Brijender

Lions for Lambs-2

2011-08-29T22:03:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends and acquaintances have expressed a plethora of emotions ranging from disagreement to ambivalence to bewilderment at my stance on the Jan Lokpal Bill. The one common denominator, however, has been the urging to explicate in more detail the reasons behind my seemingly vehement dismissal of the Anna Hazare movement. Perhaps there is some measure of truth in their admonitions; perhaps I am guilty of not making things as lucid as I should have. So let me give it a try now.

I do NOT deny the sincerity of the intent behind the Hazare movement; what I cannot condone is the manner in which it was executed. Corruption ails us in every realm of our existence-it is pervasive, it is debilitating, it is unbearable now. Yet, it is unacceptable to hold a country to ransom just because the government of the day does not accord your demand the urgency you believe it deserves.

I re-affirm my stand that the Jan Lokpal Bill, regardless of the final shape it takes, would be nothing more than another institution that we shall very soon be mocking as another case of governmental apathy and indifference. For the real problem cannot be addressed by adding yet another institution to combat corruption. The need of the hour is twin-pronged- stronger enabling legislation and more efficient governmental institutions.

For arguments sake, let us consider the demands of the Anna team in the final form of the bill. The prominent demands are the inclusion of the Prime Minister and the Judiciary under the purview of the Lokpal. Granted-they shall be covered within the ambit of the Lokpal. Does this imply that corruption shall be weeded out of the judicial system? Or that our future Prime Ministers shall be paragons of virtue?

No, it does not. And the reasons are simple;

1. The Ombudsman is essentially a platform for the public to present their grievances. He has the power to accept such grievances and investigate into the allegations. But he does NOT have any executive power to enforce justice-his powers are advisory in nature.

So even after the Lokpal has determined the culpability of an individual, the judicial system will still need to swing into action to deliver justice.

But if the judicial system, with its inordinate delays and inherent lethargy (in 2011, the Supreme Court is on vacation for almost three months!), could deliver this justice in a timely and reasonable manner, we would not need the Lokpal in the first place.

2. If the PM himself is found guilty of erroneous or deliberate commissions, who does the Lokpal report this misdemeanour to? The accused himself? Or to Parliament, for a flurry of debates that serves every partisan end but never address the issue at hand? Or to the judiciary, which cannot entertain any complaint that falls within the ambit of the functions covered by Article 105 of the Constitution of India?

Let us, however, assume that the PM is reported to an appropriate authority. Starting the, till the proceedings come to an end, what do we allow him to do? Should this tainted individual be allowed to run our country for us? Or should we stay rudderless till a final verdict is reached? For, bear in mind, the PM’s culpability is, under Art. 75 of the Constitution, an indictment of the entire Council of Ministers.

The potency of the PM’s powers is perhaps not fully appreciated by our extant political literature. Although it has not happened in our political history yet, were the PM to be removed or even the President to be impeached, the order would specify the date of their having to demit office. In stark contrast is the position maintained by the American system where, if the President were to be impeached, his impeachment would become effective at the exact minute of the verdict, implying their apprehension at letting that individual misusing even a moment more of the tremendous power vested in his office.

3. Most importantly, however, who exactly is expected to make these complaints to the Lokpal and with what credence? How many amongst the citizenry can possibly know of the machinations in these hallowed portals of power? The only time we do get to know of them are when they are reported by the media, by which time the issue has already snowballed into a controversy and is being investigated by some or the other govt. agency. And at this time, if we all behave like the responsible citizens that we suddenly see ourselves to be and register our complaints, will the Lokpal have even the wherewithal to sincerely scrutinize all those complaints on their due merit?

I was disappointed to watch the much-acclaimed speech by Sushma Swaraj in Parliament a few days back. In the 50-odd minutes that she spoke, most of her effort went into either maligning her political rivals or showcasing her alliances with the power elite. The one credit-worthy point that she made in all that time was that while the populace is angry with the high-level corruption in this country, it does not affect them directly. What affects them is the corruption that they have to live with every day-traffic challans, getting a telephone connection, applying for a passport etc.

And she is absolutely right in saying so. But almost equally, she is wrong in using this as a justification for bringing the lower levels of bureaucracy under the purview of the Lokpal (the third demand of the Anna group).

Exactly how big is the institution of the Lokpal envisaged to be if we expect it to deal with the entire governmental machinery all by itself? If a policeman in Sikkim refuses to lodge an FIR, will the Lokpal investigate the matter? Rather, will he be able to? Alongside complaints ranging from a BSNL official in Surat demanding baksheesh to restore an internet connection or a ticket collector in a Jammu-bound train expecting some money to convert a wait-listed ticket into a confirmed reservation?

Are we actually expected to take these petty complaints to a Union-level functionary? And if not, then what exactly is the uproar all about? Why are people treating this as a godsend?

Why is it that nobody seems to understand that what we need is more accountability in the existing institutions? If a policeman asks me for a bribe, I do not want to dash a letter off to Delhi- I want an official in the vicinity who can hear my complaint and dispense justice immediately. For that, we need transparency and accountability. And these cannot be garnered through yet another govt. functionary added to the multitude that already “serves” us. It can come only when we have laws that enforce the rights of the populace over and above the vested interests of a few. When we incorporate a bare minimum educational qualification for our legislators, when there is a time-line imposed on the hearing of every legal case, when we can make such complaints without fear of a backlash.

These laws can come into force when we have some deliberation upon their need. For this, we need Parliament to function in an atmosphere devoid of populist motives. And for that, we need movements like this one to understand the precedence of needs, not their popularity.

For the people who cast the votes decide nothing, those who count the votes decide everything.

Lions for Lambs

2011-08-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

India has had its share of infamous days-15 Aug 1947 and its consequent bloodbath, the 1962 defeat against China, the imposition of the Emergency, Operation Bluestar, the demolition of our secular character on 06 Dec 1992 and, of course, the countless mornings when we have woken up to another scandal emerging from the bowels of our socio-political quagmire.

But none, perhaps, will live in the infamy of today, the day when a nation of a 120 crore individuals crumpled to its knees before the unyielding obstinacy of a handful of its brethren. Parliament has given its nod to the Jan Lokpal Bill and the country is agog at this manifestation of “people power”. One wonders though, just how far will this singular act take the country along on the path towards a corruption-free society? Even more bizarre is the euphoria with which this news is being received, the festivities erupting heedless of the ramifications of this act.

One more institution is to be added to the pantheon already on watch against corruption-the extant Lokayuktas, the Central Vigilance Commission, the CBI et al. The Ombudsman is, if the masses are to be believed, the panacea for all our ills. With a single sweep of his pen, he will rid us of the malaise of corruption once and for all. Take a complaint to him and he will do what none of his antecedent governmental functionaries could. He will bring to justice the accused in the Rs 64 crore Bofors scam, never mind that most of them are already dead. He will remedy the Rs 950 crore fodder scam, never mind that the prime accused has salvaged his reputation since and successfully served his tenure as a Union Cabinet Minister. He will make thorough enquiries and locate for us the perpetrators of the CWG scandal, the Adarsh Housing scam, the 2G spectrum allocation scam, the IPL fiasco, the cash-for-votes debacle, the Radiaa tapes, the stamp-paper scam, the Purulia Arms drop case, the Taj Corridor scam-and serve them their just desserts. In fact, while we are at it, might as well ask him to find out why the Indian cricket team has lost its form of late and why Sanjay Leela Bhansali cannot make any movie where the hero is not mentally or physically deranged.

For the Jan Lokpal can do it all. Unarguably, for isn’t that just why the nation has been ravenously demanding his incipience over the last few weeks. Sunny Deol became a victim of much ridicule after his hand-pump uprooting act in the period film “Gadar”. Today, even he must feel vindicated for the Lokpal is being touted as Sunny on steroids! With almost no enabling law or legislation to give him the teeth to put his primarily advisory powers into action, he is nonetheless somehow the superhero India always wanted and never got!

Governing a democracy with its multiple demands and multifarious compulsions is much tougher than a monarchy where one voice rules supreme. Governing a country as diverse as India only gets tougher. Realpolitik is not a derivative of the essays we wrote in school, imagining “What I would do if I was made PM for one day”. The business of a modern government cannot be held ransom to the whims of a coterie of individuals or a handful of their fawning followers. 64 people fasting in Delhi for three days do not define the demands of a nation of a billion.

Bertrand Russell wrote someplace that the problem with the world is that the foolish are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt. He may well have been writing about us today. By abandoning us when we needed their voice the most, our intelligentsia permitted a precedent that history shall not look kindly upon. A moment when the nation of Gokhale, Patel, Tagore and Nehru was held ransom by a bunch of people with little more in their arsenal than their pronouncement of not eating. Ironical, in a nation where 37% of the populace any which way doesn’t get two square meals a day! Yes, I know, Gandhi fasted too. But he did so against a foreign power, not as a tool of blackmail against his own people’s government.

The deed is done. The intent may have been noble but the manner of its execution was most unfortunate. We have served the lions to the lambs. And, as time shall show, it may well have been for nought.

Akhtar

2011-07-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

A long, long time ago, someone told me to try my hand at poetry. But considerate as I am, I deigned it best not to make the frugal few who endure my prose suffer my attempts at poetry too!

Very recently though, I came across a few pieces of Javed Akhtar’s verse. They were poignantly exquisite, too wonderful to not share.

So, here is one of those pieces for your indulgence too;

Ek baat honthon tak hai jo aayi nahi, bas aankhon se hai jhaankti

Tumse kahbi, mujhse kabhi, kuch lafz hai woh maangti.

Jinko pehan ke honthon tak aa jaaye woh,

Aaawaaz ki baahon mein baahein daal ke ithlaaye woh.

Lekin jo yeh ek baat hai, ehsaas hi ehsaas hai

Khushboo si hai jaise hawa mein tairtee, khushboo jo be-aawaaz hai.

Jiska pata tumko bhi hai, jiski khabar mujhko bhi hai

Duniya se bhi chupta nahin, yeh jaane kaisa raaz hai...

Luna Inter Minores

2011-07-18T23:56:00.001-07:00

I have had the privilege of being taught by a score of stalwarts in my sojourns across the length and breadth of my country. I remember many of them and try to remember some of the things they taught me.

One person who I found myself reminiscing about very recently is a teacher who I never had the privilege of meeting in a class but who nonetheless has left an indelible mark on my perceptions of his subject. It was many years back that I had sought admission for his course but since I had arrived a little late, was denied entrance. I could have taken admission elsewhere but he commanded such an inviolable stature that I chose to tutor myself with borrowed notes of his class rather than opting for another teacher.

I remember vividly those winter afternoons when I would sit by myself and eagerly peruse another set of photocopied notes. The genius of his pedagogy was such that even in that solitude, the words would spring forth from the paper as if he himself was guiding me through the nuances of the subject. They were always concise, simple and unimpeachably well-structured.

It was during one such lesson that I came upon his elucidation of the Constitutional position of the Prime Minister of India. We all know that considered in a purely theoretical form, the PM is a part of the Council of Ministers who aid and advise the President of India in running the affairs of the country. Yet, the PM is also the Head of this Council, the “Prime” minister. Various authors have described him as the “chief of the government”, the “leader of the majority party in Parliament”, the “executive head of the govt.” etc. etc. All of them are correct, but none puts it across in a manner that is not just perfect but also unforgettable.

All, that is, except Sir. He described it in three simple words, “Luna Inter Minores”. The Little Moon among the Stars. Affirming the fact that while the PM is an equal amongst his contemporaries in the Council of Ministers, he is a little more equal than the others. A first among equals.

It’s been years since I first read this description but never has it faded from my memory. And with each recollection, it establishes anew the power a teacher holds in our lives.

An anecdote I remember in this connection relates to Alexander The Great and his tutor Aristotle. They were out hunting and had gotten separated from the main party. While trying to find their way back, they came across a river in spate, with no bridge in sight. Aristotle was of the opinion that he should cross over first and then secure Alexander’s safe passage with the help of a rope. But even before he could move, Alexander had waded into the river, struggled across to the other bank and thrown a rope back to help Aristotle cross.

When Aristotle reached the other bank, he was livid for he saw Alexander’s action as rash and a needless risk for the King to take with his own life. Alexander, however, not only placated him but paid him a genuine homage when he humbly said that had a misfortune befallen him, the world would have lost but one Alexander; had the same misfortune befallen the teacher, the world would have lost countless Alexanders.

Thank you Sir, not just for teaching us but for giving us an education.

Aadhaar

2011-07-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

She is but a little girl, for the moment pretending to be a woman. She is pretty, the wheatish complexion of her oval face framed in a cascade of raven-dark tresses. She wears a white shirt with little yellow hearts on it and an ochre-coloured skirt to match. The belle’s on her feet are golden, as are the tiny bows on their tongue. She is pretty, for sure. And she knows it, as her proud smile can barely conceal.

He sits across the table from her, older in years but visibly enraptured by her effervescence. His awe at her charms does not go unnoticed by the bystanders. He regains his composure and in a voice befitting his stature, gently commands her to remove her spectacles.

She seems amused, perhaps amazed at his bidding. With the practised air of a lady, she pulls the eyepiece off her face and lays it on the table between them, only too aware of how enchanting she must look now. Yet, her face betrays no emotion, no conceit. Merely acquiescence in this game of maturity.

He knows that despite her pretended pride, she is unsure as to what happens next. So he plays his part, careful not to tread upon her esteem in the process. He leans across the table, cradles her cheeks in his hands and gently pulls her closer. Her eyes never leave his face as she yields to his directives and allows him to draw her further across the table.

When he senses that she is at the perfect spot, he reaches out and pulls the apparatus along the table till her chin nestles snugly on it. Within moments, her retina scan is complete, followed by a quick digital impression of her fingerprints. The mandatory paperwork takes another few minutes and with its completion, this little girl of ten joins the ranks of the teeming millions who have become part of India’s most ambitious demographic exercise till date.

Welcome to AADHAAR, the Multipurpose National Identity Card project of the Govt. Of India.

Random

2011-07-06T10:19:00.002-07:00

Let’s try a rhetorical question-what is more random, the hapless ranting of a battered heart or the methodical, mannered machinations of an administration? Surprisingly, it would seem that the latter is the answer, trumping the former by an uncomfortably healthy margin. Perhaps Nietzsche was correct in saying that a casual stroll through a lunatic asylum is sufficient to learn that faith does not prove anything.

National Highway 1 of India is currently in the throes of an expansion spree. It is not just the oldest National Highway and an arterial lifeline but also a source of pride, given its antecedent history. Yet, the manner in which it is being treated and the consequent treatment it metes out to those who ply its span is appalling to say the least.

