unintentionally. He came close to the screen this time, repeating the names in his mind, with his index finger touching the monitor, as soon as his shaky fingers reached the bottom of the list, his heart sank into coldness as a paralytic chill went down his spine. The fact that he was not selected to represent India despite performing consistently well dawned on him. He felt heavy from within like a labor burdened with sack of grains; his face went pale, his hands and feet cold as a sense of numbness and panic strangled him from all sides, making him ponder about his future playing the game he so dearly loved and embraced, in lieu of earning his livelihood. The world around him suddenly fell apart, everything looked strange and demeaning. All the euphoric emotions, chants of heroism, success, victory, he had experienced merely a day before seemed a distant memory.

The deafening ring of the telephone jarred Vaman out of his precarious thoughts. He steadied himself for a second and calmly moved towards the phone, to receive the unknown call. He picked up the receiver and said “hello” in a cracked, grief stricken voice.

“Hello” was the response from the other end in a subtle tone.

“Mr. Swaminathan!” Vaman exclaimed in joy which immediately turned into anger and hatred as he instantly recognized the man’s voice, whom he believed was responsible for his present misfortunes. Vaman’s mind was inundated with questions desperately wanting to interrogate and seek answers from the man he so dearly relied upon, on the basis of his valuable and consistent performances in the domestic circuit.

As he was about to enquire Mr. Swaminathan on the selection horror, he heard a weeping voice from the other end.

“Where is this moaning coming from?” he asked in his mind curiously.

He held the receiver tightly in his hand gluing it as close to his ears as possible. On analyzing and ratifying that the voice was indeed that of Mr. Swaminathan, a sense of warm heartedness engrossed him, deriving an unconditional apology from within, for no fault of his, instructing his mind to shed off all negative selection thoughts and try and rectify the situation at hand.

“Vaman, please forgive me my son!” Mr. Swaminathan said, as he broke out in tears recollecting his inability, under extreme pressure from regionally biased administrators, to select talented, performing players in spite of being an esteemed national chief selector.

“I could not keep my promise…” Mr. Swaminathan said, clipping his sentence in between as he choked inconsolably figuring out an explanation for his incapability and incompetency to fulfill his commitments.

“It is fine sir, I understand your position…” Vaman said assertively, shunting the plethora of questions, his mind was occupied with.

The long uninterrupted beep of the dial tone signified the end of the remorseful conversation as Vaman with a heavy heart tried comforting Mr. Swaminathan in pretence.

“I am not hungry, amma” Vaman said angrily as he proceeded towards his room and banged the door shut. In a fit of rage, despair and animosity he scraped, tore all the cricket related posters, collections, certificates… adoring his room walls, tables and showcases until then.

The night was pitch dark, resembling the darkness in which Vaman’s life had plunged into, he lay lifelessly on his bed with his eyes closed, remembering his enthusiastic and promising cricket career, so far, right from his childhood days. The knocks that he played, the bat that he raised every time, he reached a landmark, his friends and their light hearted banters on and off the field, his favorite gloves, the jubilation, when he was selected for the Karnataka Ranji team and above all, the endless sacrifices made by his family, supporting and nurturing him, so as to enable their son to receive world class training in an effort to develop him as a great renowned cricketer, they so desperately hoped and needed to end their woes. All this and much more in vain, a tear rolled down from the corner of his right eye, as Vaman resolutely drew an end to the future famed international cricketer, he always envisioned him with. A sad abrupt end to a long promising career, cut short by regional bias, resulting in the death of the sportsman in him.

A Tribute To Water

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 22:31:00 +0530

Imagine the External Affairs minister of India Mr. S.M Krishna paying an official visit to the U.S Secretary of State Hillary.R.Clinton in America, which they frequently do, in a conscious joint effort to build and strengthen relationships between India and America on humanitarian grounds of much publicized Indo-US strategic dialogue. On his arrival to the United States, Mr. Krishna is greeted with a two litre bottle of water presented by Mrs. Clinton which the Indian minister accepts with awe, and the other Indian subordinates being presented with just a litre by the respective subordinates of U.S Secretary of state which they accept gleefully but at the same time frown expressionlessly from within on sighting their minister being presented by a higher volume. Bear in mind, the bottles of water presented to the Indian dignitaries is pure, hygienic as per the standards and thoroughly drinkable to the last drop, but the irony of it all is that it is not meant to be drunk; rather it is presumed to be preserved as a memento, a national treasure, meant to be showcased in the Foreign ministry office premises.

Another such show of mutual understanding, which instantly captures my imagination, celebrated blissfully by us Indians with much fan fare and pomp is the marriage ceremonies. Nuptial ceremonies to my liking are an exasperating show of wealth and treasure, more than a middle class family seems to possess. So imagine in such a ceremony, the bride’s family gifting away barrels of water or the bridegroom’s family demanding dowry (a shameful defiant act in Indian society) as barrels of water for a certain number of years in order to quench their extensive needs and sense of dryness, failing which the marriage would be terminated. Visualize, instead of tons of gold jewelry, specially designed miniature water packet necklaces and bangles being used to adorn the bride in order to enhance her beauty and after marriage people distressfully gifting the bride and bridegroom items made out of water packets in the reception ceremony. You may believe that the above events are an exaggerated, unrealistic, out of bounds and far stretched imagination, good for gut aching humor, but not possible in the wildest of dreams. Well, let me caution you; give it a second thought…

A day will surely come when water will be treated with utmost gratitude and respect, like the sole precious and priceless commodity on earth, i.e. if we do not mend our ways or intention and respect it’s unchallenged and irreplaceable existence. Water for most of us is a common, daily usable commodity, one which we cannot, by any means, part away with, but it’s sheer presence has come under scrutiny as scientists round the world have started examining and debating on the facts of it’s sources diminishing by the day. Prima facie of the problem is lack of awareness and responsibility among the people who believe wasting water generously is a fundamental right, which no one can deny them. Going by the statistics globally established and circulated with mutual consent by the scientists worldwide, ninety-seven percent of the water resources present in our life sustaining planet is salt water, two percent is glacier ice and the rest one percent is fresh water that we can actually use for our daily needs. Just one percent? We already have a shortage enforced by nature, and our more than sufficient expendable usage (in addition to the ever meteorically rising population) is threatening it’s default scarce presence.

