Taaza! Taaza! straight from my pen... have a dekko!

                                                           

AB KI BAAR...........

If Manmohan Singh is ‘The Accidental Prime Minister’ then Rahul Gandhi seems to be the ‘PM by accident’ – accident of birth and accident of the Gandhi surname happening to him. Apart from that he seems to have little credibility to sit in the driver’s seat of the largest democracy in the world. I feel Congress needs to step out of the shadow of the family which Nehru started. A fresh approach and a fresh non-Gandhi face will give it a complete overhaul. I don’t think the Gandhi clan has been blessed with the rare PM-gene.

On the other hand it was a pleasure listening to Modi field questions posed by the impish Rajat Sharma. His rise from the sidelines of the party to the centre stage cannot be without merit. His credibility rests in the fact that almost everybody questions him and his credentials. After all nobody kicks a dead dog. Modi has the mettle even though he might not be the perfect candidate. He is the most eligible one visible on the horizon of the next five year plan.

His charisma and conviction has the potential to salvage our sinking ship. We need a leader with a strong spine who can stand tall and take decisions and connect with the people he is leading. Someone who can hold his own on international platforms. As of now Modi seems to fit the bill. How will he fare in the PMO I don’t know but I am ready to vote for and take that risk rather than allow that fumbling scion stumble through another term while his mother once again gets in the wings to act as the prompter! So ab ki baar.... change ki sarkar! Ek chance to banta hai yaar!

I GOT INKED

                                                                I GOT INKED

Finally the day arrived when I went for voting! It had been a distant dream. Having led a sequestered life in the forces, where voting just didn’t happen due to the nomadic nature of the job I was a ‘drawing room’ activist. Perpetually worrying about the state of affairs in the country, how those rotten politicians were sucking the country dry, and then cursing the ‘bloody Indians’ for shopping for such ‘rotten tomatoes’ and plonking them in the parliament. I was happy letting my lips serve the nation.  But then a posting to Jammu, my home town, changed the scenario.

My name was on the voters’ list giving me the permission and the opportunity to vote. The booth was set up in a Government school in the middle of a busy township. I went with some trepidation streaked with confidence. Finally I will send my chosen candidate to the Big House and make Modi the PM. I have let the cat out of the bag – yes I have voted BJP- not for their manifesto but just for change. Congress has spent a decade partying now is the time for the other half to go to the ball. But novelty of the PM and the situation might make them dance the salsa. Later may be they will get back to the ‘Lok Sabha Beat’ but till such time India might see some good done to it.

I have digressed from what I set out to say. Well the voters queued up- ladies on one side and men on the other. Policemen kept a vigil. I too joined the serpentine line and waited for my turn. It was scorching hot. The April Sun didn’t take leave on voting day as the rest of the state had. I was sweating and tanning. My carefully maintained complexion getting a solar make over. I was taking the pain to stand for hours in the sun and vote for my preferred party but did those ‘netas’ even realise the effort some of the pawns in the Big game go through to light their way to the coveted office. Elderly ladies and very elderly ladies too joined in but were mercifully spared the torture of shuffling on ‘hot’ feet. They were especially lead into the booth where they cast their vote. One of them arrived on a plastic chair lifted by her two sons. I wondered again what choice had that ‘mataji’ made? Would she choose as was her wont or had she made a conscious decision of supporting a better candidate? There were women who had left their kitchens and lined up with toddlers in tow, dressed up in their best ‘suits’ and darkest lipsticks. I felt that the exercise of casting their vote gave them a sense of freedom and power, a sense of control which they had compromised on so many levels.

We were sent in batches of four. The polling officials meticulously checked our identification proof with their own lists. We were directed from one official to the other. I felt lost and then found, lost some more and finally found again as the man with the prized ink carelessly dipped the twig of the ‘sesam’ tree in the inkpot and smeared my index finger with it. Unknowingly he had accessorised my attire. That finger was on its way to being photographed and ‘facebooked’, ‘whatsapped’ or ‘tweeted’. Choice was mine and I chose all three.