I have driven across it very regularly over the past few months. The expansion of the existing 4 lanes started over a year back but is far from being complete. China completed the 41 km long Jiaozhou Bay Bridge in four years but our highway is nowhere in the vicinity of completion. Forget nearing completion, it is not even past the threshold that might be said to be the beginning of the end. Save a few intermittent stretches which bestow you the grace of an unhindered drive, the predominant span of the road is pockmarked with diversions. And here I do not mean the sedate form of diversions that beseech you to kindly opt for an alternate path. I am referring to the mind-numbingly annoying yellow boards, hand-painted with a scraggly black line, that appear before just as you have finally gained some momentum. Bad enough as they are during daylight, they are potentially lethal at night.

But let’s play the devil’s advocate and treat these diversions as a functional imperative. Let us also don the mantle of punctilious, law-abiding citizens who heed the law in letter and spirit. This then exposes to us the true intellect of the gems who man our administration. I am not, admittedly, so conscientious as to not succumb to the temptation of tweaking a few rules every now and then to suit my convenience. And thankfully so, for if I was one such, these wizards who make the rules would have me drive at a speed not exceeding 20 kilometres per hour for almost 100 kilometres in a 250 km journey! Sure, these people are the experts but has any of these geniuses ever even tried to drive a car at the speed of 20 kmph-I did and trust me, even those obscenely over-loaded tractor trolleys rumble past you effortlessly while its occupants shoot quizzical looks at you.

Speaking of obscenity, one wonders who runs the Censor Board these days. This is the same august body that once had a problem with showing smoking onscreen lest it corrupt the impressionable minds of our future generations. How then did they overlook the inherent vulgarity of the abomination called “Delhi Belly”? Forget the movie, it is impossible to resist a spate of uncomfortable cringing should you be unfortunate enough to have any of its songs play on the radio as you drive across your city with even your domestic help in the car. Or is it possible that the members of the Board are so ingenuous and have lived a life so much more sheltered than the one Gautam Buddha’s father envisaged for him that they do not know what successive enunciations of the name “DK Bose” allude to?

Any fool can make things worse and more complex. It takes a touch of genius, however, to continue to move in the same direction. And the government seems hell bent upon proving its brilliance.

But then, as the ancient Chinese said,

“Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me”.

Breathless

2011-06-20T08:36:00.001-07:00

The air kicked out of your gut, your heart skipping its beats altogether, your very being gasping for what is to follow next.

Breathless.

Not because you are tired or fatigued or beat. But because providence hasn’t stopped goading you into doing what you think is improbable and destiny knows is inevitable.

This time round through a reminder so simple that its intensity is compelling.

A song, one that you had long forgotten. One that could never have, should never have, played when it did. But it did. And you learned how a frown can conceal a smile.

Breathless.

But just for the moment. For, as none less than the mighty mughal Zahiruddin Mohammad Babur himself said,

“With you, an arch coquette, as a sweetheart, what can a man do?

With someone other than you, what can a man do?”

Meditations

2010-12-19T02:08:00.002-08:00

“I have taken myself out of the complexities, or maybe I have taken the complexities out of myself”

That was Marcus Aurelius, the grand old Roman, speaking through his “Meditations”. It is a sentiment I came across a long time back and which has come back to me after a long time.

The last few months have sped by in a flurry of activity-lots of work, renewing contact with many old acquaintances and friends, the re-advent of Delhi into my life. I have never particularly cozied up to Chandigarh, yet this was the one place that seemed over the last few months to give me the comfort of the anchor that I sought.

Up until today. Today I came across, again after a very long time, the one person who for me will always remain the one reason that I can never forget this city. Jasmine.

Her absence over the last few months left a void that I did not quite understand in the beginning. It felt as if all that I was being deprived of was a few inane games and a truckload of affection. Nothing that could not be substituted by drowning oneself in a quagmire of work or by seeking vicarious affectations from the world at large.

What I overlooked was the purity and honesty that came with all our frivolities. The fact that whether or not this child of five understood a word of what I was saying, she would always react with an unimaginable, inviolable sincerity. That despite the fact, or maybe because of it, that she did not understand my words, I would never have to think before unburdening myself to her.

Meeting her revived a lot of memories but even more, made me realise the futility of encumbering myself with the transparent banalities that we often seek refuge in. That though life may be a big thing, its joys and its essence are always found in the small things.

So, today, I shun the complexities, not knowing whether they made me up or I made them up. But certain of the fact, as the poet said, that;

“Sitaron ke aagey jahan aur bhi hain/Abhi ishq ke imtehaan aur bhi hain”

The Moon for Sixpence

2010-10-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 15; the fifteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Sidra.

A small village in Poland at a stone’s throw from the Belarusian border. Not more than 700 souls populate its pristine oak-laden forests. And just like the mighty oak, the inhabitants of this little hamlet too take an aeon before they permit any logical succession to reach its culmination. It is a nondescript haven, far removed from the cares of the world. The only medium that punctuates the inertia of this forgotten hinterland is the railway station, a blink-and-you-miss-it pitstop that most trains rumble through without so much as slowing down.

And this is now.

Imagine the Sidra of 1935, which is where our story begins with the arrival of a young missionary crossing over from the adjoining Belarusian province with a sincere but rather misguided intent to civilize the people. Misguided because the village he chose to propagate his mission held a near total Jewish populace, none of whom were particularly enthused by the thought of a gangly youngster setting about reforming their time-honoured ways of life, more so when they realized that he was Catholic.

The village council allowed him to take residence in the abandoned infirmary but did little more to accord him a welcome. He was met with stony faces and grim stares as he went about trying to find some help but this did little to dampen his ardour. For Siddel was not just any boy. Freckle-faced with a mop full of chestnut hair, his boyish charm and impish smile made him an instant sensation with the women of the village-those elder to him wanted nothing more than to mother the poor orphan, those who were his contemporaries swooned over him and those who were younger wanted nothing more than to marry him! And Siddel used this to the hilt-what the men denied him, he ensured the women accomplished for him, in their capacities as wives, sisters, daughters and mothers to those who held sway in the village.

As time flowed by, Siddel saw his stature elevate from that of a rank outsider to that of a trusted confidant. He was still not allowed to voice his opinion in the Council meetings of this Jewish community but he took no small measure of pride in the fact that most protagonists in the meetings parroted his words when it came to new reforms and visions. His religious dissimilarity made him a second-rate citizen of sorts but accorded him the much needed anonymity that allowed him to promulgate the most radical of ideas through those who were more acceptable than him.

But even the veils of anonymity cannot stem the torrents of love. For all his severe pretences and steadfastness of purpose, Siddel could not help himself from falling head over heels for the lissom daughter of the local moneylender. The father was as boorish and avaricious as nine generations of a moneylenders blood can make a man. He did not enjoy an iota of respect among his brethren but his formidable wealth, most of it made at the expense of the forbears of the villagers, ensured that he commanded their deference.

As with all fathers, the apple of his eye was his only child whom he had eponymously named after the village that was his fiefdom-Sidra. And everything about Sidra was atypical, from her cow-like eyes dripping innocence to her nimble gait that betrayed the torpor of her surroundings. She understood all too well the vicarious burden of her father’s dreams that rested on her frail shoulders, of finding a groom befitting not just her stature and beauty but also worthy of perpetuating her father’s enterprise. But when love is not madness, it is not love.

And it was in such a moment of madness, over a cup of sweetened tea at the railway junction, that she heard him profess his love for her and heard herself pledge hers in return. Both knew the sheer temerity of such a hope as also the impossibility of keeping it hidden for long in an environment as severe and binding as theirs. But like a flower in the crannied wall, their liking found roots in the depths of privation and blossomed with a vitality that cheered all those who chanced upon the faintest glimpses of it.

All except her father, that is. The old man was livid when the news was conveyed to him. Yet, his shrewd mind was quick to appreciate the fact that in a society as inbred as his, he no longer could entertain hopes of finding a sound match for his daughter. And in Siddel he saw the lesser of two evils-better to leave his bequest to an infidel than to a pack of vultures who had always resented his success and must certainly be relishing his discomfiture now. But his ego would not let him relent until he had extracted his pound of flesh and so it was in the secrecy of the synagogue that he asked Sidell for a token of fidelity. The boy, ravaged by the listlessness of love, agreed without a second thought and the two men solemnised their pact in the presence of the only other person there, the Rabbi.

The marriage should have been a grand affair but Siddel was too conscious of the frugality of his existence and too proud to accept his father-in-law’s charity. The bride was given away at a modest community lunch and the happy couple got about refurbishing the infirmary to house a family.

****************************************************************

Life was beautiful, even if it was not luxurious. Both worked hard, he to put bread on the table and she to keep that table clean. He could give her very little and she wanted even less. But the one thing that he never denied her was a leisurely walk each evening to the railway platform. They would sit here in isolated splendour and savour the tea that she had made just the way she knew he liked it-extra creamy, extra sweet. Their aching fingers would relish the warmth of the rough-hewn earthen cups as they watched the trains rumble past to distant lands, carrying with them the promises of untold dreams and endless opportunities. Both were smart enough to know that people outside their little village worshipped different gods but neither could ever come around to accepting that there could be any other god than the one they had found each other in.The little infirmary which they called home, the little village that was their world, the unremembered platform that gave them the moon for sixpence. It was all so rudimentary, so meagre, so unremarkable. But it was theirs.

And so life sped past, finding cheer in the little joys and doggedly ignoring the dilemmas of existence. And scarce had the spring of 1939 ushered the virgin blossoms in than Sidra coyly whispered to her husband that she was soon to be the mother of their first child. They were sitting at the benches by the railway track and so joyous was Siddel that the whoop he let out almost drowned the clatter of the train that passed by. But so penurious also was the luckless fortunate that all he could offer her in celebration was his own cup of tea, in the vain hope that it would fortify her body just the little bit more that he could afford.

To their surprise, Sidra’s father was barely able to mask his delight when they told him about it. Sidra was relieved to think that he had finally started to thaw but Siddel was more sceptical, convinced that the old man only saw in the incipient grandchild a less corrupted inheritor to his legacy! But even he begrudgingly accepted the elder’s advice that they move in with him, atleast till the child was born, so that Sidra could get the appropriate care and nourishment.

They temporarily renounced the privations of their little hut for the relative comforts of the old man’s mansion but even with the advancing months of her pregnancy, their sojourns to the railway station continued unabated. The only difference was that the trains that sped past them now beckoned each of the young parents towards a new life, one unfettered by the shackles of their disparity, untrammelled in the vistas that it offered. Inviting, alluring and for the first time, just within reach of their grasp.

But forever is composed of nows. And eternity yawns its menacing grin just when things seem to be coming together. For Siddel and Sidra, the omens started in September when they heard that Warsaw had fallen to the German Blitzkrieg. The lazy village started receiving a steady stream of visitors, mostly Jews, fleeing to the relative safety of the Belarusian border to escape unavoidable persecution at the hands of the Nazis. And each new rush of migrants brought with it fresh stories of the escalating horrors against Jews that were fast becoming too surreal to ignore.

Sidra was quick to seize upon the irony of the situation. That the very religion that had always been the bane of her husband’s life in this village was the one factor that would ensure the survival and continuation of her family. She did not know whether to feel proud or grateful. And she did not have time to deliberate upon it after her father called the two of them home and with trembling hands, beseeched Siddel to look after her once he was gone. Sidra was shaken to see him in such a wretched state but soon realised the futility of persuading him to abandon his birthplace and join them. The family, for once working as one, liquidated their valuables at whatever prices they could get and used most of the money to purchase tickets for the couple on a train out of the village a fortnight hence.

It was a crisp winter evening when the family huddled at the railway platform and anxiously peered at the horizon for their salvation to come. The wait seemed interminable but it gave both the young hearts one final occasion to gaze at the one corner of the world that would forever be theirs. The railway station, with its gray facade and stony bearing, would be an unmemorable entity for most but it had given them some of their most memorable moments. Moments of rapture, moments of privacy, of joy, of anxiety and now finally, it was about to grant them eternal moments of hope and fulfilment. No matter how things turned out, they knew they would always have Sidra Junction to call their own.

As they stood contemplating the threshold of the life they were about to embark upon, a whistle sounded in the distance and they could see the faint lights of the incoming train. The instant euphoria soon gave way to the poignant fact that they would be leaving her father behind. They said their goodbyes and checked their papers one last time.

As the train slowed down, hordes of hapless souls started to make for it when they realised that something was eerily disquieting. And then it dawned upon them. The train was emblazoned with the Swastika of the Nazi party.

The baffled crowd was too stunned to even make a move before the train came to a halt and a stream of German Storm Troopers marched out and cordoned the station off. As Sidra cradled her belly to protect it from the jostling of the crowd, a smart but severe German Colonel stepped out of the train and barked an order out to his men. The soldiers quickly herded the trembling civilians to the middle of the platform whilst the Colonel commandeered an upturned barrel to serve as a makeshift podium. Standing atop it, he announced that the village of Sidra was being appropriated by the Third Reich to serve as the site for a new concentration camp. All Jews were forbidden from leaving the vicinity as they would now be conscripted to serve as labour for the construction of the camp.

While the majority of the congregation broke down at this cruel twist of fate, the moneylender hastily told Siddel to impress his Catholic faith upon the Colonel and demand permission to board the train alongwith his wife. Siddel on his part wasted no time and soon convinced the officer to allow him to proceed onwards with the train.

After getting a vacant berth for Sidra, Siddel went back to the platform to gather his belongings. And as he was about to get on board, he saw the old man standing alone, biting his lip to stop the tears from bursting forth. So overcome was Siddel at this fickleness of providence that he forgot all the humiliations he had suffered and the sacrifices he had made. He set his luggage down and went up to hug his wife’s father, to tell him that it would all be fine.

And that is when his undoing came about. The Colonel observed the young man who had just told him that he was Catholic go up and embrace a wretched Jew. His suspicion aroused, he had Siddel herded into the Stationmasters room and ordered him to lower his trousers. With a look of horror, Siddel remembered that fateful evening in the synagogue.

The evening a moneylender had demanded the cruel price of converting to Judaism in exchange for his daughter’s hand. The evening a forlorn young boy had not given the demand a second thought before acceding to it. The evening a Rabbi had ensured that even if memory forgot about the pact, the boy’s body would always carry testimony of his betrayal of his original faith.

Siddel had never told Sidra what transpired that evening at the synagogue. And as she was unceremoniously dragged out of the train and herded into the crowd trudging back to the village, she caught him stealing a disconsolate glance at the platform.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Credits
Image - Alston Station by Wandering Soul
Courtesy - www.deviantart.com via www.blogaton.in

Return

2010-09-03T14:38:00.002-07:00

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 14; the fourteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The Gulf of Sidra. A small inlet of the Mediterranean Sea, just off northern Libya. It runs across the coastal strip extending from the Libyan capital of Tripoli all the way to the ancient port of Benghazi. Its warm waters, swarming with tuna, make for a bountiful catch for the many fishermen who ply their boats in them. And as with all primeval haunts, there are many mariners’ tales that allure and alarm the fishermen in their lonely hours of seclusion on the waves.

