MINDSPEAK-VANDERLOOST

LET'S UNWIND

2011-08-05T08:08:00.000-07:00

Let's go back to those raw pages

When words had not found pain

Hopelessness had not dimmed sight

Isolation had not marked oceanic distances

Tears had not coursed a way through joy

Sculpting a jagged path amidst innocence

Death had not bereaved solitude

A smile had lit the irises of the eyes

A dream had welcomed each night

A hope had shown us the way

A hand had extended in support

When I had tripped and was about to fall

Lets go back to those days of speechless empathy

Look into each other's eyes

And find thousand stars glimmering love

Let's start afresh my friend

Let's begin from the very beginning

LET IT RAIN

2011-07-09T18:56:00.000-07:00

As the somber clouds stoop low
On the countenance of the earth
Suffocating her benign breath
Almost engulfing her very existence
I pick up my pen
Not to discuss the impending rains
But the ordinary routine lives of thousands of men
Who toil every hour no less for survival
Than to nurture mediocre aspirations
Which give them purpose to push on
A little more than the rest
Who beguile life with their unimportant dreams
Like perhaps loosing a few pounds
Or passing an exam
Or more mundane insignificant things
I too am one of them
And today as I sit by my big window
I wish it pours like a mad squall
Brushing past my equally unambitious thoughts
Washing away all the drudgery of hard,
Sometimes half hearted work
The diffidence of not winning
The desperation of a battle
The defeat of an imbecile
The cry, the festering wound, the inchoate prattle
Every murk, every grime
Every bead of sweat
Every drop of moon beam
Each ray of sunshine
Let the rain deluge the earth
And its army of slogging men
Her doddering civilizations
Her dwindling fame
Let it merge in chaotic rhyme
Into the solemn symphony of endless game
Today just let it rain...

RAINS

2011-04-17T06:59:00.000-07:00

It was not a bright morning
The clouds seemed to hover around
Dark, stooping, frowning
Throttling sun’s gaiety
Blotting warmth with thousand
Rasping breath
They bore down heavily on earth

The afternoon was interplay of
Shadow and light
It drizzled a little all of a sudden
And then stopped whimsically
Enveloping the trees with
Claustrophobic suspense

It was an early evening as Sun
Went home westward a little too fast
Without pausing or looking back
The moon covered its face
Under the coverlet of dusk
Tossed and turned before falling asleep
The stars went romping around to
An unknown land

I sailed out umbrella in hand
For my evening walk
The paths were slippery
Puddles and pools dotted abound
Carefully skirting the hurdles
I picked up speed
Inhaling deeply the rainy wafts of soil
O’ what bliss!

Now its night pitch black
Plok! Plop! I hear the flopping
Noise of the droplets
Slithering off the palms
Of the exhausted fronds and leaves
A heady fragrance hugs the breeze
Some nameless bloom
Woken up in the lap of darkness

As I sit in front of my big window
I wonder whether it will
Rain pell mell after a while
Drenching, drowning creation
In a frenzied downpour
Quenching thirst, want
Desires unleashed
Will it melt the sky?
Into cascades of torrent
In the arms of the earth
Uninhibited, unbridled, impassioned
Will it whisper into night’ ears
Songs unsung, tales untold, poems unheard
May be or perhaps not
But I shall wait just next to my window
Endlessly till the dewy dawn
To witness the earth and sky
Be one in divine embrace

FLOWING THOUGHTS

2011-03-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

Life goes on like a prancing stream
When I wake up from my dreams
I shall feel the rugged stones
The jagged ends
The uneven tones
Till then let the ripples dance
The dreams waltz
The stream prance

SCATTERBRAINED

2011-03-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

I am alone
Once again
With my thoughts

I am alone
Once again
In the rain

I am alone
Once again
In the shade

As the rain pelts
I take shelter
Under the shade
Of a friendly tree
Laden with fruits
Leaves and branches
Chirping birds
Humming bees
Blooming buds
Petal hugs
Pouring thoughts
I am alone
Once again

I SCRIBBLE

2011-03-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

I have lately got into this very bad habit of scribbling - as soon as I can snatch a piece of paper, be it the corner of a yellowing packet, old/current newspaper, screwed up paper balls (which I straighten out with great care), dog-eared slice of a page, in short, anything and everything, which falls within the category of papyrus, my pen goes crawling all over it and lovingly so.

Lately, I have also found a fascination for haikus, though my mentors tell me I got them all wrong when I try to create one and that I should get some help in the form of workshops, www.simplyhaiku.com, tutelage under Kalaji, the well known internationally acclaimed haiku poetess etc. etc. But stubborn attempts as you may call it, I refuse to take the good and sane advices extended and keep on scratching on virgin lands scripting thoughts which even if go un-etched, will not bother the world at all.

So, coming to haikus – mine are never what they are intended to be. At best these may be called “shykus” as I shy away from conventions guarding this unique form of poetry or “trykus” as they follow the hit and trial route. One of my net friends coined her own fiasco as “mykus”. Borrowing the nuance from her kitty, I write on. Given below are some of my pet disasters. It depends on the reader’s imagination to fathom what they actually are and under what caption these may be placed:

Weekends
Jotting down chores
A day’s too short

Savings
For old age
Dwindling assets

Lost my way
Turning around
Bump into a dead end

Reposes serenely on
A sheaf blank
A page mark

I scribble
Scampers past
A squirrel

A few drops of rain
My Elovera
Is green again

A few drops of sun
Blooming lilies
So much fun

An old film song
Waft in air
Memories fond

A few stars
Dancing in the pond
Glimpses from the road beyond

At this bend
A cluster of thoughts
On strained end

Crumpled in a purse
Old and yellow
A forlorn snapshot

SO MUCH TO WORRY

2011-03-24T07:58:00.000-07:00

Hurt myself
Right knee, wrist in braces
Tapping the keyboard
Painful, takes time
Red gashes, blue black bruises
Burn in the night

As I look up
Cobwebs meet the eyes
Prismatic in the sunshine
Unwashed piles
Heaped in the tub
Study desk littered
With papers unclasped
Bills to be paid
Letters to be replied
E-mails to be sent
Notes to be filed
Unfinished readings
A few DVDs bought
Still not watched
Kitchen unclean
Sink’s overflowing
Dirty dishes, cups ‘n pans
Leaves in the garden sag
Yellowing at the borders
Fertilizers
Laze in one corner,
Unused
Pet yelps throughout the night
Worms most probably
Gonna see the vet
Some day, alright
Warm clothes dumped
On the bed
Summer clothes stacked in
Unpacked not yet
Phone from the bank
“Can’t come,” I said
Cupboards in a mess
So is life…..

So much to worry
No time in hand
Doctor’s prescribed
One week’s rest

SUMMER

2011-03-23T20:55:00.000-07:00

Waiting for summer
The frozen, gray mist
Wither in bloom

LET ME LIVE

2011-03-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

Why is it that my hands stretch out
readily to uncork the jar
of cheese lings, while the depressive
oranges groan in the cane basket ?

Why is it that Chicken Butter Masala
leaves me salivating for more
While the salads sulk in one
sad corner of the lunch plate ?

Why is it that a dream full snooze
attracts my leisure hours
more than an early morning stroll
on the grass bordering the pavements ?