People can live several weeks without food, but can barely survive few days without water. Let’s try and visualize what the conditions will be like if not a drop of water is left on the earth’s reliable sources to drink. First and foremost the water cycle, which we all have or probably should have studied in our first or second standard sciences, will be ceased. So what if it ceases? You may question competently… Well if it ceases then there will be no vapors, no vapors mean no cloud formations, no clouds mean no rain and no rain means the end of the story as simple as that, No rain!!! What looks, our gorgeous planet will boast off, if there is no rain? Blatantly speaking earth will then probably be a mirror image of the moon or mars, dry, desolate and devoid of any living form, summarizing in brief, it will bring an abrupt end to the human race…Water scarcity is a major problem not only in India but also around the world where ground water levels are depleting at an alarming rate. Taking water for granted is no more a whimsical notion which we can afford. We need to act now or else our future generations will start facing the brunt of it’s limitations.

Water pollution is another notable menace leading to the dearth of fresh water sources. In Delhi and it’s surrounding areas the Yamuna river has almost been reduced to a mere sewage drain due to the constant dumping of industrial wastes and harmful chemicals in it’s banks. Overlooking from the Agra fort, the river which was once an inspiration for every poet, with the enchanting Taj Mahal in it’s backdrop, the reflection of which, in the river’s steady, calm waters in a moonlit night, sent chills down the spine of every person admiring the magnificent sight, is now meandering in a pitiable state, best described as a sewage stream carrying human wastes and hazardous chemicals induced by the industries built around it. Is this the way to treat our rivers, which has always blessed us and satisfied our ever increasing needs, unconditionally? Great civilizations have nestled on the banks of these significantly nourishing water sources and also been wiped out due to the deficiency or drying out of such sources. The day is not far when the complete human race will be eradicated from the face of the earth if we do not start heeding Mother Nature’s ceaseless warnings and it’s quiet sobbing in pain which it suffers at the hands of selfish and unmindful humans.

The water woes are same if not worse and increasing by the day, in Mumbai and it’s suburbs, as the case is in Delhi, where people are suffering in an identical way. No water for two to four days at a stretch brings life to a complete standstill. The other day I came across a story by chance in one of the newspapers about a water thief in Mumbai. The water thief, most pleasantly surprising for me was a lady who used to steal water from the tankers, which normally supplies water to the societies demanded by. So this lady had a pact with the driver of the truck i.e. by mutual treaty of some kind they had agreed upon that the driver would stop the truck at a distance outside the society, away from the ever intoxicated and sleepy surveying eyes of the society watchman. The lady on seeing the truck from a hideout, like a soldier waiting to attack on the enemy, would come charging in with her empty vessels and barrels and fill as much water as she could. She was not the only one though, committed in the sinful act, which was more out of anguish than desire, there were others as well, but she got highlighted as she was perceived by the general public as the master of all the thieves, the commander in chief. The truck after appeasing all the female thieves would then make it’s way inside the society premises to dump the left over water. Slowly but steadily as days passed, the time for which the water, used to be available for the people living in the society reduced at an exponential rate. People started questioning the watchman and the chairman of the society for receiving such low volume of water in spite of paying the proper taxes in time. One day someone from the society decided voluntarily to keep a watch on the truck, following it like a detective by maintaining an unrecognizable distance, soon found out the exact cause of the Mission he had set out to accomplish, i.e. “Mission Missing Water”. The lady thief and all her disciples were caught red handed and bashed up by the women of the society, parading her through the streets with her face bleached in black. Eventually the procession was brought to a halt, much to everyone’s dislike, when the police arrived at the spot and took the lady under their custody.

The above story just serves us a reminder about the many small wars being fought in an around us for the divine liquid we so desperately crave for and without which our life would be totally in disarray. Small wars such as these accumulate with time and take shape of a major war which globalizes and outbreaks into a world war. A world war scenario, which will be the last nail in the coffin for us, beleaguered by the water woes, is building up steadily like an active volcano ready to erupt at any moment, all because of the inadequacy of one simple but life saving resource known as WATER!!!

The Ganges is considered to be the most sacred river of all in India, but even she has not been spared by the torments we humans have unfortunately bestowed on her. The bulky river is slowly dying in fragments and will be long gone if we keep polluting it the same way we did to the Yamuna. Image of the people standing in the bed of the Ganges with water up to their waist, praying and paying tribute to the Lords (according to Hindu mythology the Ganges originates from Lord Shiva’s elongated hair locks) by releasing the holy water from their folded hands, will be soon be a distant memory and fittingly replaced by the fact, i.e. people standing in it’s dry bed and releasing the ashes of our dear dead ones from their same folded hands, in a bid to pray with numb and tearful eyes and ask pardon to the Lords for the sinful act of not treating water with the due respect it deserved, pleading in disbelief for returning their life line back to them, which will be too late and very much a myth to depend on, in an effort to bring back our thirst quenching fluid. HOPING FOR DIVINE INTERVENTION IS LIKE DIGGING A WELL AND TRYING TO FIND WATER ON THE MOON, WE NEED TO ACT NOW!!!