So it was that in 1910, in a thatched hut overlooking the Gulf, was born a little boy to the village headman. The proud father, an able fisherman himself, named the boy Sayyad. Sayyad, he who is a lover of the chase. A name that bore the fond parental hope of patience and passion for the boy’s destined vocation.

Sayyad loved his parents but despite his lithe swimmers build and his thick wavy hair, could never bring himself around to fit the mould of a fisherman. At heart, he remained a hopeless romantic-tender, passionate and pensive. In deference to his parent’s wishes, he learned the trade. But he never learned how to perform it. He would go out farther into the sea than any of his peers dared, but would forget to cast the net. He would be blessed with a particularly copious catch of fish but would stop to gaze upon the crimson hues of the setting sun for so long that the fish would rot before he got to shore. And all his parent’s laments and reproaches elicited no more than a wistful sigh from him.

It was on one such sojourn into the Mediterranean that Sayyad chanced upon an alcove that he had never before seen. Curious at the new panoramas it might bestow upon him, he veered his little boat towards it. But scarce had it turned the bend than he let out a sharp gasp. For in front of him, seated on the rocks, was a mermaid!

Sayyad had heard one tale too many about these mystical creatures of the oceans. And though none could be tested for veracity, they all concurred on one point- that these beings bore with them an ominous foreboding for any hapless traveller unfortunate enough to stumble upon them. So inauspicious were they considered that the locals had even given them a name-“Daayan”.

Terrified as he was, Sayyad’s curiosity got the better of him and he did not turn around while he had the chance. And as the little conkers attached to the net rattled against the bow, the daayan turned in his direction.

They say that love strikes like a thunderbolt. To Sayyad, it came like a dervish wave slapping into the rocks, splaying its own dismembered parts across its wake. For the daayan, part-woman and part-fish, was more enchanting than anything he had ever set eyes upon. The Moslem women in his village were renowned across the continent for their fabled beauty. But even their emerald green eyes were no match for the limpid black pools that now stared back at him.

As the two innocent souls stared spellbound at each other, the waves nudged the boat gently till it lay directly before the rock upon which the mermaid rested. Almost on impulse, Sayyad reached out for the rock to position his little craft. Taken aback at this sudden movement, the mermaid swiftly abandoned her perch and slipped beneath waves.

The moment had passed, but not its allure. Sayyad took a few moments to regain his senses and much longer to convince them of what he had just seen. He did not know what to make of this occurrence nor did he know what he would do next. But he did know that his folks would have to learn to do without fish for the next few days!

Sayyad returned home with a smile on his face and went to bed with the smile intact. But he could not sleep-the twinkling little holes in the inky black sky kept winking at him, reviving the memories of the eyes that had touched his heart, had pierced his soul.

His parents were astonished to see him set sail well before the first light the next morning. But they were in for an even bigger surprise when this new-found enthusiasm became a daily habit. In the days to come, Sayyad would be the first to leave the docks and the last to return-curiously, his nets always came back empty and just as neatly folded as when he had departed!

However, all was not well with Sayyad. The daayan would always be at her perch when he got there and he would anchor at a safe distance so as to not startle her. She would acknowledge his presence with just a shadow of a smile, the faintest nod of her head. And then go back to busying herself with grooming her hair and basking in the warm sun. He had earned the privilege of kissing the air that had only just kissed her, but then lovers are never satisfied with what they have already received. He yearned for more, much more. Alas, this was where the limits of his blessings ended. He tried in vain to speak to her, to elicit the thriftiest of responses. But all he got, always, was a cheery smile that said that the emotions were understood but could probably never be reciprocated. And with each smile, Sayyad sunk deeper into the wretchedness of a love so pure that it was neither reciprocal nor unrequited.

Days turned into months and the months rolled over into seasons. But the rendezvous never failed. Back home, his family had given up hope of their son ever heeding their admonitions. With the newly crowned “Lion of the Desert” Omar Mukhtar intensifying his resistance against the colonising Italians, their only wish was to see their son spared the ordeal of a forced conscription.

Oblivious to the tumultuous events unravelling all around him, Sayyad remained obsessed with his quest towards moving another step closer to the destination he did not yet comprehend. The ardour of his efforts had not dimmed but the futility of it all was slowly starting to sink in. And it was in one such moment of melancholy that the poet within him burst forth...

“Yeh na thi hamari kismat ki visaal-e-yaar hota...”

Sayyad himself knew not from where these words had sprung. And as he struggled to complete the verse, he heard a voice, mellifluous and honeycombed, add...

“...agar aur jeetey rehte, yehi intezaar hota”

The mermaid, his daayan, had spoken! He knew not how, he knew not why. But that was irrelevant-she had spoken and that was what mattered! His ecstasy knew no bounds and as if in reciprocation for his glee, she glided off her perch and swam towards his little craft. As he watched, mesmerized, she swam around him for a while before plunging into the waters and vanishing from his sight.

Sayyad returned home in utter euphoria, his mind swarming with scores of unfinished verses that he hoped she would complete in the days to come. But as with the best of men, Sayyad too was destined to find his fate on the very road he had taken to avoid it. That same night, Omar Mukhtar’s men came to his village to recruit men for their glorious cause. And among the youngsters who left with them the next morning was a very reluctant and immensely dejected Sayyad.

Sayyad had never been able to understand what the logical culmination of his yearning for the daayan would be. And fate spared him the answer. Just two days after he left his village, far away from the sea that had been his benefactor and companion, Sayyad was killed defending a land he had never known enough to love.

And for years thereafter, the locals would tell the tale of a mermaid who cried gently in the sea, her sobs mirroring the waves lapping at her feet...

*******

Seperated in time and space from this un-accommodated tragedy was the world of Sangram Singh. Born into Rajput royalty, he was one of the fortunate few to grow up in the shadow of horses and swords in the twenty-first century.

As was wont in his circles, scarce had he entered upon his ninth year than he was packed away to one of India’s elite public schools, to earn the education that four generations before him had already enjoyed. College followed school and the charm he had honed while living in such close proximity with a bevy of girls was put to good use in the Delhi social circles. He was the life of every party, the cynosure of every eye.

And yet, there was a longing deep within. He loved the stark and desolate beauty of the desert that held within its sands his home and hearth. But often, in the stillness of the night, a fitful sleep would bring with it visions of the oceans. Of forgotten bays littered with rocks, lashed at by unrelenting waves. And the recurrent vision of a forlorn face. A face he tried hard to get a look at but was always deprived of, with his dream breaking just as he was about to get a glimpse.

Brought up on a firm diet of bravado and chauvinism, Sangram was too far gone to ever admit his longing for that face even to himself. And as the years rolled on, it came to the point where he had craftily learned to disguise his sentiments behind an impenetrable veil of insouciance and arrogance.

But as with the best of men, Sangram too was destined to find his fate on the very road he had taken to avoid it. It happened the night he was visiting home and found himself the unwilling host at yet another party thrown in his honour. Jaded stiff with the usual pretences, he hurried outdoors to find refuge in the solace of the night sky.

As he stood pondering the vagaries of life by the poolside, he saw a woman walk across the courtyard, into the living room and on towards him. Screened by the bright lights all around them, her face was still obscured to his sight. But the emotions that had so far been wistful accompaniments to his restive nights became all too palpable.

Unaccustomed to this uncontrollable upheaval within, Sangram averted his gaze and stood contemplating the gentle waves of the pool. And as their rhythmic lapping found a mirror in his heart, he found himself uttering a verse he had never heard before...

“Yeh na thi hamari kismat ki visaal-e-yaar hota...”

And almost as if on cue, a mellifluous and honeycombed voice concluded his reverie...

“...agar aur jeetey rehte, yehi intezaar hota”

Sangram turned. She was standing beside him now. And as she smiled at him, it all came back to him with an unmistakable lucidity.

The daayan of Sidra had returned.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Boorish Bombay,Delectable Delhi !

2010-08-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

For years, I refrained from the vicarious pleasures and indulgence that the internet affords. And it was for these very reasons- the seemingly pitiable pretence of seeking a sense of identity from others as also the depraved indolence at finding belongingness in the pale blue light of a little computer screen.

Perhaps I was mistaken. It started when I was finally relented to a spate of persuasions and somewhat reluctantly penned my first post on a blog that someone else created for me. At first, it felt foolish to share my rants with the world. Curiously, however, I realised that being compelled to put my words into black-and-white forced me to delve into the very recesses of my mind and memories, bringing me into proximity with the issue with an unmatched clarity.

And then there were the people who read my writings and shared their opinions-some were predictably superficial but for the better part, there were people who genuinely took interest. Getting to hear from them felt good and opened new dimensions of thought but more importantly, afforded solutions to the perplexities that had confounded me for ages.

In my random and itinerant wanderings across the virtual world, I have come upon many pieces of writing which, with the sheer fluidity of their temerity, would any day shame even the maestros of prose. But I have also come across some who, despite the beauty of their words, have fallen prey to misguided opinions!

One such piece of writing that I chanced upon recently was a piece on the ostensible superiority of Mumbai over Delhi. The author is very articulate and eloquent in her efforts to garner some compassion for Mumbai (or is it Bombay-I know, who cares!). And while we laud her valiant attempts in the face of such a daunting task, she also deserves every bit of our sympathy for even daring to undertake such a futile endeavour!

My tryst with Delhi began when I joined college at Delhi University. Having recently passed out of a school with a captive strength of just over 700 souls confined to an area of barely 150 acres, the enormity of Delhi was a cultural jolt all by itself. And beyond that came the manifestation of scores of things that so far had merely been abstract elements in our adolescent reflections. It was all there-the monuments, the glamour, the power, the opportunity. But I am sure you would find all of this, and even more, in any other of India’s bustling metropolitans. What then makes Delhi luna inter minores-the little moon among the stars?

Its inability to be pigeonholed into a stereotype. Or maybe its ability to escape the same. Mumbai is about money as Bangalore is about IT. Pune is for students as Kolkata is for leftist intellectuals. But try as hard as you may, you really can never define what Delhi stands for. It is the sum of many little elements, and the whole is definitely much more than a mere aggregation. Delhi is not a city; it is an animated entity that defies all attempts at definition. The only thing singular about Delhi is its plurality.

Beyond the teeming multitudes struggling to blend into this eclectic melting pot, Delhi offers assortment in almost every arena. It serves up all forms of food, from the delectable kababs at Nizamuddin to the zesty chuskis at South Extension. It has a legion of intelligentsia but not the sort who would pass up a Govinda movie. Its markets offer the most decadent in luxury yet leave scope for a Sunday jaunt at the Daryaganj flea market. Religious proclivities find an untrammelled expression in Delhi, allowing you to revel as much at the Ramlila as to delve into profound reflection at a Majlis. Even nature has been munificent in its bounties to the city, permitting the denizens to experience the agony as well as the magnificence of all the seasons-while the scorching summers force you to indulge in nimbu-paani and coconut jal, the fabled Delhi winter presents a burst of fauna in a wild assortment of hues, to gladden your heart as you hum your way to harmony at an open concert in Nehru park.

And then there are the unparalleled monuments. From the understated majesty of the Mughals at Puraani Dilli to the deliberate grandeur of the British in New Delhi, every nook in the road has a story to tell. Delhi houses the headquarters of all our armed forces and also plays host to the representations of all foreign countries in India. A drive across its roads is a delight, if not for the vistas sprinkled all about you, then even just for their names alone-Kautilya marg, Shanti path, Palam marg, Aurangzeb road, Janpath.

Which brings me to what is unarguably India’s most famous boulevard-Rajpath. Barely will the sheer majesty of the drive on Rajpath have subsided when Vijay Chowk will drop you onto Raisina Hill and set forth an imposing view of the Rashtrapati Bhavan. As you drive up to its gargantuan gates and turn around, the panorama that unfolds is seductive to say the least. Park awhile and sit on the ramparts of South Block and bask in the awe of being at the pulsating epicentre of India’s policy elite. And as you silently watch the Delhi traffic zoom across India Gate in the distance, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.

For years, I refrained from the vicarious pleasures and indulgence that the internet affords. But today, do me a favour. Log on to Google, type “Mumbai” and then click the “images” link. Look at the images it throws up of India’s bustling financial capital and wonder how anyone can ever like any city in India better than Mumbai.
But before you log off, just for the heck of it, type in “Delhi” too and view the images that show up.

And smile.
For you have just seen the answer!

India Shirking

2010-08-27T10:15:00.001-07:00

India is a curious nation. We pride ourselves on the roads and airports we are building. And conveniently neglect the one thing that is degenerating rapidly around us, character. We have donned the garb of the coward who responds to perilous emergencies by thinking with his legs. From the sham called the Commonwealth Games to the relentless Maoist audacities, the only response we have to offer is to find a suitable scapegoat. The buck never stops, atleast not in the lifetime of one generation.

What is particularly galling these days is the timid impotence that the government is displaying in dealing with the Civil Liability for Nuclear Damage Bill. The bill is the precursor towards effectuating civil nuclear trade with other countries, in particular the United States. Once passed, it sets a cap on the liability of the firm engaged in supplying nuclear power, thus enabling it to opt for a commensurate insurance cover.

There are way too many questions that boggle the mind about the sheer lack of vision or maybe even intent on the part of the government. For now, lets consider just a few;

1.Why does the government want to set a cap on nuclear liability? Why not just a minimum threshold, beyond which the liability could be left open to judicial interpretation? This would enable temporal and situational factors to be taken into account before deciding the award.
Even the Vienna Convention (1997), which provides the basis for our Bill, does not cap nuclear liability but provides only a minimum floor.

2.If there is to be a cap, why are we so happy upon hearing that the government has trebled it to Rs 1500 crore? Does nobody realise the sheer inadequacy of this figure? At around $ 350 million, it falls flat even in the face of the compensations awarded in the Bhopal tragedy which were finally settled at $ 470 million. And even that figure was derided as being grossly undervalued!
Given our lax inspection standards and the frivolity with which we treat industrial disasters, a nuclear accident occurring in India is just a matter of time. And if Union Carbide could wipe out 20,000 souls, who is to say what a nuclear accident might do.
In contrast, consider also the nuclear liability cap in the US-$ 10.2 billion.

3.If you and I can appreciate the frugality of the pittance that the government is trying to pass off as an indemnity cover, surely the government understands it too. Why then does it not raise it to a more respectable and meaningful level?
Is it because doing so would directly increase the insurance costs for the companies which might seek to engage in nuclear trade in India?