A cardboard box hid the beeping machine. As I moved towards it a very tall and a very old man walked in on doddering legs. We made way for him. He was ticked off the list, inked and led to the cardboard box. He was weak in the eye and the knee and those darned symbols on the machine made no sense at all. His thick glasses did little to help. But it was a journey which only he had to undertake much like the heavenly one. He bent low-low-low and very low till his nose was touching the EVM and only his outstretched legs were visible from behind the cardboard box. He shook and he twisted and he turned and shook again, a little more twist to the left and we heard the long beep. He had done it! He emerged from behind the box, a smug smile on his face. It was one triumphant walk for him which he might not take the next time.

Having never seen an EVM in my life I was thrilled to see it materialise. I approached it with the confidence of a pro and pressed the blue button next to our national flower. I had heard about the lady who kept pressing the red light on the EVM hoping to make it sing. I didn’t want to be that lady. I got it right in the first go. I came out of the booth but sadly that thrill was missing even though I had a great time observing the regulars. I walked back home relieved for having done my bit in saving the country and getting inked. 

Heroes Moulded in Glass

Hi friends, here is the 1st Chapter of my forthcoming release...

  

He lay dying among the dead. The vast open skies above him were azure with feathery specks of clouds floating by. Around him there was only barren rocky surface of colossal Himalayan peaks. He was resting against a huge boulder looking around on the landscape which stretched along for miles where so many of his fellow soldiers had lost their souls. His combat uniform was caked in blood some his own and some of the others he had killed or watched being killed. He felt the life force slowly ebbing out. Tears sprang in his eyes, he didn’t want to die, not now when life back home was about to begin. Flashes of simpler, happier times rushed past in his brain. He saw the faces of the people who were waiting for his return. They were the ones who would be worried for him, eagerly awaiting any news of him. He had fought enough, he had fought the aggressors and then his injuries. He had survived till now, managed to hold on for over a day and a half. Now was not the time to give up. He had to stay alive, he had to keep himself safe for Kash, for his son. He fought back the numbness and willed himself to draw energy from the love of people back home.

Slowly he came down on his stomach as he couldn’t stand upright due to a fractured leg, he was sure it was a fracture because it hurt like hell, and then there was the enemy perched like vultures on the silent peaks preying on the valiant soldiers scaling the mountain. The war was still on. Lying face down, he crawled down the mountain towards the safety of of his own country. It was painful to move even an inch. His entire body screamed out in pain and revolt. Shrapnel embedded in his flesh bore deeper and caused excruciating pain. When he could take it no further he stopped near a small Himalayan stream which was gurgling its way down to the river. Its water was fresh and sparkling with life. Its purity touched him and he stretched an arm to feel it. He cupped some of its water in his bleeding hand and drank greedily. He had not eaten anything for so long, ever since he led his team on the mission. His rucksack in which he carried some dry fruits and chocolates had disappeared when he had fallen off the cliff. The coolness of the water brought some degree of satiety. Suddenly he heard stones rolling down from the heights and lay still next to the stream on the sparse greens. He did not move, playing dead. The enemy was on the heights and could observe any movement, especially during the day. He stayed that way resting on the cold earth waiting for any other sound but nothing happened.

Soon he fell into a deep sleep brought on by fatigue. He had managed to crawl a few feet and had used up all his energy. Some of his wounds had opened up and were oozing blood but he felt nothing. He had already crossed the threshold of pain which was humanly possible to bear. So that now his mind was oblivious to any more discomfort. Only his will to survive and live to fight another day kept him going.

“Sid! Wake up! Time for school!” he heard his mother calling out to him and opened his eyes with a start only to find himself engulfed by the star spangled night. There was no other sound except the water of the stream he lay by. His stomach growled with hunger but there was nothing except water. He grabbed a fistful of grass and chewed on it to quieten the rumbling of a hungry body, drank some more water and began his downward decent under the cover of darkness. Now he was less cautious, the night gave him the security he needed. The war was raging around him. He could hear the guns firing and shells exploding on distant peaks. He didn’t know how many more peaks they had to liberate. He had been on a mission that had been successfully completed with the help of his men but he himself had been seriously injured in the exchange. He was happy to be alive despite the fierce battle which he and his boys had fought. He was sure the tricolour was aflutter on the conquered peak but there were some more to wrench out of the enemy’s control. Had his body permitted he would have gone for another conquest but at the moment it was of prime importance that he kept himself alive.