Raag Malhar – A Farmer’s Plight

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Tue, 8 Jun 2010 21:00:00 +0530

Recently I was bounded by formality more than anything else, to pay a visit to my in laws (not that I am henpecked by them) who reside in the quaint little town of Bhusawal in Maharashtra and keeping in mind that the summer season is at it’s peak, I made all possible efforts to keep my visit as distinctly short as possible but it turned out to be an unexpected, hapless but enlightened expedition. I boarded the train around 11PM in the night and soon fell asleep after getting a sense of my surroundings which was the same sleepy self. I was shaken up at 8AM in the morning with all the noise of the hawkers and Gujrati accents bellowing from the bottom. Soon I peeped down eagerly to find what all the fuss is about? All I could see was packets of Khakras (Gujrati snack) spread all over the seats, with a flock of unknown people munching away at them producing a distinct and unbearable noise over a cup of tea, the sipping noise of which further unharmonized the already disturbing atmosphere. “This is noise pollution” I revolted from within “there should be a law on eating decibel limits as well” I thought.

Reluctantly I came down and managed to procure a seat in between all the breakfast hoopla. I tried to divert my attention from the entire disturbance by gazing outside the window as the train was cutting across fields and farms of the country side. For the next one hour I kept on gazing the country side, farmers toiling in the fields with their bullocks, cows grazing, kids and grown up men dumping their daily morning waste in the wide open spaces, no man’s land I suppose. Finally my destination arrived and I was more than obliged to get off and part ways from the noisy atmosphere, but little did I sense what unprecedented events were in store for my encounter with an invisible supernatural element. The moment I stepped out from the air conditioning comfort of my train compartment at 9AM in the morning I was engulfed by a heat wave which had the aura of charring me from head to toe. As I was reeling to come to terms with the heat wave shock, instantly a sudden realization of an unavoidable magnitude struck me with a force, effective enough to paralyze and deport me straight to the ICU ward of a hospital. The rays of the SUN, diverging from it’s volcanic source like lasers laden with RDX. As I was stepping out of the railway shed into the well exposed sun rays, I told myself meekly surrendering to nature’s fury “I am done, trapped now for good. Oh God!!! Where am I? Is this what hell actually looks like? I wish I had a boon to skip from one place to another or order the sun, it’s enough for the day please switch off your rays and go back to the place where you set.”

The searing heat and unimaginable barren and desolate look of things in my vicinity made me sweat profusely. I started hallucinating myself dumped on a large pot filled with water, the demon from hell stirring it with all his might and garnishing it with all sorts of spices and vegetables, anxiously looking at me to get the first possible taste of the delicacy beckoning him. I tried to console myself by remembering the known fact “All right, these parts of the state are bound to be hot, but why for God’s sake did I come here knowing this undesirable fact? Fairly enough, I heard my wife’s nagging voice (not sure if I will be allowed an entry in the house if my wife reads this) echoing from within, constantly urging me to come and meet my dear in-laws as I had not seen them for a while. My next thought was a weird one to say the least, I made a valiant effort to humm the raag malhar (absolutely unaware of it’s tune or rhyme though) pledging the heavens to open up, lashing down the unexpected spate of torrential rains drenching me from top to bottom, but it was off no avail (worth a try if nothing else works). I shook off the dreaded feelings and the fantasies conquering me from all around and finally decided to proceed forward, come what may. On my way, pondering over the intense heat building up as the day was unfolding, the image of the farmer ploughing his field which I had noticed from the comfort of my train compartment flashed in my inner self, which gave me the inspiration to inscribe this blog.

Agriculture and farming has been the backbone of our country ever since people started inhabiting this beautiful land.The recent plight of the farmers has been a matter of intense speculation and concern as the ever growing incidents of farmer suicides have been brought to notice of the government and the people at large. The government has vehemently denied the allegations of non-cooperation with the farmers which is believed to be the reason behind such unprecedented deaths, but the forecast of freezing of such incidents in the near future still seems to be in the gloom. In the next few moments I will try and unfold the fact as to why this epidemic is spreading and what are the circumstances which force them to commit such a ghastly act? It’s time for some introspection…

In lonely country side miles away from any urban area, in a straw thatched mud cottage a small, frail, dark complexioned and shabbily dressed farmer lives with his wife and two children. The younger one is his son aged 18 and the elder one is the daughter aged 25, who is due to get married. A bullock which for the farmer is the most precious possession, is chewing away nonchalantly at the hay, stacked in front of him, tied with a rope, much to his disliking, outside the house with the merciless sun beating down. More out of love and care than anything else, the animal who is the sole breadwinner and an integral part of his income, is treated like his third child and the farmer always keeps him well fed, even if his family is starved off one meal a day. His son has been denied education, (the daughter’s education is not a cause of concern as it is never taken seriously) one which he can ill afford. Poverty and hunger is written all over his grief stricken and wrinkled face. His wife and children have to manage with a few ragged clothes; he has no money left, to buy even the simplest of dresses for his family. His wife, who is very dear to him, does all the work at home and also helps him in the field. She gathers all the cow dung, flattens and dries them in the sun and uses the dried cow dung pancakes as fuel which quenches the famine in the family, i.e. if they manage to gather some raw materials for cooking. In the hindsight the thought of his daughter getting older is much of a burden and headache, for him to bear, amidst all the problems he faces every day. Finally out of pressure and haunted thoughts of his daughter not getting a suitable bridegroom, he decides to marry off his daughter by taking an impregnable loan from a village tout, assuring the tout of his only land as a security.