4.The current front-runners for generating civil nuclear power in India are General Electric and Westinghouse. Being American, both are obligated by law to ensure that the host country has a nuclear liability bill in place. And such a bill is bound to escalate their operational costs due to the corresponding insurance bill, unless of course the liability is kept at a manageable level.
If the cost is such a crucial consideration, why does India then not opt for partners from countries like France or Russia which mandate no such provision and have the Indian government itself arrogate all claims for liabilities that may subsequently arise?
This becomes even more pertinent in the light of the fact that even under the current bill, the liability of the operator is restricted to 2/3rd of the damages, with the government bearing the responsibility for the remaining 1/3rd.

5.India currently produces about 4000 MWe of electricity through nuclear power. It aspires to boost this figure to 20,000 MWe by 2020 and further to 60,000 MWe by 2030.
Given the situational imperatives of foreign private participation who share symbiotic and pecuniary relationships with their parent countries, it is outrageous to witness the precarious edifice upon we are placing our national ambitions and necessities.

But beyond the myopia and apathy of the government, what strikes one is the utter indifference with which we, the people, view these happenings. It is almost as if they did not affect us. There is no indignation, no anger, not even any resentment.

Let's pause here for a moment and reflect upon a line from the American Declaration of Independence;

“...when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security...”

It is premature as also seditious to talk about a rebellion or a revolution. Nonetheless, perhaps the time is nigh upon us to shed our indolence and our turpitude. For once, to start taking cognisance of the happenings around us and act in accordance with our best interest. Because viewed in the correct perspective, we do not inherit the Earth, we borrow it from our children.

India is a curious nation. Gandhi is the man who taught us that “Victory attained by violence is tantamount to defeat for it is temporary”. And out of deference to him, we lay down our cudgels and stoically braved the machinations of our foes. Yet, Gandhi is also the man who was never afraid to fight for the things he believed in and attested that “It is better to be violent if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of non-violence to cover impotence”.

Maybe it is time we started realising the sagacity of his words.

Aah ko chahiye ek umr asar hone tak...

2010-08-18T10:41:00.001-07:00

Each and every one of us needs very little to be happy, but we need that little very much. It is this little that gives us something to hope for, to worry about and to live for. In the presence of this little, the shortcomings and handicaps that we otherwise are burdened with fade away into the background, lending to the joy of what is present.

Like the mischievous child who is impervious to the thistles scratching at his skin while he hunts for his “treasure”, like the young widow who internalises her grief and redirects her love towards her infant, like the lover who ignores the travails of the world and seeks only the shade of his paramour’s embrace.

So also does this woman seem oblivious to the cruel tragedy that has just befallen her. The pain and the loss are certain. But she chooses not to let anything hamper her love for what she perceives -rather, it is this very prospect that gives her the strength to face all other distractions. The yearning to see these buds blossom into the beauty that only she can envision is all too evident. Her vision may be impaired but every pore of her being, from the graceful tilt of her neck to the unspoken wish on her lips, seems to will the plant to manifest itself in all its glory. The fact that it is winter only adds to the poignancy of her earnestness, to the sincerity of her hope.

Hope. The progenitor of all things exquisite. Smiling on the threshold of the times to come, whispering that they shall be happy. Affirming that if it were not for the pebbles in its bed, the stream would have no song. Showing us the quivering spring in the heart of every winter.

Return to Innocence

2010-08-12T23:08:00.000-07:00

“Sach hi kehti thi, jo bhi Ammi kehti thi
Jab mere bachpan ke din the, chaand pe pariyaan rehti thi”

When was the last time you laughed? Really opened up and let out a guffaw? Chortled till your insides hurt? And not at another joke, but at the sheer joy of being alive, of returning to the lost innocence of finding ecstasy in the simple things strewn all around you.

I returned to Chandigarh yesterday for another of my overnight stays. And as has become wont with me since she shifted to Mohali, took a surreptitious drive just outside Jasmine’s house. Now, Jasmine is the 5 year old who was 2 when I first met her. We were both once tenants at the same house and for the first few months after I shifted there, shared little more beyond quizzical looks whenever we passed each other around the premises.

And then came the day when she deigned it fit to come visiting. It was almost noon and I was just sitting down for a late breakfast. Although not yet able to walk without faltering, she nonetheless matched me toast-for-toast, orange-for-orange, before announcing that she was going home for lunch! And as she left, she elicited from me the promise of getting her a toy when I returned from office that evening. But as is usually the case, I forgot all about it till I got into my car at the end of a long day. The thought of going back to the comfort of my bed also brought with it the memory of my promise to her. But since it was too late for the toy shops to be open, I had to settle for a couple of balloons from a roadside vendor.

I got home, summoned my helper and before he started warming the food, asked him to go and give the balloons to Jasmine. He did one better-he went and called her over. And this is when I experienced a moment of the kind that we see all around us but are too busy to cherish.

Jasmine came, frowned at me and then noticed the balloons. Her smile said it all-she was thrilled! But what was even more amazing was the involuntary chuckle that escaped her. She was actually laughing with glee, at a present as meagre as a pair of balloons! She pranced about for a bit, helped herself to some dinner (her second for the night!) and though I did not get a goodnight kiss, I did sleep with a huge smile that night.

Over the next couple of years that I knew her, I shared many such moments with her. And she was always the perfect panacea to wish away the blues. She found merriment in candyfloss melting over her fingers, pride in showing me her latest outfit and an exuberant hope in demanding a puppy for her next birthday. With each action, confirming irrefutably that the real wonders exist only where there are those with the sight to see them.

The real wonders. The little, simple things that we start taking for granted as we “grow up”. If caught in a particularly bad mood, these very things can even trigger a rush of annoyance. Yeats wrote someplace that the innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time. Perhaps he isn’t all that mistaken. For there comes a time in each of our lives when we cease to enjoy anything, intent merely on amassing immaterial treasures. We stop believing in love, believing in loveliness, believing in belief itself. We possess a spirit that knows the price of everything, but the value of nothing. We hoard our smiles and measure our words. We never forget an insult, never forgive an injury.

I wonder what it would take to revisit our misplaced innocence. To find joy in a bar of chocolate divided into seven shares, to yearn to get drenched in the next rain, to think nothing of conceding defeat before our friends just to see the delight on their faces. To return to the time when fairies left us presents under the pillow and God took note of our every prayer.

Maybe all it takes is a chubby hand in yours, hauling you to the next mirthful escapade. And if you don’t have that, then the next best thing would be the memory of a chubby hand.

I have been planning to meet Jasmine for ages now, ever since she shifted out of what was once “our” house. My drives towards Chandigarh are always crammed with plans of meeting her-where we would go, what we would do. But the moment I pull into the city, all plans go flying out of the window. A strange dread grips me-what if she has forgotten me? It is not easy to live with the memories of a beautiful time gone by, never to come again. But it would be impossible to live without the hope of that time ever returning. Without the consolation, however feeble, that it will all go back to being the way it was.

So I continue to make plans that may never bear fruition. And giving me company is the warmth of a chuckle.

Maktub

2010-07-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

Maktub. It is written.

Destiny. Fate. Karma. It is all written.

But where we err is in believing that is irrevocably written. In believing that our fates were pre-determined and that the “prarabdh” we carried forth from our previous lives is unalterable. I have seen too many individuals, bright and promising, giving up at the first sign of resistance and consigning their lives into the hands of what they deem to be their ordained lot in life. Even worse, they seem to use this pre-disposition towards the supremacy of the heavens to justify their meek surrender to the privations of life, while absolving themselves of any guilt at not having put up a struggle.

Einstein once said that “God does not play dice”. Translated into the myriad aspects of the universe, it reflects that the rhythm of His creation is rooted in reciprocity. The human race has been set forth with one primary challenge-to struggle with their mortality while combating with the perennial mutations of heaven and earth.

Man has been given command over the elements that comprise his being (air, water, fire, earth and ether) to nourish or exploit as he deems fit. At the same time, he has also been made subject to the outer disintegrating powers of nature-planetary stimuli that determine the course of his life, beyond what he himself may determine or crave.

According to the ancients, a child is born at a time when the celestial rays are in harmony with his individual karma. As such, his horoscope is a portrait not just of his unalterable past but also of his probable future. Probable, for the stars themselves have no conscious benevolence or animosity-they merely offer a direction based upon what each man has set into motion in the past.

The message indicated by the stars is not meant to emphasize fate as an inevitable result of past good or evil. Rather, it is meant to serve as a road-map, a reckoner of one’s limitations and potentialities. In its purest form, it is meant to arouse man’s will to escape his universal thraldom. To show him that what he has done, he can also undo. Since none other than he himself was the instigator of the limitations he now finds himself burdened under, it is he himself who can overcome them. And he can do so merely by taking the right actions, actions that are principally dependent on his ethereal resources and are not subject to planetary influences.

Once we identify the latent power within each of us to shape our own destinies, it becomes evident that a superstitious awe of astrology and the power of the stars denigrates us to mere automatons, slavishly dependent on mechanical guidance. If it is true that God created us in His image, it is impossible that he intended for us to be to so servile in our subjugation to extrinsic forces. The logical corollary is that we are meant to use the gift of our “free will” to choose our destiny. And once we have made this choice, we will also, without exception, gain an understanding of the travails and sacrifices it entails.

The multitude will never even contemplate upon what their destiny might be; they will merely resign themselves to it. Of the few who do ponder over it, the majority will yield to the severity of its demands. The chosen few who do dare to pursue their destinies will be mocked, scorned and ridiculed. And if they stick the course, they alone shall be admired, revered and idolized. But above all, they alone shall find happiness.

For all too often, a person finds his destiny on the very road he took to avoid it.

“A wise man struggling with adversity is said to be a spectacle upon which the Gods look down with favour”

G-l,U-k-p

2010-07-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

I don’t watch television. It started about half a decade back and with time, I lost interest in it altogether. Gradually, this aversion to the idiocy that most of our electronic media transmits with unrelenting vengeance grew to encompass movies too. Given the junk that Bombay has been passing off as “entertainment”, I soon started to look at it all as little more than chewing gum for the eyes. Not that I never indulged myself in its indolent decadence. But each time, I came away reassured that the only way television could be educating would be if every time someone switched the set on, I went into the other room and read a book.

A week or so back, I happened to make a trip to Dalhousie, one of the very few hill stations I have come across that still retains vestiges of its colonial past. It is a quaint little town, almost caught in a time-warp, with its hillsides strewn with lovely bungalows and mist-laden pathways. It was raining torrentially when I arrived but by the time the afternoon gave way to the evening, the skies had cleared. And despite my repugnance for all the tourists who can never seem to get enough of the hills, I had to admit that the vista was captivating. The firmament was cleansed of the dust and as far as the eye could see, nature seemed to be spilling its exquisite bounties in abundance. The greens of the flora, the azure-blue sky, the milky-white wafting mists-together, they dwarfed the ugliness that we tend to pass off as civilization and served as a poignant reminder of the fact that the simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.

Tender as the mood was, I succumbed to the easy temptation of lethargy and upon reaching my room, turned on the television set. And the visage I encountered shocked me no less than accidently pouring a mug of cold water onto yourself while enjoying a splendidly warm bath in the winters.

It was a music channel I had tuned into and the song I had the misfortune of listening to went .."He’s a good looking ullu ka pattha..” !! I mean, we all know, thanks in no small measure to the genius of Anu Malik, that Indian cinema faces an acute paucity of talent but this seems to have taken absurdity to unimaginable depths!

I am no prude and have enjoyed my share of the ridiculous. I will not, out of sheer self-respect, mention the gems that once found a tune on my lips. But I can admit that the rhythms accompanying most of Govinda’s onscreen inanities did lend a lilt to my moments of senile indulgence-the last being this particularly outlandish song from Partner called "Kehndi paun, kehndi paen"!

However, momentary insanity apart, Bombay really seems to have lost it. Consider the songs in the era of India’s new-found independence. They were masterpieces, lyrically and visually. There wasn’t the slightest hint of any indecency, vulgarity or inanity. They were perfect accompaniments to the story and encapsulated the pathos of the story in hauntingly beautiful melodies.

And consider how much it has degenerated since. Ishq, that beautiful Urdu word which has no equivalent in the English language, has been derided without remorse in the last decade. Urmila gyrated to “Kambakth Ishq”, Aishwarya almost had us convinced that life was tough because of “Ishq Kameena” and to be honest, I am really apprehensive what the next female icon would have to call it to cement her status!

And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Lay just a little strain on your memory and you will realise that beyond being the land of Ghalib and Tagore, we are also the people responsible for subjecting the world(and ourselves) to classics such as “Teri nani mari to main kya karoon, Andey ka fundaa, What is your style number/what is mobile number, Sarkailo khatiya jaada lage, Aa aa ee, uu uu ooo...” And the list is endless!

Agreed, there are exceptions to the rule. There are a few songs that have aesthetic appeal even in these times. But exceptions don’t always justify the rule. And given the pace with which we are descending into this maddening chaos where every second channel has a contest featuring every possible format (crooning grannies, dancing toddlers, battles of has-beens et al), the mind shudders to imagine where we will be in the coming few years.

For the moment though, it seems to be a menace that everyone loves to hate but can’t seem to live without.

P.S.- For the uninitiated:
Ullu-ka-pattha = son of an owl
Anu Malik = “inspired” lyricist and musician from India; unfortunately, his inspirations are often misconstrued as plagiarism
Govinda = yellow shirts with red pants, need I say more?
Ishq = an abstruse and enigmatic Urdu word; conveys more emotion than liking/admiration/infatuation but less than love
Kambakth Ishq = goddamned Ishq
Ishq Kameena = Ishq-the-wretched
Urmila and Aishwarya = popular Indian actresses who reached their cinematic pinnacles at the time these songs, respectively, were released
Teri nani mari to main kya karoon = “what can i do if your maternal grandmother died?”
Andey ka fundaa = “the enigma of an egg”
What is your style number/what is mobile number = c’mon, this one is in simple English!
Sarkailo khatiya jaada lage = “move the bedstead, I’m feeling cold”
Aa aa ee, uu uu ooo = here, I GIVE UP!!

.

Non Mihi,Non Tibi,Sed Nobis

2010-07-24T21:56:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a boy. Intelligent, caring, sensitive and ambitious. When he came of age, he fell in love with a girl who adored him with an equal intensity. Together, they fashioned for themselves a life of unparalleled harmony-a small piece of heaven removed from the cares of the world, filled with the ecstasy and exuberance that love inspires. As they grew older together, they unconsciously gave form to one of the most hauntingly beautiful romances ever.

But nothing lasts forever. And at the tender age of 37, the wife died during childbirth. Given his stature and his appeal, everybody expected the husband to find a new consort and move on with what remained of the day. But they had grossly undermined his love for her. So grief-stricken was he by her irrevocable absence that he almost gave up on life itself. His ambitions met with a premature demise, he barely ate and all the little pleasures which once had given him so much joy now merely served as reminders of a paradise lost forever. He aged overnight and paced endlessly in his disconsolate state, trying to comprehend why providence had chosen him for this tragedy. Why do we meet someone when fate has already decreed that we must part before the association bears its full fruition?