Why is it that a steep climb up the steps
Is resisted and the love for the
snaking escalator in the mall and the metro
grow more and more by the day ?

I have a sweet tooth for long
which I cannot give up
An insatiable cola thirst
which I don't want to renounce

A hot bland soup is good
if accompanied by crispy sizzlers
A glass of cold fruit juice
is just my kind of appetizer

My sister keeps hinting at a
personal trainer while my
doctor the other day reiterated
"Madam! you know you must do
something about your weight"
"Oh! let me live life to the Leese
doc!" In response I said

THE SHEPHERD BOY

2011-03-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

The shepherd boy lives by a happy stream
Jumping over a pebbled path without a break
As the sage like mountains watch with a scowl
A few huts sleep by the dancing waves
A gay flute fills the afternoon sky
Crooning a tale to the grazing sheep
As the fire dies down behind the peaks
The boy returns home with his gay herd
To have a frugal meal and retire to bed
At night when he tosses and turns on his sides
The guns roar a lullaby on the other end
Listening to the drumming drone every night
The boy peacefully goes off to sleep

The other night was unusually calm
The stars shone cheerfully bright
The moon beamed like a crystal maze
And the guns bellowed not
A single song throughout the night

The boy next day was late
To his work
Not a wink did he sleep
The previous night

SHE SANG SPRING

2011-03-17T18:46:00.000-07:00

She sang spring while I saw winter in the shadows of her eyes
I stooped low to croon into her ears “Everything’s gonna be fine, y’know”
Her cheeks glowed while bad breath fanned my face
She and the bedspread looked alike
Puritan, sparse, clinical the room with heavy drapes
Sculpted shadows while hopes fled to a distant land
The doctor with the bald head and a grey sprinkle of a moustache
Shook his head gravely and said, “Call her friends and relatives, if you may,
Cancer, you know, it is the last stage.”

How do I tell the doc her spirit is still wild?
The Bohemian nights, the party prowls?
The mornings with the endless cups of steaming black coffee?

I let the mobile ring before I mouthed a “Hullo”
It was difficult to tell
How do you describe hell?
What address do you write?
When the soul says au Revoire
It’s all over now……..

The nurse with the dark brown eyes
Said soothingly,” It’s been a bad night
Why don’t you go down and have a cup of tea?”
My legs strained.

In the canteen on the ground floor
Somebody had thoughtfully left
The morning news paper on the table
As I sipped a tasteless cup
My eyes went involuntarily to the headlines
‘The Government proudly announces
The setting up of a new Nuclear Power Plant
On some remote soil………”

I remembered her Chemo sessions
And putting my head down
Onto the crook of my arm
Resting on the dirty table
I wept like a child……….

A TROUBLED SOUL

2011-03-17T18:45:00.001-07:00

He mirrors a mask

A profile camouflaged

Anonymous he prowls

A hiss, a venomous spit

You know he is around

A ruinous mind, a callous tongue

Dubious descendants

Around he hangs

Suave, svelte, smooth as silk

Till he belches fire and gore

An abuse, slang, blame, a barb

Prickly thorns, thistles sharp

I meet him often

On my poems and tales

So do others

As he snakes and slithers

My soul sis tasted the poison and said

“Oh don’t bother! He’s a troll”

I shook my head and said,

“No! I think he’s just a troubled soul”

THE SEARCH (खोज)

2011-03-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

मुझे प्यास थी इतनी
की सूरज निगल गई
अब राख के ढेर पर
लहू आग बरसाता है

मैं तपिश मैं माचिस
खून में क़त्ल हो गई
अब रूह देह खोजता
पूरी रात जगाता ही

In my wandering thirst
I gulped down the sun
I trip on the ashes now
As blood oozes fire

Ember am I and also the flame
Wandering in dirty, soiled veins
An aimless soul seeking a home
Stalks a body through sleepless nights

आहट

2011-02-23T17:26:00.000-08:00

आज सुबह देखा
कुछ टूटे फूटे गमलों में
मिटटी के धेले पड़े थे
उनमें कोमल पत्तियां
और जंगली फूल उग आयें हैं कई
बिना पानी डाले
बिना खाद छिडके
माली ने कहा "निकाल देता हूँ बीबीजी
काम का नहीं हैं ये कोई
न नाम न ज़ात का पता"
मैंने कहा " रहने दो इन्हें वही
येही तो सबूत है के
वह आस पास ही है
हमारे परम पिता
जो ज़ात न देखे पात
केवल लिखता है कविता
मिटटी के सियाही से
धरती के सीने पर
इन पंक्तियों को यही पड़े
रहने दो दोस्त
किसी अनमने बच्चे की
खेल खेल में उभरी
किलकारियां समझ कर"

কেনো জানিনা

2011-02-16T09:06:00.001-08:00

কেনো জানিনা বাড়ির দিকে যেতে যেতে

হঠাত্ মনে হয় রাস্তাটা যদি যায় বেঁকে

তাহলে কতই না মজা হয়

অজানা কোনো সফরে

চলে যাই পালিয়ে

নেমনতন্নো

2011-02-15T18:07:00.000-08:00

কিছু কাপ চা
বড জামবাটি ভরা
মুডি মাখা
রেকাবিতে রাখা মিষ্টি কখানা
আর অনেকগুলো পুরনো দিনের কথা

দুপুর গডিযে বিকেল যে হবে
আড্ডাটা জমবে ভালো
এমাসের চোদ্দো তারিখ

থাকবে মনে ?

নেমনতন্নো রইলো যে রাখা
আসবে তো ? এসো কিন্তু
ও:! বাডীর হদিস হয়নি যে বলা
বডই সোজা
দেউডি পেরিয়ে ফটক
ফটক পেরিয়ে দালান
দালান পেরিয়ে বসবার ঘর
ছবির মতন আঁকা

আরে ! কার্ড যে হয়নি ছাপা
তাতে কিছু যায় আসে না
হৃদয়ের পটে স্বর্ণ আখরে
ঠিকানা যে আছে লেখা

वाह रे किस्मत !!!

2011-02-12T17:10:00.000-08:00

ख्वाबों में बेखयाल रहे पर्दा न किया
अब जो सामने आये तो घूँघट में
लपेट लाये ख्वाबों को

वाह रे किस्मत!
बेपर्दा रहे और पर्दानशीं भी
ज़माने के रवायतों को किस कदर
खूबसूरती से
अदा न किया और अदा भी .........

उनसे कहना था...

2011-02-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

जब उनसे पहली बार मिले
तो बस एक ही ख्याल आया
ज़हन में
पता नहीं कहाँ छुपा रखा होगा
उन आंसुओं को
जो रह रह के छलक रही थी
ठहाकों में

एक बूँद गर टपक जाती तो
शायद चैन आ जाता
एक बूँद की कमी थी
जो रह रह के सताती रही
सरेशाम रूह को

उनसे मिले तो बस
यह ख्याल आया
ज़हन में
के दर्द छुपाने से
फनाह नहीं होता
बेपनाह, सिसकती हैं ख्वाबों में
नींद में कसक मसक के
कराहती है
एक आंसू की ही तो बात है
गिर जाने दो
बह जाने से कीमत कम
नहीं होती इनकी

उनसे मिले तो यह
ख्याल कचोटती रही
मन को
उनसे यह बातें कह पाते
तो अच्छा होता

तुम से

2011-02-11T17:41:00.000-08:00

एक मुद्दत बाद मिले हो तुम इक ख़त में
एक मुद्दत हो गयी हैं मिले आसमानों से परे

दीवारें

2011-02-11T17:21:00.000-08:00

सुना था दीवारों के चेहरे होते हैं कई
पर अब तो चेहरों पे दीवारें बन गयी हैं
रूह घुट सी रही है कहीं

आपसे कहना है...........