He had managed to cover some distance, crawling with the help of his elbows which were badly scraped. He needed some rest now. So he turned on his back and lay supine looking at the night sky again. The twinkling sky brought the old nursery rhyme to his mind and he started reciting it. It kept him occupied and kept his mind off the pain. The sky was absolutely clear. In fact one could attempt to count the stars although an impossible feat. The moon shone brightly in the glory of the sun’s borrowed light. The peaks were sufficiently illuminated and he knew this would be his chance to reach the safety of an army camp. He may not be able to survive another day in the open. The night temperatures were pretty low. His weak body would not be able to hold on for long. He had to get through, he had made a promise. And he always kept his promises, atleast conscientiously tried to keep them.

The moon was slowly making its way across the sky. Siddharth mustered up enough strength to take the arduous journey down the hill. He again started crawling slowly, carefully, aware of his surroundings. A few feet away he felt a backpack in his way. He grabbed it and rummaged through it. It belonged to some soldier, which one was hard to tell in the darkness. There were the standard issued items in it and a pack of chocolate. Siddarth thanked the stars, not just his but the heavenly ones as well. He took cover behind a rock, there was no dearth of them on the barren mountain sides, and sucked on the gooey sweetness of the cocoa. It was Cadbury’s so the backpack must be of an Indian soldier. Having something after so long made him forget all his worries and he sank into the pleasure of the moment.

In the happy state of mind his mother’s voice rang in his ears. He remembered the day when his mother waved a letter in his face. He was deep in sleep. He grabbed the letter with half open eyes and looked at it. It was an interview call.

BACCHE MAN KE SACCHE?

                                                                ‘BACCHE MAN KE SACCHE?’

After my short stint as a teacher I have had a grave insight into the psyche of children. I call it grave because the whole ‘bacche man ke sacche’ thing fell flat on its face. I had the opportunity to interact with some 3^rd and 4^th graders and believe you me, they are no angels. The genetic make-up of being born human takes precedence over everything else. Humans are genetically conditioned to survive (which reflects in their being still here) and for this they cheat, they fib, they coerce and carve their way through life. These traits are present there amongst kids as well. In fact I feel they are born with it and then slowly as they struggle to make a place for themselves in society they hone these skills as circumstances demand.

I can make my contention clearer with some instances I happened to be a part of. One day I entered the class and saw the whole bunch of seven somethings crowded in a corner. They were all shouting at a ‘bechara’ cowering and trying to get heard over the din. I told them to wish me first as I was the teacher and then tell me their problem. They didn’t seem to hear my screeching pleas and carried on. I had to physically pull them away from there and bring some order to the class. Finally it was time to listen to the story.  One of them said that X had stolen his pencil. The other one shouted that X is a habitual ‘chor’. A few more joined in the brouhaha and X’s feeble outcries were drowned in the collective incrimination.

It turned out that while doing a class assignment, Y’s pencil had rolled down and fallen into X’s bag. On conducting a search it was recovered from his bag and so he was branded a ‘chor’. Because X was submissive he was an easy target. This mentality of dominating over the lesser mortals can be widely seen in the adult world as well. How did the kids learn it- is a question which needs to be answered. At such an age when they can’t even memorise their lessons properly it’s a bit too much to believe that they can imbibe such complex behaviour patterns from their surroundings. I feel these behavioural propensities are already present in them. They act according to situations they find themselves in.

To further elucidate my point I will cite a few more examples. They won’t hesitate to use force on hapless fellow students, some with reason and some without. I chanced upon one other episode where the monitor beat up everyone with a scale. I share the responsibility for the beatings. It was I who had made the naughtiest of the lot the monitor of the class. I was experimenting with the theory that when an irresponsible and incorrigible child is given a responsibility he invariably mends his behaviour. But here he was going around beating his classmates which even I never did, as I am against using physical force on children. Just because they are physically at a disadvantage doesn’t give us the authority to use the rod. Try doing so with a chap of your own ‘make’.