And then he remembered his promise to her-that he would not let the world forget about her, about them. As the Greeks said, “Non mihi, non tibi, sed nobis”. Not for you, not for me, but for us. Suddenly, gone was the morose frame of mind, the lethargy and the indolence. Replaced with a definite vision as it was, it gave him hope and a sense of purpose.

And thus started the construction of a memorial for his wife. It would take 20 long years before it was unveiled to the world but history stands testament that not a single day went by when the Emperor himself did not visit the site to personally supervise its progress. And thus was created the monument that Tagore so famously described as “a teardrop on the cheek of time”. The Taj Mahal. Not just India’s most famous cultural icon, not just a marvel in marble. A reminder. A reminder of one man’s undying love for a woman who had not been with him for over two decades.

That is the stuff love stories and fairytales are made of. Or so we would think. But then let us for a moment consider also the story of a man as far removed from Shah Jahan as can be imagined. A poor labourer in a small village in India’s poorest state of Bihar. Not in a bygone century but in this very century, infact in our own times.

The story starts again with a well-possessed boy falling in love with a girl and striving to give her more than he can reach for. They are happy together until the cruel hands of fate snatch her away forever. After the customary turpitude brought about by the bereavement, this husband too started pondering over why providence had been so unmerciful. His wife had been unwell for a long time and was undergoing continuous treatment at the nearby health centre. She had suffered paroxysms of pain in the past too but he had always been able to get her to the doctor in time. This last time, however, he had gotten there a little too late.

The reason was simple-between the village and the health centre stood a hill which doubled the travelling time. Had the hill been absent, she might have been saved. Armed with this clarity of vision, he knocked on the door of every official who could have sanctioned a road to be cut through the mountainside. And always, the answer was a sympathetic but firm no-the government could not afford to waste money on a needless project, and that too in the memory of an unaccomodated individual.

But they too had undermined his love for her. He did not have the wealth of an Emperor or the luxury of an empire at his disposal. What he did have was just four things-an undying love, a clarity of purpose, a shovel and a spade.

And thus started the construction of a memorial for his wife. Armed with his meagre tools and the ferocity of his determination, this one man started cutting away at the mountainside. Alone and single-handedly, he started his herculean task and kept at it doggedly till even the mountain made way for him and he was able to cut a road across it. By some mischievous quirk of fate, he too took 20 years to complete his labour of love. The government took due notice of his feat and the road was metalled soon thereafter. The Chief Minister of Bihar invited him for the inauguration of the road-a standing testimony to the ecstasy and exuberance that love inspires. Baba Dashrath Manjhi died soon thereafter.

The road still stands. A teardrop on the sands of time. Not just another macadam road in India’s forgotten hinterlands, not just another instance of asphalt on rock. A reminder. A reminder of one man’s undying love for a woman who had not been with him for over two decades.

"Absence diminishes small passions and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire"

Immortality

2010-07-19T06:18:00.000-07:00

"The more magnificent the prospect, the lesser the certainty and the greater the passion"

There are times when you question the very genesis of your beliefs, your convictions and your own self. All too often, such doubts arise when taking a call on a task that you have never faced before or one which seems insurmountable. Should you succeed, the doubts fade into the background and are effortlessly replaced with an enviable sense of confidence. But, as is more likely, should you meet with failure, there is the very legitimate risk of plunging into a ceaseless progression of hesitation, misgiving and uncertainty about almost everything that you once held dear.

Mavericks. That’s what they call the ones who do not toe the line, who dare to think differently. Rebels. Eccentrics. Misfits. For persisting in trying to adapt the world to themselves, instead of just adapting themselves to the world and living a simpler life. And it does seem foolish to challenge conventional wisdom-the wisdom of the ages, proven true since time immemorial. Why risk it all on a turn of pitch-and-toss when you could very easily settle for just a notch below?

I pondered upon the dilemma of risking everything for a faint chance at attaining something truly magnificent. And logic said that the risk inherent in such a foolhardy enterprise should be deterrent enough for any rational individual. But then rationality does not create empires-it can never spur you to go the extra mile, never urge you to look beyond the obstacles, never replace the passion that excellence demands and deserves.

By some fortuitous coincidence, I happened to watch a movie called Tin Cup where the protagonist, a deserving underdog who is within a whisker of winning the US Open Golf Tournament, blows it all away because he wants to prove to himself that he is as good as he thinks he is. He can take the easy way out, play a safe shot and win the tourney. Or he can risk an audacious shot which will either give him a spectacular victory or a heart-breaking defeat.

He takes the shot. And misses. And keeps taking one shot after the other, each of them knocking him irredeemably out of the tournament, till he manages the perfect shot and sinks the putt. The spectators explode in applause at his grit and belief but he loses the tournament because he will not succumb to conformity. Immediately thereafter, he questions the validity of his apparent obstinacy. Why did he squander away the chance to enter the record books as a winner-merely to satisfy his own ego?

And the answer is simple. Because he knew he could do it. The record books are for trivia buffs and people who profess to love sports without ever having set foot on a playing field. But true love for any endeavour must necessarily embrace the madness, the perils, the failures and the passion without which all of it would be little more than a mundane chore. Passion can never be a business. And regardless of the multitudes seduced by the glamour of choreographed extravaganzas, it does not take long to recognize the presence of a genius.

Be it Lance Armstrong who overcame testicular cancer or Edison who so famously failed a thousand times before making the bulb or even Gandhi who subdued an empire wearing just a loincloth, each of these individuals believed in the beauty of their dreams. Dreams that we all have but few dare to pursue. For all purposes, dreams at first glance seem impossible. For those who ponder over them, they start seeming improbable. And to the scant few who are audacious enough to go after them, they soon become inevitable.

So here’s hoping that you realise that the greatest gift of all is something to strive for. And if you have that something, give it your all-break the shackles and reach for the stars-even if you lose, you will have some stardust on you. And should you win, immortality would be yours. There is only one Mercedes Benz, only one Sachin Tendulkar, only one Tiffany’s, only one Harvard.

And only one you.

"Talent does what it can.
Genius, what it must. "

A Memory called Life

2010-07-18T10:30:00.000-07:00

There are altogether too many people who mistake their imagination for their memory. Do we not have a tendency to view the past with a tinted vision that is certain to conjure up images far better than what the reality was? Or maybe, far worse than the reality? It’s hard to tell for sure unless you have the chance to revisit the past and live it again through the vicarious eyes of an outsider, almost as if all were an out-of-body experience. And all of a sudden, you can feel the pieces fall into place with a precise clarity.

I had just such an opportunity recently when a very old friend of mine came visiting. Even before he had left Calcutta, he elicited from me the promise of taking a trip up to our old school. Sanawar. And even though I wasn’t too excited at the prospect of going back up the hills, I couldn’t bear to dampen his ardour. But, truth be told, even I was a little pleased to go back to school with someone whom I had shared a lot of its joys and tribulations with.

And so it was that a bright Saturday morning saw us set off for Sanawar. The gibberish that nostalgia evokes had started the night before-the food, the clothes, the studies, the dorms and, of course, the girls- we went through the entire gamut of experiences which for us symbolised our years at that little hilltop. Wherever one of us ran out of conversation, the other would pipe in with a forgotten anecdote and soon, the conversation would become animated again. Smuggling chapattis out of the dining hall to use as a midnight snack with ghee, lighting a paper bag full of monkey-shit outside the housemasters door and watching him try to stomp it out, sharing a single packet of uncooked Maggi among 5 friends, signing up for boxing to impress your latest crush and getting hammered senseless in the ring ! Many, many memories of a carefree and innocent time- a time gone by, never to return.

And right when we reached the last bend short of school, some more memories kicked in-the hockey sticks raining on our backsides, the rotten food, getting beaten up over a pack of biscuits, early morning runs and late night errands and the ubiquitous homesickness. Maybe it was the nostalgia and the fact that we were finally out of school that made it possible for us to reminisce so fondly about it. For while we were there, there was many an occasion when we would have given just about anything to exchange places with the millions of kids who went to school just for classes and then went back to the warmth of a homestead-while we rubbed our sore posteriors and put up a brave face for the world, frightened and forlorn as we were from within.

At almost the same instant, the same question crossed both our minds-what did we miss so much about Sanawar when there were clearly so many bad memories attached to it too? Getting kicked around, polishing shoes for our seniors, getting a fresh change of uniform only after 4 days, spending the bulk of our 50 rupees worth of weekly pocket-money on seniors? Was this the life that we missed? Driving past the school gates and towards our dorms gave us time to mull over this question.

As we drove onwards, every bend in the road, every tree and every building seemed to smile at us in welcome. A smile that could be shared only between those who had lived together, shared joys and sorrows, been there for each other. We drove past the nooks which cloaked us when we wanted to sob after a particularly bad beating, the staircase from atop which we yelled out our triumphs, the pavement that still resonated with the chatter of our adolescent dreams. And by the time we reached our dorms and stood before the nameplate proudly proclaiming the name of our house, the truth had sunk in with an unmistakeable clarity.

We missed Sanawar and remembered it fondly because regardless of our experiences, good or bad, this was the place that had made us who we were. This was home for 8 months every year and even your fiercest rival was in truth your best friend. We certainly did get a bundle of agony and anguish along the way but it was also the place where every success was yours and yours alone-you had earned it and could relish it as you chose. We were the masters of our destiny, independent and untrammelled in the vista of choices that lay before us. And although an aeon had gone by since we passed out of its portals, there wasn’t the slightest doubt that we could never have been even a pale shadow of our selves without this very special entity in our lives. The entity that gave us the benefit of its own form of disinterested guardianship and moulded our fledgling forms in the brand of its legacy.

And that seems to be true of life too. It is surprising how much of remembrances are built around things unnoticed at the time. Yet, the slightest moment of reflection would reveal that things were never as bad as we today accuse them of being nor as good as we so wistfully remember them to be. Most of the time, they were just the right blend of bitter-sweet occurrences. And together, they have given us the moments that we remember as our life thus far. The life that has made us what we are today. And the life that we choose to make of it from this day forth.

“Life is whatever you want to remember of it”

Total Eclipse

2010-07-03T21:59:00.000-07:00

“I was so horrified when I read about the ills of smoking that I gave up reading”

DISCLAIMER: The protagonist in this article bears no resemblance to any person, living or alive. For the sake of artistic expedience, the article has been written in the first person-this should not be misconstrued as a reflection of, or upon, the author’s own proclivities which remain irreproachably untainted and chaste.

Never in the history of human strife has so much antagonism been directed by so many against so few. The battle lines have been drawn and are gradually tightening about the exclusive clique of individuals who have chosen not to forsake the perennial companion of human solitude-the cigarette.

Restaurants and bars, theatres and parks, offices and markets, they have all devised newer and more nefarious ways to keep smoking at bay. Why, you are no longer permitted to smoke even in the privacy of your own car! (Well, technically you are but only if the car is moving or if the car is stationary but the windows are rolled up or the windows are rolled down in a moving car but there is nobody in the vicinity of x metres or.....God knows what the damn rule is-this is where I need a cigarette!).

Ostensibly, all of this is being done for the sake of humanity at large-not only are the smokers given definite disincentives to quit an injurious habit, it also ensures permanent riddance for those afflicted by passive smoking. Agreed, it would be criminally offensive to blow rings of smoke around a new-born baby’s pate. But banning smoking at virtually every possible location on the pretext of public health is inane-given the ubiquitous defilement of our surroundings, that’s like having a urinating and non-urinating section in a swimming pool!

As for the question of kicking the butt, believe me when I say (from a purely vicarious perspective) that there is no incentive required to do so. A very big misconception people suffer is that quitting smoking is difficult. Nonsense, I say-my friend Vineet himself had already quit about 26 times at last count. And although I would not call him a heavy smoker, he does get through about two lighters a day.

Yes, continuing to quit cigarettes may be a little trickier but then most smokers really do not see the logic in it all. To begin with, cigarettes are a much cheaper and easily available alternative to nicotine patches. There is the obvious benefit of getting your sense of smell back but with the pungent odours we are subjected to, who would want it back anyway. Possibly the only set of factors that could induce a severance from the Great God Nick-O-Teen would have to do with a play on human emotions-the frown of a child, the concern of an elder or a bewitching smile from the better half.

But even these are mere possibilities. Those given to the bliss that cigarettes afford would aver that “a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke”. Cigarettes don’t just give the illusion that you are doing something when you do nothing. They are companions, counsellors and comrades. They are a balm to soothe away the problems of the world, the perfect accompaniment to all forms of hedonism. They are consistent, reliable and convenient. And best of all, they ask nothing in return-like the proverbial moth enraptured by the flame, they ask only that they be allowed to do their duty, even as they slowly perish for your sake.

And if these are sentiments that only smokers can relate to, the uninitiated could savour the enigmatic temptation of a cigarette by thinking of it as a beautiful woman who also knows Tendulkar’s statistics!

"A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?"

Miracles

2010-07-03T10:49:00.000-07:00

“I know what I have given you, I do not know what you have received.”

If God were generous enough to tell us what lay in store for us in the future, most of us would probably not undertake the journey. Would you study as hard for an exam if you were told that you would not clear the interview? Would you scrape together every last penny to buy a house if you knew that this is where you would lose a dear one? Would you allow your heart to go aflutter at the first sight of a special someone if you knew that you would have to part after a few years? In most cases, the answer would not be in the affirmative.

Yet, we live and get bruised and battered. And if given a chance, would not think twice about living it all over again. Strange, but true. We are, after all, the only species that brings home another species just for the pleasure of their company! For that seems to be the exact purpose why man has been made in this fashion. To bring into manifest the most noble emotions- love, sacrifice, courage, honour and civility. These are what separate us from the others and make us true masters of our destiny.

And the bedrock of every human endeavour is the need for acknowledgement. Even the humblest or the most severe of individuals revel in being appreciated for what they do for others. The irony, however, is that very often the sincerest of intentions unfolds in a manner that may well be misinterpreted. You do the correct thing but in the wrong way. As the poet said, “Kehtein to hain achchey ki, lekin buri tarah”. And far from being acknowledged, every successive attempt to undo the misgivings of the past snowballs into a quagmire of blunders.

But the fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose. And the efforts continue ceaselessly, with an ardent intensity and the fervent belief that the ends will justify the means. This is why we succumb to irrational lying, to recurrent anger, to inversions of the self, for we consider all of it as almost essential to preserve the greater good. I remember here this brief aside in the movie Casablanca where a young woman approaches the cynical protagonist and asks him if she would be justified in doing “a bad, a very bad thing” if it would allow her to secure happiness for the man she loves. Although the movie furnishes no definite vocal response for this moral dilemma, it nonetheless provides the issue with a treatment similar to that accorded to a white lie-if a wrong can lead to a right, then the wrong itself is not far from being a right.