2011-02-10T17:32:00.000-08:00

बहुत देर से गूंज रही है सिसकियाँ सन्नाटों की
कुछ तो कहिये के यह खामोशियां पिघल जाए
दिल में चुभ गयी है, होठों से सिली हुई है कहानियां
यह आवाजें चुप में भी सदियाँ लपेट रहीं है
"गाँठ आज खोल ही दीजे", सरसराती हवाएं
कानों तक आ लौट गयी पुकार के नाम आपका
कुछ तो कहिये, बस अब कह भी दीजिये..............
हताश हो अर्जियां मेरी फिर न खाली हाथ जाएँ

TAMARIND SAUCE

2011-02-04T20:47:00.000-08:00

The other day I met Mr. A
In the market place
After exchanging a few pleasantries
He asked me finally
“What do you do nowadays?”
I stuttered and stammered
Coughed apologetically
Bowing my head, counted the toe nails laconically
Perhaps a tad too long
“So, no work is it?”
He gauged my hesitation quite easily
I said,” No, not that!
Actually I am concentrating on poetry.”
He looked aghast,
“What??? You write poems!
Well! My God! I did not know that for sure!”
“No, no, nothing extraordinary.
Just a few lines here and there”, I blushed.
“But still”, Said Mr. A
Squinting his eyes against the sun
While a hint of humour played in them
When next he spoke sarcasm dripped
From his every word,
“Well!Well!Well!!!
Children aspire to become
Doctors, Engineers, Lawyers
You’ve become a poet
An achievement undoubtedly for some!”
I suffered in silence
As he continued after a while,
“Filling up blank pages with worthless words,
You must be making your mother very proud!”

Something stirred inside me
I don’t know what
But a few droplets of pain did sting my eyes
That night in a fit of rebellion
I threw away my diaries and notepads
Filled with “worthless words”
Where the dusty newspapers were stacked.
Next day was Sunday
My maid in a flurry of spring cleaning
Sold away the newspapers and
the jungle of “worthless words” just for a few pennies

***

A few months later………..
It was a winter noon
I was dozing in the sun
When my mother came up to the terrace
With a packet full of roasted nuts.
Thrusting the paper packet in my hand,
She said,“Good for health, have some”.

I took the packet and upturned
As I did so my eyes fell on
The scribbles shining in the sun
The writing looked familiar
Oh yes! It was mine
So, were the thoughts penned in pensive mood and mind
I could not read them but
As my vision blurred
It was not the dew drops
But tears that flowed unstopped
A little girl and her words
That had washed away in the flood of
Cruel snide and taunts
Worthless he had said
Not fit for competitive exams
But those were my thoughts
Precious to my soul
As the droplets smudged
The pouring of my heart
Somewhere in the midst of the barrage of tears
I was cleansed of my sin
Life had come full circle
The muse of a worthless being
Had returned to her in a packet
Of roasted nuts, useless though it may seem!

(This poem refers to a time when many a households earned a modest living by making paper packets from discarded paper, newspapers, books, diaries and note books)

MIRTHLESS

2011-02-04T20:40:00.000-08:00

Myopic eyes stared hard
Into a pair of shriveled palms
Ochre designs of an unknown pen
Blackened now with grieving stains
Of t he rubbed the grubby grease
With a bony thumb lacking ease
Hours ticked by in warring muse
With God perhaps a wordless ruse
And then he shifted his vacant gaze
To the limitless yonder, his face
Crowding with bewildered haze
Shrugged his shoulders brittle and bent
Clutched the air with creased hands
Failing which shook his head
I stood watching him instead
Oscillating between dread and hope
Perhaps it’s better not to probe
But bumping into my questioning gape
The ancient cheeks did suddenly break
Into toothless mirth as the words fated
Echoed wild in a deep brood
“Dunno what went wrong and where
Gal., the lines looked so damn smooth!”

PAINTINGS OF JAMINI ROY (CONTD)

2011-02-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

AN ORDINARY LIFE

2011-01-19T07:36:00.000-08:00

Do I present a bleak portray?
Do I distort the truth anyway?
Do I image with a jaundiced eye?
When I glibly say
That there is an “ordinariness” to our lives
A staleness which permeates
Every nook of breath
As we proceed with the
“Goings” of life
Birth, adolescence, marriage procreation,
Decay and death
With an accepted ease
Without raising an eyebrow
We chart a path well trodden
The same way as we do
Millions before have done
There is nothing new
We do not question
We do not venture astray
But just walk by like wandering gypsies
Perhaps in quest of the final call of the day
When a meteor strikes the earth
A crater dents the crust
We look at each other and accusingly say
“You did dare break the rut
Doom befalls you next”

Am I wrong when I say
There is an “ordinariness” to our lives
Which is here for aeons to stay

A LONE BOTTLEBRUSH

2010-11-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

Winter is here

I can feel it in the air

In the greyness of the morning

In the freezing atmosphere

The leaves are listless

The plants stand to attention

There is no glee, no mirth,

No ejaculation!!!

Only a baited breath

A composed grief

A listening to the wind

As though a premonition

Soon going to be unleashed

It's the beginning of November

An autumn exiting dolefully

And invasion of winter

A conquest won unopposedly

A chill leaves me shivering

Perhaps a hint of the future

But in this bleak facade

As I look up and see

A lone bottlebrush in the park

Waves and winks at me

There's more to life my friend

Not just cold, chill and grey

A rush of red in a stagnant green

That is what "Nature" has to say

A SMATTER OF RAYS

2010-10-17T03:22:00.000-07:00

Cold feet
And a tortured silence
A smothered glow
On the eastern side
The dawn breaks in

KALIEDOSCOPE

2010-10-17T03:21:00.001-07:00

A few stars dance
In the liquid vessel
A few thatched roofs
Pitter patter
Of pans and pots
A floating island
Seen from the road
Far beyond

TELL HER PLEASE......

2010-10-17T03:19:00.001-07:00

She has lit a pyre
With a few words
On a page till then
Virgin white
Scorched now
To a charred dream

Tell her please
To shed a few tears
To clasp the tongues
Licking the hearts
In frenzy amuck

YEARS LATER....!

2010-10-17T03:16:00.001-07:00

One desultory summer noon
I burned a few pages
In a speechless corner
Of a tidy kitchen

The pages were a hue
Of blushing pink
Deep and light
Intertwined with
A few ink drops
Of pearly words
Woven to an
Imperfect song

The blue flames were lit
With unshaken hands

I watched the pages
Curl and churn
Into Charred dreams
With mist-less eyes

There after life stood by
And time ticked on
Rolling days into
Months and years….