With great enthusiasm and much fan fare he marries off his daughter, a burden which he is more than happy to get rid of. Relatives and all his well wishers attend the marriage to congratulate him in this joyous moment, but no one manages to feel the pain and sorrows of this poor man, which lies beneath the superficial smiling face. He is numbed by the fact that he has to see off one of his family member’s, more out of compulsion and a nagging society rather than an opposing belief from his inner conscience. After getting over the pain of parting from his daughter, he trudged out of his shanty shed in order to resume preparations for the upcoming sowing season. On stepping out, looking at the vast open spaces with sparse vegetation lying barren in front of him, he is harshly reminded of the previous season which did not yield adequate crops as a result of scanty rainfall. Recollecting the painful debt he owes to the village tout, he has to start this sowing season in the hope of yielding good crops but lack of sufficient funds, again puts him in a fix. Seldom does he possess ornaments or precious jewels which he can trade off and purchase the necessary seeds or agricultural equipments. Above all the burden of feeding his family is wearing down on him (the daughter’s marriage loan to add to his never ending problems) eventually forces him to seek the government’s help. The next day he reaches the government’s agricultural help center and applies for a loan which is repayable in a way, if the season yields excellent crops. In the hope of a good season he takes this big decision and soon his loan gets approved which enables him to buy good seeds at the start of the sowing season. He and his bullock set out every day to plough the field, with his wife and son accompanying him to give him the required support. The scorching heat and intense pain of the work load takes it’s toll on his body day in and day out, with his bullock huffing and puffing, panting continuously in order to come to terms with the work, heat and the whips lashed intermittently by his master. As time goes by, he buys the necessary good quality seeds and sows them in his land which he has been nurturing all summer. All he can do now is wait for the rains to arrive, and be in the trance of it, lashing down with full force which will give his seeds the right environment to emerge and grow into the final product he so desperately needs. As the rainy season dawns in, the farmer looks at his fields and then the clouds above, in anticipation of the much expected rains, but all he observes to his dismay, is the sun playing hide and seek with the grim clouds, which all, but looks threatening to shower.

The rainy season came and went by; all but flattered to deceive, it further deepened the sorrows of the raggedly dressed man. He is now out of money and food stock to feed his family and cattle. The thought of “How his debt is going to repaid?” haunts him in his dreams. One gloomy day the water laden clouds ominously gathered overhead in an effort to salvage some lost pride, and overnight it rained like hell compensating for it’s deficiency in the rainy season. The whole area was submerged by torrential rains and gale, his mud house damaged to a an irreparable extent, water dripping from every nook and corner from the roof of his house, the whole night he could not dare to close his eyes as he kept worriedly thinking what the next day had in store for him? Gazing at the feeble lamp burning with great efforts in one corner of his house, eventually it dozed off unable to sustain the constant gale and dripping water droplets from the roof. The next day he came out hoping for some miracle from the almighty but all that he and his family could see was the devastating affect that Mother Nature had bestowed on them. Their field flooded with water, leading them to believe that all their hard work had gone in vain, out of remorse they resigned to the fact that all their crops have been ruined and there was nothing left to be salvaged. He sobbed from within; tears rolling down his cheeks, like a child left unattended by his mother, soaking in the reality about the untimely calamity and the huge debt from all sides starring at him with disdain. He thumped his head with his hand, unable to bear the sight of the great loss which beckoned him, as he unconsciously sat down with a thud on the ground, with his wife and son trying to console him; unaware of the next grief, knocking round the corner which was about to engulf him, he started sucking in air and gathering all the determination and courage he had left in him trying to come to terms with the horrific situation. Just then, momentarily the thought of his beloved child crossed his mind, he immediately sprang up to his feet, looked around in panic stricken mode trying to search his only meaningful possession that was possibly left. He screamed on top of his voice, with all his might, running frantically from pole to post in a desire to coax his child to return back home, but it proved to be futile; the child was deserted forcefully by Mother Nature. His possession lost, his determination betrayed and shaken, the place where his child used to rest calmly outside, now lying empty, in it’s place hollow straws circling around in a frenzy in the soft breeze symbolic of the hollowness his life had plunged into. In just a few moments his life was in topsy-turvy, jinxed to the extreme as he had lost his priceless shadow of his self which used to accompany him to the field every day. He was inconsolable and grief stricken to the point of no return. Weird thoughts crossed his mind, surrendering himself to the painful situation; in a fit of rage and fury, without any hesitation whatsoever, he made up his mind and heart reluctantly, for the inevitable and gruesome act.

After all he we went through the day, his hopes shattered and the debts haunting him in his mind, like a cheetah in pursue of it’s prey, preparing himself astutely to take the last big leap of drawing an end to the sadness and grievances his life was surrounded with. Consciously resigning to the sorrows and unrelenting pains he made up his mind without heeding his heart’s voice that it was time to bid the last goodbye to his wife and only son he had. The following night he made it a point to forget about his pains and sorrows momentarily, one last time, chatting with his wife and son, joking with them animatedly as he had never done before, as they were enjoying a quiet meal together, his family unaware of the unrecoverable loss that would follow day after. After the meal he made sure that his wife and son fell well asleep, on getting an assurance that his family had slipped into sub-consciousness, an hour after midnight, he decided to execute the suicide plan by drinking poison, the moment, for which he had patiently planned all day. Closing his eyes one last time with tears pouring out of them continuously, his entire life started flashing back, flooding his mind with the innumerable thoughts, remembering his mother and cursing the sorrows inflicted on him by GOD, in the final moments of his life, in between all this he picked up the bottle of poison and brought it closer to his lips. Just when he was about to gulp the bitter liquid down his throat, he was jolted out of his thoughts and horrendous action by a large thud on the door, as if someone was trying to break in forcefully. The noise was loud enough to wake up his family. Not knowing what awaited him on the other side of the door; he curiously walked towards it, cleaning his eyes in the process so that no one notices his tears and quietly disguising the coward act he was about to perform. On opening the door with bated breath, he was awestruck to see what a miracle GOD had in store for him. His child and shadow, the bullock, had returned!!! He could not believe his eyes at the unbelievable sight, the thought of which never crossed his mind, his happiness had no bounds as he cajoled and kissed his child all over by laying his arms round his neck. He fed him gleefully, sitting beside him trying to sink into whatever little happiness he had witnessed after a long period of time. He had found a new vigour and enthusiasm to lead his life, GOD at last had done a favour by returning his child to him. He was ecstatic; his life now had a new endeavour.