And that is the very embodiment of the enigma we call life. That there is no right or wrong, that there is nothing and nobody more important than life itself, that the only time we go wrong is when we go against our inherent inclinations. For each and every one of us knows what the right thing to do is. Without exception, we know. Problem is, it is tough to do so. And therein, within the sliver delineating “should” and “can”, lie the plethora of choices that determine our destiny.

“There are two ways to live your life.

One is as though nothing is a miracle.

The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

Love Autopsy

2010-06-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

I know, hilariously tacky title! Was trying to come up with a synonym for post-mortem and then suddenly this cheesy track from Music and Lyrics popped up in my mind. And somehow, it seemed pretty apt-corny, but apt.

I read someplace that a man never knows how to say goodbye and a woman never knows when, or maybe it was the other way round. Either way, the fact remains that there is no “good” in goodbyes. They are painful, gut-wrenching and about as close to hell as we will ever come. They can also bear a promise of heaven, with the pure ecstasy of a reunion after a long time spent apart. But then, it wasn’t a real goodbye, was it?

So when and how do we say bye? I think we say it when there is no expectation left from the others, when all our efforts to desperately cling on to the receding vestiges of a memorable past are snatched away from us. And we say it by appreciating what we had and acknowledging how special we felt in that time.

One of Alexander the Great’s most worthy successors was his friend Ptolemy, who gained control of his body and catafalque and used it to rise to become Pharaoh of Egypt. A learned man and a man of letters as he was, he later wrote that with Alexander, the greatest bequeath was not his immense wealth or the vast dominions he left behind. It was the way he made people feel. Ironically, Alexander has been riled as one of the most ruthless conquerors of all time, savage and brutal. Yet, history stands testament to the fact that although possessed with a foul temper, he could make those around him feel very special, very cherished. Ptolemy says that although he did so in a very awkward and eccentric manner, when you were with Alexander, you felt powerful, invincible and unconquerable. No challenge seemed too daunting, no sacrifice too demanding. The world was your oyster and you were the masters of your destiny. And it was this legacy that propelled him towards the supremacy of much of the known world, with even the mighty Persian Empire crumbling under the relentless march of his ardent followers. The legacy which endears him to us and helps us overlook his unyielding ambitions and his rage.

And that is how we say goodbye.

Never Give In

2010-06-26T21:40:00.000-07:00

Never Give In was our motto at school, goading us to strive for what we aimed at till the very last vestige of strength and belief in ourselves. And while in school, we interpreted this largely in reference to our gruelling physical exercises, as we struggled to go just one measure farther than our tired limbs were capable of carrying us.

Life, however, has proven over the last many years that the adage is equally true for other domains too. Studies, career, relationships-no matter what the issue at hand, the one thing that will see you through is you yourself. And once this conviction is ingrained into you, it becomes evident that the true joy of life is to be used for a purpose recognised by yourself as a mighty one; to be thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; to be a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

And such firm conviction stems from belief. Belief in ourselves, the purity of our intentions and the magnificence of our goals. All too often, people find themselves in doubt and, like the deer who goes mad looking for the musk, turn to the world to seek answers, not knowing that the answers they so desperately seek are within their own selves. The result is self-doubt, gradually descending into self-pity and finally a complete resignation to the uncaring flow of life.

But this is not how it should be. A ship in harbour may be safe, but that is not what ships are built for. The true joy is in being able to take the bull by its horns and striving to make for ourselves just the future that we want. Sure, it will be susceptible to failure but atleast the journey will be a memorable one. And should we succeed, paradise would need no definition.

An anecdote I remember in this regard is of Lord Curzon visiting the Lucknow Residency to see the spot where his hero, Sir Henry Lawrence, had laid down his life in the Mutiny of 1857. The Viceroy was led to a room where a plaque marked the exact spot where Lawrence was said to have breathed his last. Curzon, however, far from being pleased, left the room with a frown. He then summoned the custodian and asked for the layout plans of the Residency. After studying them for a while, he announced that the plaque had been placed in the wrong room for Lawrence, as best as Curzon’s memory served him, had lost his life in an altogether different wing of the building. Not wanting to bandy words with the Viceroy, the entourage meekly agreed with him. This lack of resistance further annoyed Curzon for he perceived it as an insult to his intelligence and a servile acknowledgement of his office. The matter was dropped right there but years later, when his Viceroyalty had ended and he was back in Britain, Curzon dug into the archives of the Mutiny, went through tomes of reference material and single-handedly prepared a detailed dossier detailing the exact spot of Henry Lawrence’s death. The dossier was scrutinized by the India Office, who concluded that Curzon was, as always, correct. Shortly thereafter, the plaque at Lucknow was relocated to the location Curzon had identified, where it remains to this day!

“But a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a Heaven for?”

The Girl Who Owns A City

2010-06-17T05:59:00.000-07:00

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard”

When I moved to Chandigarh, I had no illusions about the city. Having spent my life wandering across the length and breadth of the country, Chandigarh was just a go-between on my way to Simla. It was good for the occasional stop-over but lacked both the vibrancy of Delhi and the serenity of Simla. You could come here and go shopping, catch a bite to eat or find the conveniences of a metropolis within a small space. But not much more.

Today, after having stayed here for a few years, I still feel the same-a rank outsider. It’s almost as if the city and I just could not adopt each other. Even my favourite haunts seem like they belong someplace else. It feels almost surreal, like viewing everything from a distance, detached and aloof.

So when I stand here on the cusp of my imminent and permanent departure, I should be able to say my farewell without any qualms. After all, I will not miss the lake, the tree-lined boulevards, the planned symmetry of the city. I might remember it once in a while, but not with any special longing.

But there is a void somewhere. For I am also leaving behind a lot of people. People I worked with, people I dined with, those that I fought with and those that I laughed with. Be it the paan shop which always had an interesting anecdote to offer or the old man who always overcharged for his wares. In their own special way, each of them wove threads into the fabric which makes up life. I got to enter their homes and feel the warmth of a homestead, make unreasonable demands and claim a right on them, deflate their tyres and experience the antagonism that unites dear friends. All in all, a remarkable montage of life, compressed into the span of a few months.

One of the peculiarities of life is that it is with the most arcane of things that we develop a very strong sense of connection. It could be the smell of meethe-chawal that brings back memories of childhood. It could be a song that takes you back to the carefree vagrancy of college. It could even be a cologne that you put on after a long time which brings with it the fragrance of a special someone. Regardless of the trigger, each thing is associated with just one particularly memorable event or person. Despite having stayed in over a dozen cities across India, I still connect each of them with just one thing- Assam is all about cricket just as Bengal was all about reading, Jammu is the land of my grandmother, Delhi is the place I found myself and Simla is the perennial sanctuary.

And as I leave Chandigarh, there is, above all else, just one thing I will remember it as-the city of a girl. A girl I met in my first few months here and who was always with me in all our sojourns around town. The girl with a lilt to her walk and a spring in her step. A smile to light up the room and a frown to humble the darkest cloud. With a million questions and a billion answers. Funny, intelligent, vivacious. And much more.

The girl who, to me, will always own the city of Chandigarh.

"I went my unremembering way,

I went and took with me

The pang of all the partings gone,

And partings yet to be"

Regrets and Rememberances

2010-06-15T21:36:00.001-07:00

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”.

A sentiment echoed across time. A paradox to understand, an axiom for all. And yet, something which the closer we get to understanding, the farther it seems to slip.

They used to say of Alexander that his greatest flaw was that he never understood that it is not enough to conquer; you must know how to charm. They said the same of Curzon, that he had too much hubris. And they say the same for the millions of wretched souls who are accused of taking what they had for granted and realising its value only when it was snatched from them.

And at cursory glance, they seem to be correct. Only seem, mind you, for the moment you start digging deeper, you realise that what is often mistaken as a sign of callous indifference or smug disdain is actually one of the most basic human needs-the need to feel cherished, to feel important. Be it a prince or a pauper, every one of us relishes the thought that someone, somewhere, is waiting for us to call, to come home, to just be there. But the tempestuous rascal that love is, it takes on a perverted form whereby we reverse roles and take this liberty with exactly those people whom we should be nurturing the most. We commit endless transgressions and justify them in the name of testing the bond. We pride ourselves on our carefree natures and devil-may-care attitudes, well aware that we are treading on very fine ice. And this macabre charade continues, passing back and forth between the two sides, till we stretch the bond to its utmost, right till the point of breaking.

The irony of life is that we never get to break the bond, no matter how much we stretch it. No, that is the prerogative of the others. And even the others don’t break it, for if they had the gumption to do so, there would never have been a bond in the first place. So, if it’s not us and it’s not the others, then how does this bond break? Who snaps it asunder and doesn’t feel the sting?

People. The people who profess that they care for us and are doing what they think we know to be right but are too weak to do by ourselves. Way too much of popular fiction and media has told us that the universe conspires to bring us what we want. But experience seems to prove otherwise. Experience seems to show that beyond a meagre handful of relations cultivated across the span of a lifetime, most others enter our lives just because they did not have anything else to do at that point in their lives. It’s not that these people have mal-intent in their hearts. The problem is that they don’t have any intent. They are drifters in our lives, just as we are in theirs. But as with all other fleeting entities, their allure is captivating, their concern seems legitimate, their opinions sound staunch.

And we sway. Too fatigued with the burdens we are carrying, we pass on this vicarious mantle onto them, to make what they will of our lives. Our lives. It seems like such a lovely thing to do, have someone around to comfort you and clean up the mess in your life. We cultivate a host of them around us and for a brief interlude, we are the world! The cynosure of every eye, the topic of every discussion, the fragile yet desireable ones. The moon is ours for just sixpence!

What we ignore is that this too shall pass. And very soon, it does. The novelty fades away first, then the excitement. Sometimes, we become conscious of impinging on other people’s lives, of distracting them from their cares. At other times, we are told that the worst has passed and we must learn to move on. And right here, the question hits us, how?

How do you move on? For the one person whom we could take these liberties with, whom we could throw tantrums at, who could understand our unspoken words, is the one person missing. The memories, “that only you remember, that only I admire”, come back to haunt us. On the one hand is the desire to shun our vanity and concede surrender. On the other, the shame of looking hapless in front of the people who are concerned for us but would mock at our frailty.
Which of these two paths we take is a very subjective and personal decision. There really cannot be any one way to decide. Yet, a little anecdote on native Cherokee wisdom seems pertinent here;

One evening, an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle between two wolves is inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, envy, regret, greed, arrogance, resentment, ego and guilt. The other is Good. It is peace, love, hope, humility, compassion, empathy, serenity, joy and faith.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked, “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed” .

Here’s hoping that we learn to distinguish between the two wolves, know who to feed and cherish what we have before it slips away with the sands of time. For the greatest regret in life is for the deeds left undone and the words left unsaid.

“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, a Loaf of Bread, a Jug of Wine and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wilderness, Oh, Wilderness is Paradise now !!”

If youth knew, If age could

2010-06-07T04:18:00.000-07:00

The genesis of most problems facing the Indian state today can be traced not as much to the presence of ubiquitous corruption and apathy as to the absence of able stewardship. One of the most denuding commentaries on the miscarriage of democracy in India is perhaps the fact that in the six-odd decades since our independence, the people have not failed the state but have failed themselves. Time and time again, we have chosen for ourselves leaders even the best of whom fall woefully short of the expectations of their respective offices.

A cursory look at the incumbents of high office in India reveals the dismal fact that we seem to prefer age over merit. The youngest of our Presidents has been a sprightly 64 while the oldest of our Prime Ministers was a seasoned 81! With the sole exception of Rajiv Gandhi, who elevation to South Block was for the most part through fortuitous circumstances, there has been no other incumbent to have entered upon either of these august offices even in his fiftieth year. In stark contrast are the relatively diminutive ages of leaders across the globe which, in no small measure, are a reflection of the vitality and dynamism of their growth trajectories. Even Abraham Lincoln, whose visage towers over that of the other occupants of the Oval Office much akin to an aging patriarch, was merely 52 at the time of his inauguration.

This is not to say that an advanced age necessarily implies decrepitude or senility. There are abundant examples strewn about history which lay testimony to the benefits that come with time. However, continual doses of a similar approach towards policy can be detrimental. One of the most evident susceptibilities in such a scenario is the widening chasm between the expectations of the populace and the mindset of the leaders, which is mournfully out of sync with the ground realities. Consider M.K. Gandhi-at a time when the entire world had realised the implications of industrial might, he could not shake off his staunch convictions towards individual and cottage industries; so much so that even Rabindranath Tagore, the very man who had christened him “Mahatama”, wrote a scathing article condemning “The Cult of the Charkha” that Gandhi was perpetrating.

Another problem with choosing leaders approaching the twilight of their lives is the burden of expectations and obligations that they each carry. The road to the top is fraught with many an impediment and in the cumulative journeys of a few decades, any individual would find himself saddled with the ghosts of antiquated aspirations as also the need to oblige those who stood by him along the way. So pervasive is this phenomenon that while the world has long outgrown the traditional “spoils” system, we in India view such instances of nepotism as valid compense for fidelity and support. Perhaps it was similar considerations that led Vajpayee to shower onto Advani the oblivious indulgence that may well have given us, just last year, an 82 year old PM-regardless of his egocentric ambitions, his specious secularism and his middling record as Home Minister.

But the most damning effect of over-ripened leadership is its proclivity towards a patronizingly paternal instinct. Too often have our leaders chosen to direct our destinies onto paths that were in sharp conflict with their mandate. Personal preferences are given the impression of national policy and thrust upon an impotent populace. Nehru gave us dams when we were hungry, Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed allowed Indira to rule by decree, Rajiv took us to fight the Tamils and Manmohan Singh feels that focussing solely on the abjectly penurious is adequate. Towering personalities all, their charisma alone nullifies any chance of a protest against their vision, no matter how ill-conceived the intent may be.

Plato, writing at the time of the very inception of democratic ideals, said that the guardians of the state must be unaffected by and impervious to their past. They should, instead, be groomed in the art of administration and taught to apply themselves to the milieu in which they operate. Furthermore, in doing so, they should look upon those who they govern with a certain sense of detachment so as not to yield to sentiments of either dominance or compassion. Naturally, the earlier such incumbents enter upon their office, the lesser their chance of being conditioned by the extant system.

And it is exactly this form of disinterested guardianship that India most severely needs at the moment. A breed of individuals specially reared and trained for the sole purpose of governance. Prepared for the high offices they are ordained to occupy through the rigours of hard study and discipline. Free of prejudice, unencumbered by their precedents. And cognisant of the fact that the foremost task of those who govern is to govern themselves.