Doors were closed
Windows shut
The sheets and drapes
Were left untouched
Life went by
Like a ripple less lake
Stagnant in thought
Muted in words

Years later………
On sun set days
A mist gathers in
The dreams though late
As I sit by an open
Window curtain less

Years ago……..
The moon dust had
Trickled off my palms
In crystal gray heap
Into the hapless recycle bin

Today I feel………
I had mistaken a step

The ashes if strewn on
The meadow afar
Clusters of colour
Would have draped
By far a barren land
In shades of red

Today I feel……
A tale was left
Deliberately untold
A dream strangled
Before unfurl

Today I think
By a gaping window
Agog with wonder
And perhaps unease
Why did I erase the dotted lines?

The ugly wounds
The gawky gashes
A story stitched &
Tailored to pale
In a pall of gloom
I repressed so soon………

Doesn’t time heal the way?
As the wise men used to say……

ONCE AGAIN

2010-10-17T03:11:00.000-07:00

Blessed with notes
Birds tweet, chirp along
Blessed am too with melodious strains
I sing Thy song

MY ROOTS

2010-10-17T03:05:00.000-07:00

I was born on this soil
But my roots stretch
To the lush, green land
Where rivers dance
And boatmen sing
Earthy songs

For long I have scraped
A handful o’ pennies
To visit my roots
And the house that
Now no more belong
To my kith & kin

But I hear they have
Built a wall
And a length of barbs
Now adorn
The faithless grass
O’er which if you
Place your hands
Thorns prick
Tears bleed
And hearts too…………

ON BEING IN THE "NOW"

2010-10-17T03:00:00.000-07:00

I am
Till thoughts intrude
Peace disperses

I was........

UNUSUAL LINES

2010-10-17T02:58:00.001-07:00

Hesitant steps
On the threshold
Cross over?

Cross over?
Bottomless sea
Stealthy sharks!

Stealthy sharks!
Fear not
Swim over

Swim over
Waves cascade
Surf with joy

Surf with joy
Life’s turmoil
God’s ploy

God’s ploy
To test our
Strength of joy!!

INSPIRED BUT NOT ROBBED

2010-10-17T02:51:00.000-07:00

Nadi kinaare dhuan uth rahaa, main jaanu kutchh hoye,
Jis kaaran main jogan bani, kahin wohi na jalta hoye

A strand of smoke
Scorched breeze
Love’s afire

THE OLD MAN AND HIS TROOP

2010-10-17T02:45:00.000-07:00

The old man with the purposeful gait
Erect, unfazed, undaunted in spirit
Carries a stick in his hand
To lend support to it perhaps
As he not require a helping hand
Lone he strides head held high
And ideals aloft

He calls out to all in soft, firm tone,
“Fear not! Ye all! Follow me and
I shall help seek the truth
With indomitable perseverance
Silent prayers and peaceful means
I am one of ye all and I shall always remain
In your heart, soul and spirit, my countrymen”
They follow him around in agog wonder
Deep obedience and unquestioned surrender
The old man with his troop of men and women
Of modest means, humble dwelling
Tread through the dust of a miserable land
Devastated by contempt of the imperial assault

The rulers laughed in utter disdain
“That destitute with the emaciated frame
His “loin cloth” and absolute indifference
To the finer things of life, luxury, abundance
Shall be the harbinger of joy for his countrymen?
Impossible”, they cried in unison.
“We are mightier than he,” They roared unsure
With our armed men and enslaving legacy
We shall squeeze out what is left of thee
Your pride, wealth and spirit of camaraderie
Ye are fated to exist in abject penury
This soil is ours to plunder
Resist us and ye all blunder
We have ruled, we rule and shall rule forever
With enforced domination, cruel suppression”

The old man bowed his head in prayer
Humble but resolute amidst despair
He whispered to his fellow brethren
“Do not abandon the path of non-violence”
Weak was he in mere appearance
Strength exacted from self renunciation
Powerful in his quiet submission
Silent protest and non-cooperation
To the rulers’ forceful subjugation
Shackles, chains; unmoved in his conviction
Rationale obstinate even in imprisonment

Time rolled by in implore and plead
In perpetuity of pathos to witness the country bleed
But deterred he not from his pledge and pay heed
To the others with different ideology that they lead
Sanguine was he in his belief
This is the right path that he treads
Of humble suggestions and peaceful exchange
Of measured cooperation and non-violence
Civil disobedience and least resistance
To ruthless, corporal punishment

And then the day came when he spoke out loud,
“Quit my country and no more dominion
Status, give us complete independence”
The rulers weakened by war and wanton display
Of pomp and show acquiesced meekly to his
Bold reiteration, “Leave us and go
Let us be on our own to build our fate”
And the joyous troop of his men and women
Bestowed upon him the stature of the “Father of the Nation”

The old man with his bloodless voyage
Of quest unbound for truth and poise
His stoic determination not to follow
The path of vengeance, blood and sorrow
Stands amidst havoc galore of mangled souls
Intolerance, hatred, secession, bloody valour
Of men, women, children with guns and barrels
Each with a tale of tribulation and throttled travail
His sighs of desperation hangs like a pall
Of gloom in the air on a land molested and mauled
By a handful of rogues of reproachable recruit
A dying democracy of irremediable dispute
The old man clutches his heart with a shaking hand
And chants the Holy name with pitiful shame
His stony eyes blindly rummage the soil
Of his motherland that he had toiled
To free from the bondage of colonial ravage
Still has not been saved from the savage
Rape by her own offspring that she has borne
Of a cursed marriage of greed and selfishness unbound
The bullet that had hit his chest years back
Still oozes crimson canoeing through hinterlands amuck

AJANBI TUM JAANE PEHCHAANE SE LAGTE HO!

2010-10-16T23:24:00.000-07:00

It was Maha Saptami. The second day of Durga Puja. It is customary for us, Bengalis, to visit the Puja Pandaal and be part of the Sandhya Aarati. Therefore, it was not out of routine when we landed on time at our local Puja Pandaal, to watch the Aarati. To our surprise, the Pandaal was empty except a few children playing hide and seek. Montuda, our local priest, was nowhere to be seen. His lone assistant was at the Puja Dias(Bedi) making efforts in vain to lit a Dhunuchi(a big oval shaped earthen ware in which aromatic powders, coconut fibres etc. are collected and lit ; the aroma filled smoke emanating from the embers is a must accompaniment with the Aarati and bestows additional charm and mystique to the whole affair). To our question when will the Aarati commence, his non-challant answer was,"Somewhere between 8 and 9". We were flabbergasted. Aarati is supposed to be in the evenings. But that is our Montuda - the "ever-punctual priest"

Since we had come all the way, we decided to sit for a while in front of the deity and pray. A few minutes later, a bespectacled boy of sixteen/seventeen arrived and sat behind us. He had a red tika on his forehead. We were softly conversing amongst ourselves. Earlier, our local Puja used to be held outside in a bigger maidan. Now it has shifted to a park inside. We were trying to recollect the year when the shift took place. My brother-in-law said that it was just two years back. Maa said no, it was more than that. It was during this debate, that the boy joined in. He corrected us and informed that it was now five years that the Puja was taking place in this park. He knew for sure as he had been assisting Montuda during the Puja days. But he shook his head a little apologetically and confessed that he was neither Bengali nor Brahmin. We assured him that caste or community was not important. It was the Bhakti Bhaav, the sincerity of emotions, which mattered the most.