With this happiness and rebirth, in a unique way, he decided to abort his suicide plans. Therefore the next day with all excitement and vigour he went to his field with his bullock, thinking to clear all the mess and work much harder so that he can feed his family and repay all the outstanding debts. Approaching his field from a distance he was not able to mark the area where his field actually was. On looking closely, narrowing his eyes in an effort to mark his land, a sense of intense excitement energized him which made him run with all his stamina, there-by releasing the rope of his bullock from his hand, who looking at his master also started charging with the same enthusiasm and hope. He had finally identified his field, he was transfixed by it, stopping near it’s boundary unable to make sense or draw any conclusion on viewing the unrealistic yet fascinating sight it posed. He had no words to express his feelings; he froze, rendering himself motionless, as if it were an enchanting dream. His child, the bullock was shaking it’s head frantically, trying to convey the same emotions to his master in acknowledgement. What lay in front of him was his crops bearing the fruits of his labour that he had so long expected, he ran across his field taking stock of the situation, his child following him the same way. The farmer danced around in his field feeling the softness of his labour like a small child gifted with a toy car. The soft breeze gently caressing the leaves of the plants, infusing much needed life in it’s branches, making them sway from one direction to the other. Finally he was exhausted as he fell down on the ground, his eyes looking up to the light blue sky thanking GOD endlessly for the miracle he never expected to witness. Life suddenly and unexpectedly turned for the better, his heart felt light, like a free spirit in a joyous trance of it’s own, devoid of all sorrows and negative thoughts. The burdens released miraculously, the inhibitions dumped to the bottoms of the ocean. At last he the joy and pleasure echoed in his heart, “I am bereft of all my sorrows and pains. I am now free... free... free...! Oh GOD thank-you for giving me this miraculous day, I will be ever indebted to you for the blessings you have showered on me!!!” closing his eyes to savour the moment of glory. He felt like a butterfly wanting to dance and skip from one place to another with all the colours he could possibly imagine. This was the beginning of the end of his sorrows he was long deprived of.

I love happy endings to most of the stories I read or write but not all farmers and their lives have such a rosy story to tell, some end their lives mercilessly leaving their families in a state of despair, who then are unable to recover from the trauma and pain of losing their only breadwinner. It is these homeless families who then face the brunt of exploitation from the wolves and hyenas waiting to pounce on them at every given opportunity by taking undue advantage of their weak links.

I gleefully compiled this story, only in an effort to remind and demonstrate everyone from all walks of life that a miracle is not far away if we have patience and inner virtues. Faith and dedication towards our work will definitely bear the fruits. No matter what the outcome is, never take a coward step which puts the lives of all the people, dependent on you, in jeopardy. Death is inevitable, but fast forwarding it to our liking, is not a solution we should aim for. Educating the society and especially the minors is a pivotal goal, one which will help us to move forward with courage and determination. Thank-you all for showing the required endurance and reading out the entire melodrama which I hope unfolded dramatically. Praying soulfully to GOD for the incessant rains this season on which our farmers thrive on, thereby expecting an enlightened future for the nation’s poor but most deservedly honorable man…. Thank-you again, for taking out your precious time and reading this story. Bye for now.

"The farmer is the only man in our economy who buys everything at retail, sells everything at wholesale, and pays the freight both ways." - John F. Kennedy

Voting a Dilemma?

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Tue, 8 Jun 2010 20:53:00 +0530

Another somber day passed by, another Maoist attack, another painful train tragedy, another high level enquiry, another assurance of compensation with an employment guarantee for the kin’s of the deceased (new promotion offer added in the vote package) and the bickering in the Indian political circles continues… Sometimes in life tragic and unexpected events happen so much so in a flash that it diminishes the very fundamentalist approach with which we lead our life day in and day out. As good things come in small packages, bad things too come in mega packages and we sink into depression even before the realization of it hits us. Nevertheless life moves on with time and so do our pains and sorrows and who knows what the next day has to offer. If you are wondering what is this philosophical drama all about? It is about the train derailment tragedy, executed audaciously by the Maoists in Jhargram in which many lives were lost and more than that, many families driven to the depth of sorrows and despair. This brings in mind one of Christ’s quotes “Forgive them for they know not what they do”, but for how long will I be able to peach this reluctant saying, God knows….

In spite of all this we need to move forward and try and restore peace and harmony amidst the volatile and disoriented atmosphere.

The only right that we the people of India reserve according to the Indian constitution is the right to VOTE. Yes Vote, but whom? Corrupt leaders? Leaders with criminal backgrounds? Or Leaders who play petty vote bank politics in the name of development and education? For the record let us get it straight, in the last general elections and probably in the last two decades we did not have a single educated leader who was eligible to get elected with exception to our present honorable Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh and Mr. Rajiv Gandhi to some extent.

Getting the facts straight, out of 1.1 billion population in India 714 million people are registered to vote, which is roughly 65 percent of the population, fair enough isn’t it? I would say yes, considering the fact that out of the 65 percent only 45 – 50 percent vote on an average and to add to it out of the 45 -50 percent who actually vote 25 to 30 percent on an average are the field workers (better known as supporters) of the 300 plus political parties which the election commission has registered and given the rights to fight an election (absolutely democratic to the extreme). So to sum it up all in the viewer’s perspective, only 20 percent of the common man out the staggering 1.1 billion population vote? Keeping in view the mathematics of it all now you would say, “Hang on, that is actually not enough, we need more people more of the aam admi (common man) to register and stack up the numbers in the vote fest”. That is exactly what our Gujarat CM Narendra Modi is vying for, by making voting mandatory for each and every person who is above 18 years of age in the state.