Hidden

2010-06-05T00:15:00.000-07:00

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 11; the eleventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write(and We-Pull !). To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Samai Sangram Singh.
A name so befitting India’s martial Rajput race that even as he was born, it was decided that Sangram would join the proud legacy of his forebears and add another generation in the service of the Indian army. Five generations had stood the post before him, each had laid atleast one son down to sleep in the shroud of the Tricolour. The family’s ancestral home at Chakrata, in the vicinity of the Indian Military Academy, boasted of more citations, medals and trophies than any typical Division Mess could ever hope for. The army was a way of life here and the ultimate honour was to meet a hero’s end in battle.

So it was that young Sangram steadied his first faltering steps by latching on to the turrets of the cannons in the portico, cannons that the Imperial British Army had captured from the Lucknow Residency during the Great Mutiny. As he found his feet, he explored the rambling compound around his house, graduating from slingshots to rudimentary bows and finally came of his own when at age 7, he was given his very first air-gun. Yet, the ultimate prize eluded him-a chance to accompany his father for the army’s firing exercises where he could not only see their weapons but also get an opportunity to fire them. Machine guns, grenades, mortars, maybe the chance to drive a Bofors or even a tank! For the time being, however, his mother had ruled against any such excursion and no measure of cajoling or exaggerated affection on his part would get her to relent. It was a dream that he would be allowed to partake of only when he reached his teens, not a minute before that.

Till that happened, it was the pigeons at Dehradun who had to bear the brunt of the boy’s bellicosity. And how they paid the price! At a young age, Sangram had learnt that masculinity is not something given to you, but something you gain. And you gain it by winning small battles with honour. So, a natural at leadership as he was, many a lazy summer afternoon found him organising “wars” in the mangrove in his backyard. He would split the children into two factions and quickly assume the role of the commander of his forces. He was a stern but fair soldier, ever willing to share the power and the spoils. The only standing stipulation being that his side always be called “India”, for he never for a moment believed that he would lose. And each battle would end with a gracious invitation to the vanquished to join the victors in honing their marksmanship on the unfortunate pigeons who had chosen to reside in these environs.

Perhaps it was the fast dwindling avian population or, more likely, the fact that all his predecessors had attended the Lawrence School at Sanawar. For either reason, the summer he turned 8, Sangram was packed off to join the elite institution which, among others, had educated his hero, Arun Khetarpal, India’s youngest Param Vir Chakra winner. And as the terms sped by, Sangram added to his repertoire the skills of boxing, horse-riding and fencing, while equally studiously ignoring the charms of the many girls who fawned over his every exploit. With its hallowed history and captive student strength of 700, Sanawar gave Sangram everything he had hoped for-a chance to learn, a chance to compete and a chance to excel. And he did all three, evolving into a sanguine blend of panache and disdain.

Life was bliss. Well, almost, for he had still not been able to lay his hands on any of the armoury that he had always dreamt of. The permission to go with his father for an exercise was still a chimera that eluded him with relentless tenacity. But not for long-four years had sped by at Sanawar and he would turn 13 the next fall. And since his birthday fell bang in the middle of the school term, his mother had agreed to let him go for the Regiment’s annual firing exercise at Pokhran during his winter holidays in December. It was already hard enough for Sangram to contain himself till the holidays arrived and it had become tougher still after he heard from his father that this year’s exercise was to be on a gargantuan scale because of the hostile deportment Pakistan had acquired of late. It was with no small measure of grit and fortitude that the boy steadied his mind to focus on Wordsworth and logarithms and banished, but only temporarily, the wild fantasy of a war breaking out between the two countries just when he arrived at Pokhran!

The days crawled by and finally, on the 11th of Dec. 1986, Sangram found himself in a train bound for the recondite cantonment where his father was currently posted. He had been assured that he would leave for Pokhran with the advance party of the regiment on the 26th. And although that was two weeks too long for him, he had sagaciously agreed and already was working on how to keep himself busy till then. For once he got there, it would be a good fortnight before his father could send him back home-a fortnight booming with the thunder of artillery, the roar of fighter jets, the crackle of carbines.

The trip was long and tiring but not enough to dampen Sangram’s spirits. The moment the train pulled into the station, he hoisted his rucksack onto his back and careened towards the exit. It was a bright, sunny winter morning and the nip in the air buoyed his exuberance further. After 4 months of a stern and rigorous regime, it was time to be treated like a chotta-sahab again!
But where he had been expecting a gaggle of family members rushing to welcome him, he saw only the driver. A little crushed, he nonetheless regained his composure quickly and allowed himself to be led to the jeep. The drive home was spent in silence but the closer he got to the cantonment, the more disconcerting it became. Too many convoys had just crossed them and they were all going in the opposite direction, away from the cantonment. Was it possible that the exercise had been advanced to an earlier date and his parents had arbitrarily decided not to let him go after all?

The answers to all his questions awaited him at home and so, the moment the jeep stopped, he rushed indoors to begin his inquisition. His mother had only just reached out to hug him when he demanded an explanation for the frugal reception at the railway station and, more importantly, for the convoys. And that is when he heard the two words that for him held the promise of untold adventure. Operation Brasstacks.

The Indian Army had launched Operation Brasstacks, India’s biggest ever mobilisation of its armed forces along the Pakistan border and the biggest land exercise since World War II. The convoys Sangram had passed were on their way to join an endless stream of man and material being poured onto the western front. Even within the confines of his pre-pubescent mind, Sangram knew that this could only mean one thing-war with Pakistan. The last time India had mobilised troops on such a large scale had been during the ’71 war. And he, Samai Sangram Singh, would be there when it happened this time! It seemed that the Gods were finally looking down upon him with favour. All he needed to do now was to curb his excitement lest he be written off as too juvenile and be disallowed from tagging along. He had to maintain a certain degree of equanimity and composure so that when his father got home, he would realise that the son had become a man. And after having spent his entire life waiting for just this moment, pretending to be indifferent to all the excitement for just a few hours longer did not seem much of an ask for Sangram.

The morning turned into noon and the noon into evening but his father did not return. There was a lot of hearsay about the impending declaration of a war but nothing could be substantiated. Tired as he was, he finally relented to his mothers admonitions, ate his dinner and went to bed. He spent a couple of hours tossing about but the familiar sound of his father’s jeep still did not come. The repose of a home and the warmth of his own bed soon got the better of him and he drifted off to sleep.

It was a little past 2 when he was awakened by the sound of a jeep driving off. Realising that his father must have come home, he stumbled out of bed to go and greet him. But when he got to the dining room, he realised that his parents had retired to their bedroom. Too well-bred to disturb them at this hour, he started making his way back to bed when something caught his eye. Silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in from the window was a round object lying on his father’s briefcase. As he crept closer, he recognised what it was. And what it meant.

As if a switch had been thrown, all thoughts of weapons and bombs fled from his mind. His mouth went dry, his stomach churned and his gut wrenched from within. It was not fear that gripped him but the dawning of a latent realisation. The realisation that all the bravado and chauvinism he had been brought up on paled in comparison with what he felt at that very moment. A feeling that he had, unconsciously, been trained to hide. That had remained hidden within him right until now. The feeling of love, pure and unconditional.

For lying in front of him was a battle helmet. Quotidian in its olive-green paint, ominous in the foliage sticking out of its netting.

A stark reminder of the horrors of war. And that the things in plain view of everyone are the best hidden.

Hidden like the fact that no matter how much he chose to disguise it, he could not bear the thought of his father going off to fight a meaningless war.

Hidden like the fact that a million tragedies in the battlefield left just one empty place at the dinner table at home.

Hidden so well that even the blind could see it.

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Oxen Occulus

2010-05-28T06:07:00.000-07:00

Just the other day, I read an aside in a prominent management journal that you should never trust an office where the plants are dead. And imagine the pride I felt knowing that my office could never be accused so. Our plants, for as long as I have known them, have never even withered a leaf. That’s because they are all artificial. But that’s another story. For the time being, let’s cruise away to the land where the great minds of tomorrow are nurtured.

The very first thing that will capture your attention will be the pretty young things sitting behind the desk, eager to tell you about all our product offerings. Their keen senses are honed to identify your needs in an instant and before you even feel the urge to state your needs, all available solutions will be laid before you. But sometimes, just sometimes, they go a little awry. Like the scrawny guy who listened in wide-eyed wonder for the better part of half-an-hour and then spent another 7 minutes writing all his personal details, except the name of his favourite toothpaste, down on our mandatory enquiry forms(“Sir, you must fill this in else how can we possibly help you best”, is always the refrain). And just when the counsellor attending to him was about to move on to the next visitor, said meekly “If the AC is still not working properly, can you tell me where it is so that I can repair it?”

But that is just an exception. By and large, we work hard at giving our best to our vocation. The hours are long but there is always a smile on every face, all day long. Some cynical persons have said that it reminds them of the famous Jagjit Singh song “Tum itna jo muskara rahe ho” but that is untrue. We are all punctual and if sometimes we are late arriving at office, we make up for it by leaving early. And the hours spent there are always in devotion of our glorious goals. The pressure of the deadlines zooming past is intense, so much that we have an entire legion of able young men whose designations have been informally christened Pressure, Vice-Pressure, Assistant Vice-Pressure and the like! We are no novices at handling the stress, although sometimes it can get the better of us. The latest to succumb to the vagaries of our work has been a colleague who suffered such a potent attack of insomnia that he can’t sleep even during office hours!

Time is an illusion for us, lunch time even more so. After scrambling their wits for a long time, the management reached the consensus that in appreciation of the labours put in by the entire workforce, the time spent on lunch would be counted as working hours. However, there were a couple of riders. The lunch could not be consumed at the beginning of the shift for the day nor at the end and if you did not wish to consume lunch, then you would have to spend the designated time at work failing which it would be treated as an offence but if you did have your lunch in less than the designated time frame then the time would be counted as work hours although you would not be given the extra credit that would have been yours by right had you chosen to utilise the entire span of time designated for the purpose...... The jury is still out on this one. Meanwhile, those valiant enough to still eat lunch at office have reportedly become wizards at the art of permutations and combinations, with their nimble brains working out in nanoseconds the trade-off between eating 2 chapattis as a single roll and saving 93.5 precious seconds versus hiding their salad in their pockets and consuming it later thus saving 27.6 seconds but leaving no time for an after-lunch burp!

Don’t let this mislead you into thinking that we don’t cherish our policies and rules. Quite to the contrary, you just need to take a look around to see how serious we are about the current dictum of cutting corners to minimize costs. Starting with the judicious use of electricity and going all the way to the use of thermocol glasses for tea, no effort has been spared to remove wasteful expenditure. We never print on a single side of a sheet, don’t even use the intercom without authorisation. So pervasive has been the intent that it seems even the inanimate denizens of our universe understand the urgency. Just the other day, a friend of mine was typing away furiously to complete a report when he realised that the keyboard was malfunctioning and for every dozen characters he pressed, only about half appeared on-screen. But when he complained to the technical support staff, the reply brought tears of pride to our eyes. “Sir", he said," this is not malfunctioning. It’s cost-cutting”.

Oxen Occulus.

Much ado,about nothing?

2010-05-24T22:55:00.000-07:00

Of all the bright and beautiful things God has enabled man to create, there can hardly be anything better than anaesthesia. Forget the space rockets, the multitudinous power of the internet, stem-cell therapy, super crops et al. There is nothing even half as amazing as the feeling of unmitigated tranquillity that pervades your being with the simple administration of a spot of anaesthesia.And nowhere is this more apt than when you take your ravaged fangs to the local dentist, for him to get them back in shape for the next phase of hedonistic chomping and guzzling.

My affaire de coeur with dentists started before I had reached even double-digits in age. The culprit then were the ubiquitous chocolates and bubble gums which ensured that ever so often, you woke up to a mouthful of pain. Hot food would agonize, cold food would tingle, even water would sting. The family would offer neither reproach nor remonstration. Their only counsel would be that since you got yourself into it, now it is you who must “man-up” and get yourself out of it.

“Man-up”! What a lovely sham. Delude a boy of 9 to pretend that the brain-numbing pain was tolerable and the accepted order of things was to saunter into the dentist’s and remedy it by yourself. Ironically, it was this very chauvinism that often helped put the pain behind and move on to the next level.

So with a heavy heart, you excused yourself from the weekend cricket match, asked your folks to fix you an appointment, got your little bicycle out and pedalled furiously to the clinic. Walking into the reception was always a glorious feeling, akin to a gladiator entering the Circus Maximus. The feeling that you were taking life head-on and regardless of what came your way, you would not ask for mercy. There would be moments of self-doubt when, as you tried to distract yourself in aged issues of Women’s Era, the swarthy man who had entered the surgery room a moment earlier would let out a bellow of pain. Your insides would churn to think of the horrors that lay behind the door and you would be confronted by the existential question that has intrigued mankind since dentistry was first practised, “why didn’t I brush twice every day?”The mind would race hard to think of ways to keep itself occupied when in the chair. Pleasant thoughts were the best bet and you started refreshing memories of all the good things that you would go over while the dentist did his job. The visuals invariably started with a brand new leather ball with a flawless seam, the prospect of finding a chest of treasure in the ravines behind the cantonment, the possibilities if you were able to fly or even go invisible(the latter is best left unexplained!). But barely had the world started looking tolerable than the nurse would call out your name and suddenly, even the feeble security of Women’s Era seemed adequate.

The six most frightening words in the world are, without doubt, “the dentist will see you now”. The apprehension that grips your very being when you walk towards the dentist’s chair is the stuff that movies are made of. The elements of suspense, anxiety, fear, impending tragedy and above all, courage and honour are not to be mocked at. You know that this man in the white smock can put an end to your suffering, yet it seems that if you just spent the rest of your days brushing hard, you would be fine. And if you ran out of here right now, he really couldn’t do much about it. But by the time this wisdom dawns, you are already seated in the chair and the preliminary probes have begun. You clench the armrests and stiffen yourself for the worst, only to be told to relax and let yourself loose. The prognosis is plain, a filling. Then he picks up the biggest syringe you have laid eyes upon and loads it with the medicine. All thoughts of leather balls and lost cities zoom out of the mind, leaving only the dread of 4 inches of metal being driven into your mouth.

But then comes the miracle of anaesthesia! The tiniest of pricks and then the sweet bliss of not being able to feel anything. Suddenly, you are Hercules and Achilles rolled into one. Your grip softens, your mouth opens wider and you almost have a smile on your face. The excavators, the drills, the forceps-you dare them all to do their best, for you are ready to face the worst. You snigger inwardly at the poor craven souls too cowardly to bear such a simple test of character. Soon, the procedure is over and even with the wad of cotton lodged in your mouth, you manage to give the doctor your charming best smile. And swagger out towards the reception with the disdain of a conquering hero.