The boy got encouraged. He showed us the mobile snapshots of the deities (the murtis are sculpted in varied styles and the best amongst all is selected and awarded) that he had visited this year and the years previous which included our local one too. When my brother-in-law asked him what prompted him to take part in the Puja. He looked at the Devi and said , " She is the source which guides me". We were enthralled to witness such devotion in a young boy like him, given today's gen now(not to be taken personally). I told him that he should also make it a point to visit another Puja Pandaal, nearby, which we generally frequent. He nodded enthusiastically and promised that he would.

He reminded me of my nephew who is now in Bangalore, working for a Multi National Bank. We used to call him Montuda's chela as these four days he would be continuously at the Puja Pandaal assisting in the Puja and doing all kinds of odd jobs. We used to jokingly call him the half pondit moshai! Half not only because he was young in age, half the size of the main priest but also because just by helping the priest he had come to know about many of the rituals associated with the Puja.

Unfortunately, his holidays now do not always coincide with the Puja which he makes up by giving generous contributions for the arrangements - a form of remote and quiet participation not to be confused with boastful show of wealth.

It was almost an hour now and Montuda was nowhere to be seen. We got up to leave. The boy did the same and went looking for the truant priest. Though we missed the Aarati, but somehow, the conversation with the boy had filled us up with an unusual contentment. Meeting and talking to the boy was as fulfilling as attending the Aarati.

As I got into the car, I realized that I had forgotten to ask his name. But it was not important any more. What is in a name?As long as we had the good fortune of identifying and spending some time with a pious soul!

TWILIGHT

2010-10-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

We spoke of dusks and dawns
One afternoon late summer
Over cups of tea getting cold
As words poured out...
And tears got mingled with
Shadows of joy
We held hands and cruised down
The memory lane and a soft hush
Fell over time
We could not speak anymore… as words
Got jumbled like a ball of wool
Gets tangled while knitting
And a stone stuck in our throats
Where the tears choked
And Heart pulsated with a rhythm
Hitherto unknown
It’s been a long time that our paths
Had intersected
We had crossed each other by
With just a nod, a glint of a shy smile
In our eyes and a blush of a pink rose
In our cheeks
Now ages after…
The leaves have fallen off the trees
Leaving rugged branches like scraggy arms
Held aloft towards the sky

in a mournful prayer
We have again met but now
Withered by pain, wrinkled with grief
And a frown which tells stories of
Deprivation and defiance
Of lost dreams
We just sit across staring vacantly
At the horizon
A vapour of a sigh hangs in between
A thread which needles our thoughts
Lonely, listless, lame...
Just scraping our calm a wee bit
Would silence have prevailed?
Like this?
Had we met ages ago…?

AUTUMN DAWN

2010-10-16T08:59:00.000-07:00

The faded smile of a crescent moon
On lips that have just put a close to a poignant tale
Night is an avid listener sometimes agog, sometimes
Stunned into speechlessness
Footsteps echo on the asphalt path as I pass by
Drowsy lanes, houses, parks, drains
A stroke of a brush in soft gold hues
Midst a flame of red carelessly etched
Soft, smothered, wanton lines
On the distant canvas of the horizon
Leaves an unfinished trail…

A proof that He was here
The dawn breaks in with her subdued charm
And quietly lays a snare to woo walkers forlorn
Like me…
Who draw comfort from the sniff of a chill in the air
The lolling heads of the morning stars
The virgin white, autumn clouds
And a leaf drifting in nothingness
Aimless, clueless, homeless…

NOT A HAIKU

2010-10-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

Sun tilts

Towards the West

Shadows lurk

A sun kissed West

I watch shadows'

Stealthy feet

WINTER'S HERE!

2010-10-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

5 am
It’s still dark
A chill & a
Stealthy, soft
Falling leaf
In the air
I know winter’s near!

Dull green twigs
Grass yellowing
On the tips
A weak sun
Untidy breeze
A rough caress
On the skin
I know winter’s near!

Sheets pulled
Windows shut
Heads snuggle
Warm pillows
Feel comfort
Indoors; &
Kitchen’s cozy
Lit afire

I know winter’s near!

A warm bath
Soothing balm
To heal wounds
Subdue qualms
A steaming cup of
Tea or Coffee
Early morn or late
Night, before I retire
I know winter’s near!

Pages filled
With Inky tears
Diary closed
Sleep smear
Drooping lids
All fear
Dreams too
Disappear
Lights blear
Night closes
In like a
Friend so dear
Deep I
Breathe in
The sheer
Joy of being
So near
I know winter’s here!

PAINTINGS OF JAMINI ROY

2010-09-19T05:48:00.000-07:00

METRO PURAAN - PART VI

2010-09-19T05:23:00.000-07:00

An increasing insurgency of commuters, lack of discipline, mob tendency, slackening administration and the chinks in DMRC’s armour is gradually more than visible. Now we find paan stains on the platforms, food morsels scattered at times inside the boggy, some of the older trains screeching to a halt whenever brakes applied and a cacophony of creeks and crunchy karaoke following the movement of the trains – a manifest of poor or slap shod maintenance and management.

Quite frequently the trains get delayed during peak office hours. The reason supplied – technical fault – an all embracing term which can mean anything……..an actual technical snag, bomb threat, terrorist attack, though its obvious that the latter causes shall never get announced for the purpose of civil security and an effort not to create panic amongst the passengers. But we live in turbulent times and these thoughts always play at the back of one’s mind, especially after 26/11, whenever one is stranded in the underground/overhead metro station. It does with me and so it must be with others. One explanation of the mob behaviour!

No wonder then the stampede like situations which often transpire upon such delays. The crowd of well dressed men and women suddenly behaving like chaotic mob when a train arrives much after the scheduled time. On one such occasion, it seemed as though they were ready to hop on the roof of the train. The doors closed with great difficulty as more and more people tried to board in as though it was the last train on the face of this earth. Earlier on one or two occasions, DMRC personnel themselves came down to the platform to manage the restless crowd. Now, no more, though of course there are continuous announcements informing the cause of delay and assuring that trains will follow one after the other, earlier than scheduled, to make up for the lost time, which they do. But still the panic ridden crowd upholds indiscipline and disorder when it comes to such a situation. Once, one of the guards who was supposed to manage the crowd was pushed inside the train by the mob. God knows which station he ultimately got a chance to de-board the train!

One distinct disadvantage of the metro is that it is linear in route. There is no emergency line or parallel route that can be opted to reach destinations in exigency. Therefore, if you are stuck in a station or on the tracks (of course, no system can do anything about that!), you are stuck forever till the cause of disruption is remedied. In Kolkata there is circular rail and local trains. In Mumbai, again there is an exemplary system of local trains. But the capital is handicapped by the absence of any such alternatives. Hence, the panic…the stampede….the mob….the restlessness……..the annoyance………the impatience………the indiscipline…….the disorder…….the chaos………the confusion…..which alter the profile of an upbeat system in a jiffy.