Before making the rest of the population who are above 18 years of age, liable to vote, let us ponder over the fact, why does the 15 out of the 65 percent who are registered and liable to vote do not exercise the franchise which is at their disposal? When election time dawns in, you are asked by all political parties and their rallies (featuring all the stars who descend down or ascend up from hell), new channels and every possible medium of communication pledging and begging in all possible forms to vote, vote and vote (as if there is no other work but to dwell, eat, sleep and drink only vote). When the Election Day arrives before going to the polling booth you would set up your mind or possibly be allowed to pre-program yourself by any political party, on which political leader of the deemed parties you would vote for. Here comes the irony of it all, how many of us keep track of the local leader of any political party for whom we would like to caste our precious vote for? Not many or rarely isn’t it, we always see the icon of the party and vote, and invariably fail to get the larger picture. What is the need to track such local leaders whom we see once in a full moon? Rhetorical in it’s true sense. What is the criterion that we should search for in any leader in order to vote for him or her? They should be well educated, well mannered, we should try and foresee that they will be able to bring in some subtle changes (if not wholesome) to our constituency and above all should look smart and be our generation kind of leader, but what we get instead of the near perfect virtues, is a political goon who believes, to be a leader is his sole birthright and can stand in an election even if they are locked up in a prison with all the luxury at their footsteps.

The political parties who bring such goons into the fray drastically diminish their chances of getting elected and in turn demoralize the general public to vote. So asking the question formally, do you think increasing the voter registrations will affect the voter turnout in anyway? No, educated, professional and economically capable India will not vote until such leaders are projected which will only continue to make a mockery of the elections symbolizing democracy. If a leader cannot develop and shine their own constituency, do you believe they will be able to develop India in any better way? These questions keep haunting us whenever elections knock at our doorsteps and we as a mute spectator observe the same sequence of events unfold precisely again and again. Why do we ignore independent candidates? Madhu Koda was an exception all right, but it is probably time that we start mustering support for them. Young and smart India needs to come forward and make a statement so that everyone gets transfixed by them and most importantly perform what they promise. We do not need overnight restructuring, we do not need extravagant promises and we certainly do not want our priceless vote ending up in the wrong hands which sets us back in time, all we need to see is action speaking for itself.

STANDUP AND GET YOURSELF COUNTED. INDIA’S FUTURE IS IN OUR HANDS. YOUR VOICE IS OUR VOICE IT’S THE NATION’S VOICE.

Dance of Democracy

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Tue, 8 Jun 2010 19:32:00 +0530

Few months back I just happened to watch a debate on a news channel, the topic for which was Political ideology, Mr. Sanjay Nirupam (Congress MP from Mumbai north) was asked a reasonably simple question by the host on Mr. Narayan Rane (previously a member of Shiv Sena but currently in Indian National Congress and revenue minister in Government of Maharashtra), “Do you think the Congress party and its leaders were able to infuse the party’s political ideology in Mr. Rane since his inception in the Indian National Congress?”. It was a sincere and straightforward question which demanded an equally simple and straight answer. To everyone’s amazement and horror Mr. Nirupam for a split second had WHAT IS HE ASKING!!! expression and looked clueless on top of that, he had his mouth open for 10 seconds (enough to challenge a swarm of bees to build a nest in) as he was left speechless trying to figure out answers. All eyes were on him, waiting patiently for 15 seconds believing he would compose himself and answer in the affirmative, but one could see his inner voice imploring from within “What type of a question is this? Get me out of here!!!”. The next second he tried to speak poignantly (his mouth by now was in vacuum as all the air seemed to be sucked out of him) on the politically aesthetic ideas (trying to divert from the situation at hand), the studio audience who until then sat in a state of remorse anxiously waiting for their chance to express themselves suddenly woke up observing the facial expressions of the man and burst out in applause, giggles and murmurs which created a bit of chaos and stir in the usually effervescent atmosphere, eventually it led the host of the show to declare a break (the gold rush which all the news channels die for) in order to give him some respite from the uncomfortable scene building up. Mr Nirupam’s face by now had undergone a dramatic transformation from confident and cherubic to "What should I say?" pale and distressed. This is one form of dance in democracy where leaders join any political parties whenever they wish without taking a crash course (the least that they can do) on the ideologies of the parties involved. So this begs the question, Are Political parties today driven by any ideology? No, is my answer as they represent the likes of pre-medieval nomadic tribes who migrate from one ideology to another depending on the situation at hand with great zest and zeal. Politics is perhaps the only profession for which no preparation is thought necessary.

Where is the Mahatma in the Gandhis? I bet he would have committed hara-kiri several times had he been alive 10 years hence the 20th century to observe the facial expressions of Mr. Nirupam. Jawaharlal Nehru in an interview in the year 1947 said "Democracy is good. I say this because other systems are worse.” I wonder if he or the Mahatma or for that matter any freedom fighter were alive today would they think the same way? What is Democracy? Democracy is a popular term with a populist meaning. What is its definition in the Indian constitution? “For the people, of the people, by the people”, that is what is inscribed in the Indian preamble. Did our political leaders of the past define the essence of democracy? When India is in despair and often feels the danger from its friendly yet volatile neighbors’, whom do they look up to, to bring them back to surface from the depth of the oceans?. Yes, you have guessed it right (no prizes for guessing though), USA. “For the people, of the people, by the people” was quoted by Abraham Lincoln and it is from there we got the essence and flavor of the term democracy (before the speech and several years hence we were clueless of its meaning). Aping the west has been India’s enigma, one which we can do away with, especially the ones which does not hold true or perhaps has no place in our society. Democracy is one such thing, which compels me to reiterate another saying which does the rounds in our everyday life “Little or half knowledge of anything is a dangerous thing”.

Democracy has acquired many cultural and ethnic dance forms in our country as it has been reinvented and mutated based on what each perceived or should I say misconceived.