And that’s when you hear him say, “This tooth is fine now. But the molar next to it needs to be extracted. So I’ll see you at 10 tommorow?”

"Some tortures are physical

And some are mental,

But the one that is both

Is dental."

~Ogden Nash

The Puerile Press

2010-05-18T09:02:00.000-07:00

The veritable witch-hunt perpetrated by the press against Lalit Modi has been a ghoulish delight. Hardly a day goes by when we are not inundated with even more details pertaining to his autocratic style of functioning or his selective dissemination of information, even within his innermost clique.

It is unquestionably evident that Modi had a huge amount of resources at his disposal and that he acted irresponsibly for a man in his position. But of these two refrains, only the first can be ascertained as fact; the latter is, at best, just an opinion. And this is a distinction that is fast getting blurred in the bizarre flurry of what we have become accustomed to addressing as “news”. The media in India, never one to venture beyond the realm of second-hand conjecture or tabloid gossip, has started exhibiting atavistic aspirations towards sharing the influence and judgement of statesmen. While such aspirations are certainly not unwarranted, what irks is that the media shies away from ascribing to a commensurate share of the corresponding responsibilities.

I quote here an incident that occurred a few months back. A group of protestors, agitating outside a District Collector’s office, were subjected to a verbal whiplash by the bureaucrat. Chastised, the group dispersed but not before a few local journalists had caught the verbal tirade and promptly published it in the following day’s newspapers, citing it as yet another example of the characteristic haughtiness of those in power. A few days later, a journalist friend of mine referred to this very incident, lamenting India’s plight if those in power were not made fully accountable.

I agree here with the intent, but certainly not with the diagnosis. While it is apparent that those who govern us must first learn to govern themselves, it is also pertinent to appreciate that governance is all too often a pareto-optimal affair. The paucity of resources sometimes necessitates that the ends justify the means. The furore over the mandatory disclosure of file and substantive notings under the Right to Information Act and the subsequent dismissal of all such demands is a case in point.

Draconian as it may sound, the fact remains that administration exists to preserve democracy, not to practice it. Writing in the 19th century, Woodrow Wilson had opined that it was much easier to organise a government under a monarchy than under a democracy, for the simple reason that the multitude of demands in a democracy rarely afford an opportunity to take the best decision.

So also, let us play the devil’s advocate for a while and consider Modi. Sure, he is guilty of arrogance, nepotism, moral turpitude and many other misdemeanours. But isn’t he the same man who, in the short span of three years, has almost single-handedly sired a 4 billion dollar entity, the IPL? (At the going exchange rate, that’s about 1.8 lakh crore rupees!). Add to this the spin-offs and trickle down benefits and the pause to reflect, do his manners and morals outweigh his attainment? I would not, for one moment, disagree that he needs to be censured. But as Robert Browning so eloquently put it, “It were better youth/Should strive through acts uncouth/Towards making, than repose on things found made”. A similar conclusion was reached by Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist, who absolved Clinton in the Lewinsky scandal on the grounds that what the nation was concerned with was his performance in the Oval Office, not his marital infidelity.

Perhaps it is time for the press to realize that their primary task is to obtain information and report it with the least possible element of selective filtering. To realize that as the custodians of the genesis and galvanization of public opinion, they should avoid partisan considerations in their dissemination of news. And most importantly, to realize that they would grievously endanger their exalted privileges if they tried to incorporate elements of adjudication in their reportings.

Ingenuous India

2010-05-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

India seems to be warming to the news that Ajmal Kasab has been awarded the death sentence. Discussions in all spheres of our lives, ranging from college coffee shops to corporate boardrooms to the most innocuous auto-rickshaw ride have for the past 48 hours been centred on this one subject. While it is easy to understand the sense of vindictive triumph that accompanies this theme, it is equally galling that we forget so easily. Forget that this individual was apprehended almost 18 months ago, moments after he had gunned down scores of innocent bystanders. Forget the cocky yet purposeful visage that flashed across our television screens for days on end that cold November. Forget that the first thing we did upon arresting him was to take him to a hospital for medical aid, where he had candidly admitted to his crime. Forget the sense of impotent outrage we felt when told that the man whom billions (not millions, billions) had seen toting a gun as he went about his business was not to be executed outright but to be given a fair trial in this “honourable” country of ours. Forget that for the last year and a half, he has been living on 3 square meals a day while famished millions in our country lull their hapless children to another emaciated sleep.

We forget. It’s as simple as that. We forget our frailties and lest someone should point out the error of our ways, we cloak such decrepitude under the guise of honour. Bangladesh, about a decade back, had killed 23 of our BSF personnel and thrown their mutilated bodies across the border fencing. India chose to treat is as a one-off incident of their soldiers going astray and issued a “stern” warning that such incidents would not be tolerated again. One wonders what Israel might have done under similar circumstances. Or for that matter, perish the thought, America.

But then, we are not Israel nor America. We are India, the land of immortal souls like Gandhi and Nehru. We are expected to live up to their hallowed maxims and morals. Never mind that neither would be able to last a day in these times of realpolitik- we still choose to emulate them and bask in the warmth of our self-perpetuating indolence and infirmity. A nation of a billion people chooses to remain indifferent to its latent potentialities and even today seeks titbits of alien appreciation to make itself feel worthy. 62 years old, yet not able to stop gushing like a teenager at the mere mention of an Oscar or a Nobel!

What stings even more is the self-flagellation that we have made such an important part of our daily lives. The common man in India does not get the first opportunity to revel in the pride of being Indian. Our national awards, with the Bharat Ratna leading by example, have never afforded us an opportunity to cherish an effort well made in the service of the nation; most recipients are stodgy, slimy geezers who just happened to know the powers-that-be. Our ridiculous national holidays, with their garish displays of outdated customs, serve just one purpose-a closed holiday with no electricity cuts.

I remember well how, when in college, one of our favourite haunts after a late-night movie used to be Raisina Hill. Drive out of the theatre, pop a paan into your mouth and zoom across Rajpath till you almost kissed the gargantuan iron gates enclosing India’s number one residential address, Rashtrapati Bhavan. Turn and park between North and South Blocks and bask in the awe of being at the pulsating epicentre of India’s policy elite. Then sit awhile on the ramparts and watch the Delhi traffic whisk by at a distance. To your left was Parliament House, to your right was the Army Headquarters. No matter how many times you went there, the experience was always surreal. And guaranteed to put a smile on your face were the numerous signs dotting the esplanade in this prime piece of real estate-each read “Free Parking”! For most of us who did not belong to Delhi, it seemed the perfect welcome from the country-a welcome to the National Capital Territory, for us to enjoy, for it was all ours.

Today however, should you be foolhardy enough to venture such a trip, you would be met with multiple posses of armed guards who, after harassing you with exaggerated inquisitions, would ensure that you did not manage to cross even Vijay Chowk. Regardless of where you park, you will be charged by the hour. And the few tentative steps you will manage to take in your subdued curiosity will all be accompanied by an acute sense of being spied upon.

Perhaps it is time to start remembering. Remember that as much as we owe to our nation, it owes us a little too. And for starters, maybe a little sense of belongingness would be nice. Not the kind that comes when we lose a hundred lives in another terror attack or when Sachin bludgeons a century. Rather, the sense of belongingness that comes from random and even prosaic gestures. Polite policemen, good public transport, clean hospitals, metalled roads. Gestures that are not unexpected or out of the ordinary. Yet, gestures that help us remember that we belong together, united by this great land into which we were born. Gestures that need no prompting, that make us feel secure, remind us that we are Indians.

Maybe then we could start working our way up to the top that is, by every right, ours. Maybe then we will forget about the characters on foreign soaps and for once remember who wrote our epics. Remember with pride our lineage and stop gaping at the savage yuppies who profess to be civilising the world. Remember our great rivers, our mighty mountains, our boundless plains and pass over the synthetic seduction of lesser lands.

Maybe then we will remember that executing one man is neither noteworthy nor important. For the real triumph lies in being able to subdue your opponent without sending a single solider across or firing a single shot. And we have done that repeatedly over the last six decades, in the fields of education, entertainment, agriculture, technology, human rights, transport, telecom, defence. The real triumph, as we have shown to the world, is in gaining superiority over our own selves.

“In Thought FAITH
In Word WISDOM
In Deed COURAGE
In Life SERVICE
So may India be Great”
-inscription on the Jaipur Column at Rashtrapati Bhavan

Escape

2010-05-01T05:50:00.000-07:00

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

If you think you are free, there is no escape possible!

Almost everything in life is like our shadow, the more we flee, the more it follows. And the more we follow, the more it flees. Escape is impossible. Except when we stop resisting and concede submission.

We escape from work, we escape from sorrow, escape the heat; escape the questions, the responsibilities, the anxieties, the worries. In short, we are always escaping from something and finding refuge in something else which, very soon, will be the very thing we shall be seeking escape from! Twain once said that fashion is a form of art so ugly that we need to change it every six months. But we take it to a different dimension by seeking to change the very fabric of our lives.

At 12, we were so ashamed of our folks that we wished in all earnestness that we could escape them. Then at 16, we wanted to escape our gangly, pimply selves and emerge as the epitomes of aesthetic appeal we saw in others. By the time we got to 21, the dimensions of escape had broadened to include shunning studies (no more after 18 long years!) and finding the refuge of stable careers. And no sooner had we reached that threshold in our lives that it became apparent that there would be no escape from this!! The only escape afforded at this juncture is the relative domesticity of marital life. And so we plunge headlong into the whirlpool of gut-wrenching emotions and back-breaking responsibilities that marriage is. Before long, no surprise, we are told that the best escape from the drudgery of marriage is the pitter-patter of little feet. And very soon, petrified little souls that we are, we find ourselves swamped in soiled diapers which evolve into bicycles, tuition bills, all-night vigils and enough existential angst to shame a wannabe monk ! The possibilities of escape dim rapidly as the cares of our jobs, partners, debts and children multiply.

This is where the only bliss possible seems to be afforded by the promise of a good afterlife, for we always assume that we have been diligent and sincere individuals. But then Ghalib pops into our minds and softly whispers, “Ab to ghabra ke ye kehte hain ki mar jayenge/ Mar ke bhi chain na mila, to kahan jayenge?” !!

And this is where life comes-a-calling. This is where you realise that although wishes and dreams are a comfort unto themselves, we must beware what we wish for. For often, the very things we seek escape from are the things we once wanted, dreamt about, hoped for. This is where it strikes us that escape is nigh impossible unless you are willing to surrender, that surrender is as honourable as resistance, especially if one has no choice.

Finally, the doors of perception are cleansed and we recognize the beauty of life. The fact that without the pebbles in its bed, the stream would have no song. That we never try to escape from anything but our own selves, our own demons. That escape is not necessary if we are ready to just embrace ourselves. To accept who we are, cherish ourselves, forgive our own follies and fall in love with our own selves, twisted as they might be.

And that once we are willing to accept this, the need to escape is futile.

“Hawas ko hai nishaat-e-kaar kya kya
Na ho marna, to jeene ka mazaa kya !”

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Life,or something like it !

2010-04-30T00:06:00.000-07:00

Girls, we were always told, are not to be understood-they are merely to be feared. In fact, just a few days back when I put one of Frost's quotes on my Facebook wall, loads of people asked me who it was in context of. And always, the answer in my mind was Jasmine ! The one who wields such power as to reduce the sternest of demeanours into a lump of clay, to mould as she chooses.

I first met Jasmine in 2007, when I moved to Chandigarh-her family had rented a floor in the same house where I became a tenant. For the first few months, I would run into her occasionally but we never exchanged anything more than bemused looks of mutual curiosity. It took us a full six months before we started talking. But once we did, it was a veritable deluge-we met over breakfast, chatted over fruits and bonded over noodles. She told me everything about herself and gradually drew me out my reticence to share more than trivialities with her. Soon, it came to a point where I could tell her just about anything. I knew that she did not always understand what I told her yet it was a delight to watch her mull it over and then advice me in all earnestness. And perhaps it was this candid and heartfelt affection in her intent that made it possible to glean the rudimentary wisdom in it all.

And so a year sped by together-long drives, walks in the park, ice-creams and melted candy floss at the lake, and loads of laughs! I don’t think either of us, more me than her, realised that we were sharing the premises only temporarily and would, some day, have to move our own ways. Her family had started construction on a house of their own, yet we chose to remain oblivious to it, spending time making up silly plans and sillier games.

But then I had to go and goof it all up. The fragile male ego needs constant reassurance, I can vouch for that. And living up to the inadequacies of my gender, I told her that I would be moving out very soon. And it was true, I did expect to leave Chandigarh soon. She paused to reflect on what I had said, looked a little confused and then just left and went home. I suddenly felt very foolish but I could not undo what I had said. In my misappropriated position of guilt, I could not even muster the courage to call out to her. So I waited for the next day, for her to forget and come back. The day came, and many more after it, but not Jasmine. In the days that came, if I chanced upon her in the stairwell, she would doggedly ignore me. I would hear her moving in and out of the house but never did the knock on my door come again.

As it turned out, I did not leave. And neither did she come. The proverbial days turned into months but we maintained a dignified detachment. Until about a month ago when I heard that her “new house” was complete and that she would be moving out within a few weeks. I grew restless but just did not know what to do or who to approach. But then destiny played its part and my sister came over to visit me. She had made friends with Jasmine on previous trips and did not know about the ongoing impasse. So it was with unrestrained joy that I saw Jasmine come to meet her, with a pizza in tow! We spent an amazing evening together and even after my sister left, Jasmine continued her visits. Paradise was restored but the spectre of her impending departure kept looming in my mind.

It started the day the first moving vans arrived. I thought that this was it but the shifting seemed to take a while. So, after some days, I sunk into the reassurance of a prolonged departure. And then, just like that, I came home one day and they were gone! I don’t know what hit me more, the finality of it all or the denial of a last goodbye. I felt odd but, having no choice, accepted it as the natural order of life.

Its been a couple of weeks since she left, but even today morning I was remembering Jasmine. My new helper made sausages for breakfast and I chuckled to think how she grimaced at the mere sight of it. With a sense of wretched yearning, I finished breakfast and sat down to drown myself in some inconsequential work. All of a sudden there was a knock on the door. Not a knock as much as a relentless spate of poundings on the door. Without even a moment of reflection, I knew that there was only one person in the world who was standing on the other side of the door.

So she came, she saw and I was conquered! Her mother had come by to wind up some last minute details and Jasmine stole a few minutes to be with me. I wanted to say a million things but she held up her hand and motioned me to stop. Then, with a breathless flurry of details, she told me all about her new environs. She left before I could even absorb the pure exhilaration of being with her. But this time, I know it was not as much of a goodbye as the beginning of a new dimension to our attachment.

For the time being, it is sufficient that she came! JASMINE came!

And oh, by the way, Jasmine is five !