After 26/11, fear ruled high, more so in the metro. It was customary for us to check under the seats and around if there was any disowned object or baggage lying unclaimed. On one such occasion, my feet got caught in a huge thick, cloth bag under the seat which felt odd to the touch as though full of heavy, metallic things with perhaps jagged ends. A few school and college going boys were standing around. I asked whether the bag belonged to any one of them. One boy retorted back with a mischievous grin, “Aunty, it’s my cricket kit and not a bomb.” I smiled.

For quite some time such dark humour prevailed. People mocked their own fears and insecurities and laughed aloud at such “bomb scare” jokes. These were not instances of just blithe humour or blissful ignorance but inklings of a more dangerous resignation wherein the common man had come to term with the transience of life and accepted quietly their limited role of being mere pawns in the high powered Machiavellian political game - role that of nameless martyrs fated to meet unexpected, untimely, violent ends whenever that be pounced on them unaware.

Contd…..

SOME DAYS

2010-09-19T05:15:00.000-07:00

I feel I have lost those words
Which could be woven
Into a rhyme
& spill over thoughts
In ink on pages
With a few strokes
Curves, a dot

I have lost the nib,
The pen, the page,
The dot…………

I feel I have lost those dreams
Which could be woven
Into a song
Of sweet, sonorous lyrics
And hum
In leisure hours
Of melody and chime
When shadows softly
Spread their arms
Across the velvet
Of the meadow
And wrap the blue
Of the sky around
My being like
A misty, smoky shroud

I have lost the greens,
The heavenly blue
The smoke screen of the mist

I feel life is such a haste
To complete those must chores
Which take up time
Never to return
Leaving me bleak
In soul
Heart
Mind
Unsound

I feel as though I have lost my soul
My lust for life
My zest, my zeal

Only tired steps are
Left behind
To trudge a long
Rugged terrain
A grey encompass
To follow along
A colourless, cloudless
Sky for a parasol

I feel as though I have lost my world
My sun-lit days
Moon-lit nights
My dreams
My smile
My tears
My fears
Of never again……….

Sometimes I feel I should
Not be here
With my chained soul,
Scattered dreams,
Empty voice,
Fickle moments,
Runaway thoughts…………..
Life’s morass
Lost pen,
Words,
Songs,
Lyrics,
Rhymes…..

Some days
I am just not me……….
*********************

One grey afternoon
Rummaging through an
Old, rusty closet
I found by chance
A few lost words
Unfinished sentences
And a tale incomplete

I folded them up neatly
And kept them aside

Some day I will
Pick them up
And weave them
Into a single thread
A garland of lost words
Unfinished lines
And a story half told
Some day I will
Complete the tale
Of my life
I am in no hurry though
Now………………

TO THE CURIOUS MIND - PART III

2010-09-19T04:55:00.000-07:00

Contd…

I pray for every little thing. I say “thank you” to God for every small gift. I run to Him for every mundane wish. Diffidence or maturity?

As I shift from one milestone of my life to the other, I wonder whether this very introspection itself is maturity! This self analysis! This eternal quest! This every day every hour every minute question “Have I faced the situation or taken the decision with maturity?” And if this is how we gain maturity, then it is not to be attained one fine morning. The process is ongoing. Rather everlasting!Till the last breath of one’s life!!!

My residence in Kolkata was a twenty minute auto-ride to Dakshineshwar Temple. The Temple is dedicated to Goddess Kali. It is here that Thakur Ramakrishna Paramhansa worshiped Ma Kali as a child beguiles his mother. Being such a short distance away, we would frequently visit the Temple on Holidays and auspicious occasions. Often, while waiting in the queue for Darshan, I’d observe a bare-chested man in a soiled dhoti, loitering like a lunatic around the temple premise, shouting in a tearful voice “Maa will you not listen to your children? Will you not give a Darshan? What a stone hearted mother you are! Please give Darshan, Maa, please do!” A sun burnt, disheveled spectacle totally oblivious of time, reality, situation, surrounding! Such heartrending would be his plea that it would often bring tears to the eyes of the gathered crowd. Sometimes he would cajole the deity; at others he would be angry and restless. Nobody mocked or laughed at his soul stirring petition. Rather the devotees had the same query in their heart of heart which found voice in the old man’s uninhibited cries and submissions. I was told that he was a learned man who had taken to the path of renunciation. Months later, I found him in a more tranquil state. He would just sit in a hypnotic stance outside the erstwhile bedroom of the Paramhansa. At times, I would find one of his disciples reading out stanzas from holy books to him; some other time, somebody would be helping him to eat a frugal meal, like a nurse spoon feeding a child. While the immobile man would just be staring with vacant eyes at a point far beyond human vision!

My aunt would prostrate before him in reverence whispering me to follow her. On enquiry, she told me that there were various stages of spiritual upliftment. The earlier madness for experiencing the Divine has now transcended to an elevated level of sainthood; the devout has now become the apostle of God!

“Shivoham shivoham shivaswaroopoham adwaitamananda roopamaroopam…………..”

The thirst for maturity is insatiable. The quest goes on till we come to that point in life when we realize as humans how weak and incapable we are. Just a cog in the infinite gamut of the Universe! A miniscule dot in the cosmos! It is then that we bow down to the Eternal. The ultimate surrender! Or the penultimate maturity!

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

It is difficult to draw a line to this discourse or put a full stop at random. I have yet to find a point in life where I can conceitedly claim that I have matured completely and there is nothing more to be gained or learnt. This is a subject of interminable discussion and unstoppable delving. Hence, the lengthy three part post. Though some may simply define maturity as intelligence gained on hindsight, alternately, one can go on fathoming the deeper and subtler nuances of the concept. I have opted for the latter and in doing so relied heavily on mundane, personal experiences and anecdotes which many may or may not subscribe to. But I strongly feel all human experiences are more or less threaded by common emotions and feelings, and hope my friends, who happen to read this post, will empathize with what I have tried to arrive at, if not unanimously agree, which is difficult to attain on complex themes like this.

TO THE CURIOUS MIND..........PART II

2010-09-19T04:53:00.000-07:00

Contd…

I was a control freak. (I still am to a certain extent. Bad habits die hard.) I wanted to control everything around me including myself, my near and dear ones and my surroundings. If anything went beyond my control or premeditated plan, my equanimity dithered.

I was also the Atlas of the family taking on every responsibility on my shoulder whether bearable or not. Soon I was overloaded. I freaked. Being a compulsive worrier I worried about every little thing. All my thoughts generally started with “what if……” and in order to take care of all the “what ifs” I recoursed to proactive meddling. It is meddling because I go against life’s own course and scheme of things when I want to settle them my own way.

Soon I found, organizing life is a fruitless exercise. There is a streak of disorderliness inherent in Nature which takes over at intervals to topsy-turvy our world till orderliness again sets in by itself, after sometime. As I came to understand Nature’s cyclic order, I started valuing delegation and the principle of “let go”. I am happier now.

Moral of the Story: I have matured. I appreciate and surrender to Nature, discover every minute that source of happiness and peace is somewhere beyond my realm of control and in order to achieve that I have given up on clinging and controlling.

I am a born pessimist and negativity is contagious. It affects one’s surroundings like a disease. Mine did too till one day my sister thrust a book in my hand and told me to make it my bible. And wow my outlook changed perceptibly!