Then they are smart – really, really smart. At the tender age of seven when some of them are not even pottie-trained, they know their rights. One of them came up to my colleague and said that she can go to jail for hitting him! My friend was left speechless and amused at the same time. Guess RTI was passed keeping theses brats in mind.  These small little marvels are not just innocent bundles of joy. They are well on their way to learning the ropes of ‘being human’.

Many of you would like to bash me up the first chance you get for disrespecting our ‘sacred angels’. But this is what I observed.  Children are born through us and if they can inherit our ‘big eyes’, our ‘dark hair’, our ‘ sharp little nose’, our ‘fair complexion’, our ‘perfection’, then they can also inherit our greed, our hatred, our shenanigans and our complexes. What we as adults need to do is mould them, guide them. These personality strains will stay with them but we need to teach them how to successfully suppress the negatives and give wings to the positives.

Despite my experiences I still feel that children are far better specimen of the human race. They still have the transparency of character which we have lost under the dust collected over years of living. They still have a long path to traverse and make choices on the way. We only need to make sure that those choices are ‘right’ and ‘worthy’.

Exams! Oh Exams!

                                              EXAMINATION HALL
Exam time! Stress! Cramming! Tension! Indigestion! Nervous sweat! We all are well versed in the adjectives defining exams. Exams are the culmination of everything one has learnt over a period of time. Its like a crescendo at the end of a not so melodious, soul stirring symphony. Not that the current education environment can be compared to a symphony! It takes all kinds to make a bunch and so it happens in the examination hall too.
Early morning assemblies happen in full earnest. The prayers go up from a burdened heart with so much projectile force that its sure to land at the feet of the One-Above. Oiled hair, tilaked foreheads, red threads of mandir pujas all become a part of the uniform.
The teacher arrives in the Hall carrying the bundles of torture. Just a slight shift in the stance of the students signals the start of a battle - battle with the words. The teacher asks for peace and quiet but how will she quieten the fluttering butterflies of anxiety in the rumbling, curds swishing bellies. As the question paper and answer sheet land on the desk - different welcomes await them. Some kiss them, some fold their hands in prayer, some take them on with full confidence, some accept them with sweating palms, some handle them with fear, some with reverence and some with complete apathy.
Then starts the elaborate ritual of filling the columns and drawing margins. Decorations make the paper so colourful and add some romance to the drab white paper. Small flowers adorn the corners. Some go in for full on assault and start straight away. Some wait for the shock to settle in a and deal with it, one bite at a time. After the ritualistic assessment of the paper is over some faces have slight hints of smiles and some wide eyed dazed expressions. Some feel the colour returning to their faces. The teacher takes the rounds of the Hall as frenzied fingers get busy with the pens. One desk has a mini-makeshift temple placed in a corner with ganesha's idol smiling up benevolently - but reception towers on the student's face are not ready yet. She's totally confused and scared. God Almighty save her!
Fifteen minutes into the paper one of them dozes off while thinking really hard. Another goes for a full blast yawn. Some are skittish trying to coax the answers from their fellow students. Everyone tries his/her level best to tackle the questions which sit prettily on their desks challenging them to a duel. Some students win in the end and some loose. But somehow all manage to fight the battle and survive to fight the one coming up the next day.Stories are repeated only the character of the paper changes. Yesterday it was English, the next day it would be Maths. This battle of the knowledge and the seekers will continue till Lawyers design the templates of our education system. Hope some day actual educationists take on the task and help the warring factions sign the truce!                           

                                     