Recently I came to know about another form of democracy. Mr. Lalit Modi the suspended Chairman and Commissioner of the IPL (Indian Party League as some say right now due to India’s T20 world cup debacle twice in a row) has been accused of several fraudulent money transactions and ownership deals of various franchises, therefore in his place Mr. Chirayu Amin (noted businessman as the BCCI portrayed, never knew him, was he noted by anyone before? let alone me) has been made the interim Chairman of the IPL. He passed a statement recently that all IPL decisions will be taken democratically and with everyone’s consent. “Wait a minute now!!!” as I paused trying to gather sense of the sentence in my mind and thought what does democratically mean here? I did not take long to conclude that in this case democratically meant decisions taken in cohesion with the governing council members of the IPL. So ultimately the people in the so called preamble definition are thrown out of the window as if some aliens from far and away planets come to watch the game and turn a deaf ear to opinions of the people who shed the big bucks and make the game popular.

As far as the common man goes, needless to say, everyone has developed their own way to be democratic and it changes from person to person based on their perception or misconception, but that can only be changed when our leaders show us its true meaning. Putting it in perspective Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people, by the people, for the people in our country.

I believe a conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking, therefore I would like to end this blog by a quote from Thomas Jefferson “When the people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty.” Being liberal is what we should crave for. Here’s hoping for a bright and liberal future…

Nautanki, The Political way

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Tue, 8 Jun 2010 18:20:00 +0530

Commencing with the much publicized and out of the blue rendezvous with our honorable Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh at Vigyan Bhawan in New Delhi, I switched on my television the morning of previous day in anticipation of some fireworks from our beloved PM on the tantrum of questions which were expected to be directed at him from our ever so witty and unforgiving (as they seem to project in their news channels) journalists. I was rather disappointed, to say the least, as all I observed and perceived (as usual) was a mundane, subdued, monotonous and squeaky tone of the PM on all the issues that were raised by the journalists and international media (who I believed spoke and enquired in the same manner as the PM answered them). I was not expecting a George Bush like shoe hauling incident but at least our journalists could have been a bit more aggressive in their questionnaire and possibly body language. Putting it straight, they were as poor as the church mouse. Well, let’s leave it at that, I believe “A fool at 40 is a fool forever” (goes for all our political leaders). At this day and age, India need answers to “WHY?” and not shying or ducking away and washing your hands off at every given opportunity and issue. I personally thought it was the best opportunity the PM had presented himself and the nation at large, to drive away all the misconceptions and silence his critics by taking a firm stand on the issues which are long overdue. The only time the PM looked perky and excited was when he was politely queried about Rahul “baba” (BTW, India is also known for her various kinds of babas).

The other day I was watching a public rally (held before May general elections last year) on my television of our beloved (pyari and dulari as some might say out of sheer ignorance) Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Kumari Mayawati (a.k.a behenji) where the news channel was framing allegations against her, as to how she betrayed the general public by making false promises (if ever they had made a true one) and going gaga over her monumental statues and elephant carvings, I noticed a usual gesture of “Good-bye” or simply put, waving of hands to the masses, made by her from the podium she was standing on, which irked me, instantly a thought came storming into my mind and I felt the need and desperation to include it in my next blog, which I am doing it now gleefully.

How does a common man bid Good bye or greet another common man? Well, It’s simple, raise your right or left hand (whichever you may feel comfortable with) just on top of your forehead (as I am a perfectionist) spread your palms and fingers and wave with a smile on your face!!! Simple!!! Now allow me to narrate the same gesture in a political, democratic and sophisticated manner. Raising hands, smiling and waving remains the same, in addition to it, they rotate their over-sized and un-toned bodies in clock or anti-clock wise direction up to 270 degrees (the remaining 90 degrees is reserved for PA’s and fleet of bodyguards) and savor the moment as it goes down in the annals of Indian history. In short, Political leaders never greets “a” common man, they are always accustomed to address people gathered in flocks which gives us an interesting insight to their corrupted and delusional minds. During elections if a political expat cannot go door to door or bow down to a common man for votes or seek his advice then I am afraid holding political rallies, gathering people like herds and cattle, making a mockery of the opposition and demanding votes on behalf of the oppositions wrong doings does not make any sense. A person is not remembered by the position he or she occupies, they will always be remembered by the legacy they preach, practice and leave behind.
The people of India need to understand the legacy of “vote bank politics” and “dynasty politics” and refrain themselves from being a part of it. Indian Politics is the spiciest, scripted and over the moon masala melodrama (nautanki) you can ever witness.

We do not have to go too far to understand political chutzpah, Jarkhand at the moment is in a sorry state of affairs, BJP and JMM are playing a cat and mice game, the result of which the state is suffering from the ever evolving threat of the Maoists (to add to it the Madhu Koda scam).

Both the political parties are least bothered about the common man’s safety from the Maoists, all they are vouching for is the CM’s Kursi (Chair) and Ji mantriji (Yes minister) PA. It is agonizingly painful to see that since its inception 10 years hence as a separate state all it has managed to cultivate and reap is Maoism and a dirty money laundering scam which has been the icing on the cake. The very objective of Shibu Soren of supporting and upbringing the minors for which the state was carved out of Bihar is gone and Maoists it seems have taken up that cause and spread havoc in their own merry way. When will the government intervene and take some serious action? Words and politically extravagant speeches alone do not serve the purpose Mr. Palaniappan Chidambaram Chettiar…The question beckons for a long time; we do not need another political melodrama, we need action, whole of India is waiting… with bated breath.

To end my blog I would like to say thanks to all the viewers (1 follower from USA is not bad I would say) especially colleagues from my work place for their overwhelming response and for taking their precious time out to read my views. Your comments are of paramount importance to me, please do keep them flowing in. I have updated the comments section, which as per the feedback I received was not appealing. Point taken, well now you will be able to view each other’s comments by signing into iGoogle with your Gmail id and password. By now I hope you have added my blog in the favorites section of your browser, if not, please do so. Thanks for the constant support. Cheers and have a good time ahead.