Moral of the Story: The source of maturity can be anything, from a lisping child to a book, if you are an enthusiastic and avid learner.

My Department is full of youngsters. They are garam khoon and do not hesitate to give their piece of mind to any irritant in and outside the Department. Often they unburden themselves in my”benign presence”. I have realized long back that a heavy heart or mind only needs a pair of receptive ears and no sermons please. I am a good listener but mostly amused by gen now’s impatience. As Aunt Agony listens, my signature thought is ”bachhe abhi tumne duniya dekhi hi kahaan hai…..yehi sawaal tumse bees saal baad karenge tab sunenge tumhara jawaab…………….”

Moral of the Story: Viewed in a lighter vein, maturity is a great source of amusement. On a more serious note, it bestows a farsightedness, which is almost akin to wisdom.

The other day, my boss called me aside and told me a little apologetically (did I imagine?) that though I was eligible he could not guarantee a promotion to me the next year. I was not surprised. I was not expecting one (duniya mein aur bhi gham hai promotion na milne ke alaawaa!). I did not react to the news!

“Karmanye vaadhikaraste maa phaleshu kadaachana………………?”

Moral of the Story: Giving up expectations is maturity personified as I realize that the most powerful also has his/her own constraints/limits and there are certain situations which are beyond argument.

I think I am the nicest person on this earth and everyone’s trying to take advantage of my good nature. A few unhappy incidents have made this belief stronger. Trying to help somebody and being misunderstood, being loyal to someone and getting jilted, many encashing my work (creative genius? LOL) and misappropriating appreciation without my knowledge and to my disadvantage, gifted with utter disregard in return of unfaltering cooperation etc.etc. Now I am a bit cautious when it comes to helping people and make them conscious of my role in their life/work directly or indirectly. I am not very good at it though. I still lag behind…….

Moral of the Story: Modesty a gift of maturity (wink!)? I discern a few negative shades here. Has maturity handicapped me in some ways?

After prolonged suffering due to an undiagnosed ailment, when I chanced upon a lifesaver of a surgeon, I knew that the dark phase of my life was over and I would be okay soon. I did thank God but stoically.

Moral of the Story: Conviction and maturity go hand in hand. Which follows which is difficult to trace but sufferings always give way to peace and calm, if not happiness.

Contd…

TO THE CURIOUS MIND..........PART I

2010-09-19T04:50:00.000-07:00

On one of my previous posts (“Life Is The Greatest Teacher”), my good friend Vel (Velm of MS), raised a few ticklish questions: What is maturity? When and how does one gain maturity? Who and what are the factors responsible for maturity? Parents? Mentors? School? Age? Experience? Knowledge? Failure? Questions to which I did not have definite answers! Questions which made me ponder. I thought to myself, really, who is or when can one be called a mature person? Questions were too many and the answers perhaps hidden within them. My curiosity was triggered. I peeped into my own self and asked, “Am I mature enough to answer these questions?” The reply came in the following form ……..

As a child, if I was denied a box of chocolates, I’d throw up such a rowdy tantrum that my parents in the long run had to succumb to my onerous demands and get me not one but two boxes of chocolates as compensation for the chance denial. Now, if I miss one, I am secretly relieved that I have scraped past an opportunity to gain additional ounces of calories. But if my colleague, bypassing me gets a promotion, I am in the throes of almost incurable depression.

Moral of the Story: I have matured but relatively – yes, when it comes to the box of chocolates and an emphatic no, when it concerns promotion. Maturity, therefore, is not absolute. As we proceed with age, knowledge and experience, so does maturity.

When my friend suffered her first heartbreak, she went berserk with grief, humiliation, betrayal etc. When it happened the second time, she waived the mishap out of her system with a “Yeh toh hona hi tha” sigh and did not take much time to bounce back to daily routine.

Moral of the Story: My friend has matured and come to accept the adversities and deprivations of life in her stride aided by a philosophical shrug and smile.

Soon I earned the nickname of “Jhansi Ki Rani” in office. Reasons - a volatile temper and ready-to-lash-back attitude. Over a period of time, I realized it was doing me no good –a formidable image was attached to my name, my temper was telling upon my health, it was impossible to change people/situations to my choice and colleagues poked me more on my weak point (read short temper). Gradually, I learnt to avoid confrontations and keep my cool even though incited. There were better and calmer ways of tackling friction and resolve differences! Nowadays, I drink a glass of cold water and count slowly till 100 when anger tries to have the better of me. More importantly, I have learnt to evaluate my foes a bit more neutrally, impartially, in a quiet and detached manner.

Moral of the Story: I have matured on two accounts – I have realized my limitations and tried to get over them and stopped indulging in futile exercises, like changing the world, which takes one nowhere.

My aunt (my father’s sister), with whom I spent a considerable period of my life (in Kolkata), would never let me help her in the kitchen or do other sundry household chores. Her standard reply was “What will people think! I am making you work?” When she was ill, one day I forced myself in to the kitchen and told her it was more important to do the right thing rather than what people thought would be proper for us to do. My aunt, after a prolonged debate, gave in.

Being a football of people’s perceptions is a self imposed burden which robs us of the joy of life. It takes time to learn that the alternate course of doing what is right in a given situation is a far better option. Giving in to people’s wish is too easy a way.

Moral of the Story: Maturity comes without an age bar. It can gatecrash anytime, especially, when one musters up the confidence and courage to choose between what is right and what is easy.

Contd….

A SPRINKLE ONCE MORE

2010-09-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

Reviving memories
Sad and happy
Mist in my eyes gleams

__________________

Shiny yet obscure
A distant star in the horizon
Beckons me like a receding dream

A SPRINKLE AND A GHOST

2010-09-16T09:13:00.000-07:00

It dies with the dusk
My hopes of a dawn
Perhaps never to return

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

Go!Shoo!Fly!Be gone!
Shadows of past forlorn
Let me welcome a sunny morn

*************************
And no stars in sight
A dark alley winding
Cold feet echo
*************************

Cold feet echo
The hum of the breeze
The silence of the night

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

The silence of the night
The droplets of rain
Dripping from the leaves
The moon feels shy
Hides behind a cloud
A dog whines
Somewhere at the end of the alley
A car passes by
Its headlights throwing
A weak patch of light
On the pitch dark roads
Long way to go till
The arrival of the dawn
I sit in my lawn
Encircling a white bungalow
Now stilled in slumber
Everyone' gone to bed
Only I am alone, awake
A drape on a window
Shivers in the soft breeze
And an owl wails
Plaintively, on the old, peepal tree
I clutch the white shawl
And let my mane slide down
My fragile boned back
A song comes to mind
Heard ages ago
I hum with a smile
A bleak light burns
In the hut further down
By the running stream
I tread thither along
Somebody passes by
An old hunched man
Stooped on a stick
Chanting the holy name
I swoosh by like the
Flowing, whispering wind
On invisible wings
Leaving a thin trace
Of mist behind
A swish of silk
And the holy chant
Echo in the green
Valley beyond..............

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

METRO PURAAN - PART V

2010-09-16T08:45:00.000-07:00

So coming back to where we were.

As the network is spreading and more and more areas are getting connected, the crowd of daily commuters by metro is increasing. I think, DMRC can brag the honour of being the highest revenue grosser in the NCR (National Capital Region) now.