                                               I KILL MY FATHER
It came as a cold stab, an icy dagger plunged into the depths of my heart- the news of my father's passing. I knew it was coming, an imminent danger to the peace and quiet of my being. But when the news came it shattered my studied equanimity. All my mental preparedness to steel myself against such an eventuality lay waste as I mourned his death. He was a silent presence in my life. Having been married relatively early I didn't get the chance and the time to spend some conscious years with him. Just a phone call from him, the sound of his reassuring sweet nothings meant I was sheltered. But that day when the call came in I felt exposed bare and violated - violated by the Almighty - our Supreme Father, whom I have not seen but who sent papa in his image. He ruthlessly erased that image. For me papa went a little too soon, a little too quickly. He was 69. Another decade and a half wouldn't have harmed anyone let alone God.
 His last rites were a big tamasha with many players and the grieving family caught in the middle- dazed and perplexed. It was like a party only difference being instead of music there was wailing of neighbours, instead of beats there were incoherent recitation of the Panditji's mantras. The ritualistic confusion lasted for ten days. Papa was forgotten in the melee, we too laughed and tried to look somber as life seemed normal with a handsome photograph of him smiling and laughing with us.
Finally the people left. One by one the relatives trickled away having performed their duties sincerely and as per custom. We were left to bear the heavy bundle of loss all by ourselves. The burden was almost non-existent but now it felt as heavy as lead and as claustrophobic as a dark windowless room. Our spirits crumbled under the load, knees gave way as an overpowering realisation of grief and irreparable loss became real. So many people had shared our loss but now the whole weight bore down on us. We as a family tried hard to stay afloat.
Then we too scattered, went to our marital families, to live and love again.My husband stood by me, as solid and silent as a rock, giving me space to come to terms with the darkness I felt but made sure that the space did not swallow me up. My papa's image was permanently etched in my mind, the moment I closed my eyes he would appear, smiling or just be there. I didn't want him to come, not now when his physical form had been vapourised by fire. I wanted him to take himself away, but he persisted.
I buried myself in work to keep my mind off him and his memories. I knew no one would understand the pain I felt. Loss of a loved one is so intimate that no one else can even begun to fathom the intensity of it all unless and until he himself has travelled in the same boat. So my grief became a permanent resident of my heart. I dealt with it in my own way not letting anyone in on the secret. For everyone else I had moved on but reality was I still stood where I was, in the moment of his passing on.
I felt angry at my father. He had taken away the normalcy from my life. He had changed the way I lived. He would haunt me when I was the most vulnerable - in the silence of the night. Everybody in the house slept and I wept- soundless tears seeped into the softness of my pillow. I would not let the others hear the anguish of my soul. I would lay awake, peer into the dark to see if I could spot him. I wanted to believe that he would be standing somewhere watching me. But no that was not to happen
Its been over two years now but still a lump forms, sadness grips my heart,tears well up and the unfairness of it all makes me angry. but now I don't let him pervade my thoughts. I kill him! make him disappear, I want to feel free again, free in the knowledge that he's there, maybe not in form but in spirit. I want to be able to remember him with a smile and a laugh, not with tears and helpless resignation. I want him to come and not want to kill him. Its a struggle but may be some day his memories and love will prevail and I'll freely revel in the happiness of having spent memorable times with him.

LOOSING CURRENCY!

It was a harried and disturbing experience not just for us but for the victim too. Raped and murdered. The culprits were caught. BTW the girl's identity is hidden to save her from further shame but why are the bastards who are the actual shameful lot allowed to cover their faces. They should not be given the privilege to decide whether they show their faces to the world or not. If they have the balls to express themselves publicly then the same balls should urge them to look the world in the eye. The incident unleashed a wave of anger and disgust towards the whole system- social, political, moral and judicial. Each of these systems fails us - the lesser mortals. The anger was justified and should have been assuaged by the authorities by taking prompt action. But it turned into a prime time TV show. Soundbites dropped in from everywhere. Intellectuals and fools alike grabbed the microphones and poured some more words into the hapless instruments. By the way hats off to them (mics) for listening and digesting all the wisdom and crap that is stuffed down their throats. Coming back to the issue- where are the heated debates. Pakistan's antics have taken centrestage. I hope the investigative journalists are following the Delhi case away from the spotlight or is it a wasted investment. This happens with almost everything. Sensationalism is the oil which runs the Media machinery. It gets some work done too, that much we need to grant them. We go on commemorating the anniversaries and the spokespersons go back into their cubbyholes smug in the knowledge that the worst is over. Till the next storm strikes they lapse into an air-conditioned slumber. That is the SOP. After 66 years of Indian independence it is time to grant us our freedom too. Freedom from abuse, discrimination and condescension, freedom from eve-teasing and rapes, freedom from squeezing our identities into our vagina, freedom to step out with the confidence of a man. And if this freedom is not easy to come by then its time to stake claim over it through a sustained and integrated movement at all levels. After all its our right as human beings. Why should we go begging for it?