Incredible India

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Tue, 8 Jun 2010 18:17:00 +0530

What a morning it has been!!! My heart goes out to all the family members of the persons who lost their lives in the Mangalore plane crash and that’s not it, amidst all the chaos, Praful Patel the civil aviation minister has offered to resign. Even resignations have become a charade like so much else in public life. Instead of mock resignation offers, netas (politicians) should do penance by serving the people without seeking reward.

Focusing on my blog “Incredible India”.

Do these two words strike a chord in you? Today do we even think of India as an Indian before letting outsiders know how incredible she is? Let go off the layman, do our honorable MPs and MLAs (I am not sure of how many political parties, my software counter just crashed as I came to know Amar Singh is planning to form yet another political party with all his bandwagon) who are supposed to represent and work for the common man, care to know what is going on around their chairs of power and selfish money churning policies. Let’s leave it at that before I get bashed by any political goons as ironically the state where I am in is very sensitive to being “Indian”. It’s a well known truth (not sure of the type of truth here as I cannot write universal, being Indian comes first) and we can write an epic about The Big Indian Political Tamasha and the sheer mockery of democracy made, therefore the less said the better.

The advertisement which the ministry of tourism in India keeps on airing on the numerous news and entertainment channels, in order to attract so called guests (whom we believe to be GOD) is top notch but we, the viewers, fail to realize what lies beneath or shall I ask you this way at what cost the incredibility comes?
At the dawn of 21^st century and after 63 years of acquiring freedom through incessant fighting for our basic needs, the first 50 years of which was spent in organizing and building the country (not sure who all political bigwigs planned and how it was planned, as the country still looks in disarray) our economic stability still depends on our farmers whom we neglect the most, who still fights tooth and nail to get his average two meals per day. In a country where poverty, hunger, ill literacy (to name a few out of the never ending list) is still so eminent and rampant everywhere you set your eyes on, that it cannot possibly be neglected. We can invest millions of rupees on inviting “guests” to visit our country but we cannot spend at least one fourth of that in the needs of our own countrymen? I do not think we have gone blind, I think we are blind, blind but seeing, blind people who can see, but do not see. If you can see, look. If you can look, observe. Behold and beware here comes the next level of incredibly psychic blindness.

Observe this picture carefully and guess what can you make out of it? Pretty simple isn’t it, a woman carrying a matki (water pot) on top of her head surrounded by the heat and unforgiving dessert. This very picture has been nonchalantly uploaded on the Incredible India site by the govt of tourism in India as the face of Rajasthan.

Now let’s put on our thinking glasses and try and see what else does this beautiful picture, as it may seem, portray. Assuming the lady carrying the matki as the protagonist, her inner voice screams (which obviously no one is interested to hear) “God save me from nature’s wrath & fury. I have to walk 20 kilometers per day back and forth for collecting drinking water for my whole family, what kind of life have you given me. Please free me from my torments and I wish to suffer no more.”, but alas who cares?

Instead of hearing this oppressively mute voice our government has chosen to inspire foreigners to come to our country by using this incredible and equivocal picture. I may sound a bit exaggerated, but this picture is a true narration of political apathy and rot in our country i.e. even in the 21^st century our countrymen do not get the basic necessities (food, water and electricity) readily available at their disposal. All I have to say is it is a tyrannous disregard of human rights. Truly Incredible.

So much to think about, so much to write about and so much to be done, this is just the tip of the iceberg. The optimism in me and so in you should always be kept alive, as that is what at the end of the day will adrenalize us to do something extraordinary. Keep your spirits high.Until next time…… Good Bye.

Getting Started

noreply@blogger.com (Ranjan Dhar) — Sun, 23 May 2010 20:24:00 +0530

My first day of a new journey in my life or should I say my first night, this is exciting as well as intriguing for me. I have waited for quite sometime now to gather my thoughts and most importantly my courage to venture out into the unknown world(for me) of expressing my views through writing or as the site suggests you can say blogging. I know it will be tough, sometimes patchy if not rocky but I will keep my spirits alive and try to make friends with as many blogoholics as I can.

Being a Software Developer by profession first, my job is to develop fancy yet challenging softwares which attract the common man. Oh!!!! and by the way if you are thinking that I am speaking about the Indian aam aadmi then you have only just (as in cricket run outs they say "He is not even in the picture") missed the target. Being an MNC company it is strictly for USA and not to mention some nook and corners of the world.

All right so taking a detour away from my profession, sometimes in life you need to pause for a while think as to where you are and ask yourself these questions, Am I doing justice to my life? Is this what I was meant to do? Am I satisfied with my life? I am always inundated with several such small as they seem but life changing questions that I imagine myself like a frail boat stuck in a raging typhoon. Many times we see certain unethical and unjust developments in our society but we turn our five senses away from them (which is why we do not develop or intend to develop a sixth sense) which begs me to asks these questions to myself. I know or would like to believe that there are few if not more such individuals who also would echo the same thoughts as of mine.

I would be writing more often(if not on a day to day basis)on the issues or developments which are plaguing our society and dwell a few minutes of our life trying to find some meaningful answers on such rhetorical issues. If we start thinking from today we surely will do something the next minute.

Recently I was fascinated by a Global warming presentation given by Noble Peace prize winner Al Gore where he says "There is a saying in Africa...If you have to go quickly somewhere near go alone.If you want to go far go together, but we have to go far quickly."

This blog is like an SOS to all my friends and the youth of our country. WAKE UP!!! IT'S TIME TO GO FAR QUICKLY.

As Mahatma Gandhi famously said "Be the change you want to see in the world."

Thanks to all of you for taking out your valuable time and reading my views.

Keep your comments and suggestions (good, bad, hate, dislike, boring whatever it may be)pouring in...Ah!!!! I really need it badly.

For the time being Good Night.

Oh!!! forgot to mention you can catch me on twitter as well.
https://twitter.com/ranjanblog