Most people scoff at the many ill-reputed areas (Mundka, Jahangirpuri etc.) being connected by the metro which according to them will soon pollute the traveling gentry by diffusing the notorious with the patricians. Stray incidents of pick pocket, eve teasing and other such messy muck have also been reported.

I do not know how we define gentry. But generally speaking, metro is thronged now by the populace which was earlier jostling for space in the overcrowded and famously infamous Blue Line buses. These buses, responsible for many gruesome accidental deaths in the Capital, nurtured a positively homicidal streak. It was rumoured that many political big wigs had their money invested in these when transportation became privatized in the city. The owners on the forefront were suspected to be just the façade. The drivers and conductors were untrained, unruly and many found driving under the impact of intoxicants (most hailed from the Haryana belt). Roguishly competitive on road, they did not care two hoots for the safety and security of the passengers or pedestrians. It is, therefore, after a prolonged battle with a very, very strong lobby that the Delhi Administration finally put a ban on these buses.

Metro, in its full fledged splendour, happened after a considerable period of time. In the absence of none, it soon emerged as an alternate recourse for commuting - the undoubted Messiah for thousands of commuters who were virtually rendered immobile by the resultant lack of adequate number of public transports after the Blue Lines were lifted off the roads of the Capital. Not only was the mode different now, but it also earmarked a technological leap (after Kolkata) in the history of transportation of the country. I feel that there should be crash courses to get acquainted with new technology (ies) as and when they gate crash into Indian market. Remaining backward for so many centuries have put us at a disadvantage of not knowing how to adopt or accept a new marvel and adapt ourselves to it accordingly. This I say after observing the commuter behaviour in the metro.

At first there were no queues on the station, more so because initially, as I said earlier, there were comparatively much less number of commuters. Even then as the train entered the station, the pushing, trampling and jostling would begin. Who would enter first and grab a seat would be the reasons for competition. (Some were also afraid that the auto-doors would close down on them if they did not hurry!) Though, it did not make much difference since a standing journey was equally comfortable, yet as they say, times (read technology) change but people do not. Thus means changed but attitude did not.

Even after the exit of the Blue Line, the psyche of the masses lingered on. The acquired commuting skills and haste of a Blue Line marauder could not be forgotten/given up easily and was unwittingly relayed forward to the metro. Now, it seems as though it has been genetically transmitted to the gen next. Thus, it is the undisciplined behaviour of the public that necessitated queues and also queue administrators.

The ethos of Delhi, unlike Mumbai and Kolkata, is different. Here smartness is personified by one’s grabbing skills, or in more sophisticated language, the killer instinct. He who breaks the rule, the more irreverently so, is considered the most intelligent. Queues are formed to be readily dismantled as soon as the train enters the station. If the guard tries to bring to book a line breaker, the latter promptly points out “Hum line mein hi hai……..” which one is the million dollar question.

There was this old guard deputed at Kashmere Gate Underground Station. He was very loyal to his duty and would chastise all queue-breakers in his inimical somewhat Sholay’s Asrani like style and mannerism. Sometimes, in his sincerity he overdid his job and underscored rudeness heavily. How the crowd hated him! Invariably a heated exchange between him and a passenger would transpire into a station brawl while the rest of the crowd would just jeeringly look on. We, as a nation, are an indecisive lot and detest finality. Even in an argument, which concerns public convenience and civility, we cringe to take sides and reach a conclusive statement. Thus, such scenes would often recur till one day the guard was replaced by his more diplomatic (?) counterpart and was seen no more.

Contd…..

TO THE YOUNG

2010-09-13T08:28:00.001-07:00

To remind the young
Life is a song, create
Your tune as you sing along

THE CURSED COUPLE

2010-09-13T08:21:00.001-07:00

The couple relive a nightmare

A jinxed existence of despair

Perhaps long known

But ignored

In the spur of the sublime moment

Of fervent desire

The couple have forsaken

The rosy days

The fragrance of romance

Of togetherness

In the lap of the blue hills

The star filled nights

When the crescent moon

Descends from

Her silver throne

To grace the union of souls

The couple with a dreadful sin

Of marrying out of kin

Lurk around in shadows deep

Like a pair of fugitives

In fear of being seen

And slaughtered in the name

Of honour

By their own kith and kin.

A QUESTION

2010-09-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

Stertorous breathing

End?

Or beginning?

ANONYMITY

2010-09-13T08:09:00.000-07:00

I mingle with the crowd of hasty steps
Famished eyes, furrowed brows
Fearful hearts, floundering souls

I get diffused in their pain
Hunger, angst, stress, denial, deprivation

As I am one with them

But we do not hold Hands
Or touch hearts
Stranger we walk side by side
Isolated islands of muted voices
Of grief untold, sorrow unshared

Chasing are we a haloed mirage
Of flaming passion, lusty temptations
More fragile than the brittle
More precious than the priceless
Half truths of knowledge and perhaps existence

We are all united in our mission
But plod alone the paths of survival
In a meandering labyrinth
Of cascading failure

We do not stop by, smile a nod
In recognition of our mutual loss
Apparent profits and at times calculated withdrawal

I am happy and so are they
In our make-believe worlds of blissful ignorance
And bask in the glory of anonymity
Thy name perhaps is freedom

I THINK I HAVE LOST MY PURSE

2010-09-13T08:08:00.000-07:00

I think I have left my purse on your bed
No, No, No, Not on the bed
Must be on the sofa by the bed
Kept it resting on the left side arm, perhaps
Next to the side table
No, not even there
I don’t exactly remember where
I was so busy wiping my tears
And moping my nose
(That had turned an ugly red)
With the frayed square of the
Tissue paper that you had
Absentmindedly thrown at me
It had a whole in between
Where I had pressed hard
With my fingers
Till its molecules ached
Till it tore into two pieces
And I having screwed the two bits up
Into a crumpled ball kept on
Twirling it around my shaky fingers
See what you did to me
With your “I don’t love you anymore”
Cold, callous, frozen undertone

I had tiptoed into the room
When you were bent
Over the table intent
On writing a letter
With careless sheets of paper
Thrown hither and thither
I had come up from behind
And snatched the letter
A sheaf of paper
Had slithered on the floor
I had picked up one of them
And found her name
On it; she, who I thought
Was my best friend
You must have sensed me there
Holding the page with a question in air
So you did not even turn around
But confessed then and there
In the stunned silence that
Followed, my world broke apart
Noiselessly, shattered to pieces my
Innocent dream which
Nestles in my womb
Must have also absorbed
The shocked silence
Why did you do this to me?
Why? Why? Why?
Why did you not tell me before?
Why did you mislead me so?
With your boyish smile
And rakish charm
You drew me on and on
Towards you
Oh! What a folly
It is, I, silly,
Who thought you loved me
Like never before
I with my plain face
And lusterless eyes
Should have known
That I have nothing to hold you on
To me; I, who do not have such,
Beguiling charm
Tempting looks
Bewitching smile that disarm
Men and strangers alike
I should have known
Much, much before
That I am no match to you
Then why did you play on?

Oh! I think I have lost my purse
A few bills shoved in there
And a few coins
I do not give a damn for the bills or the coins
But only a few moments captured in a still
The sea kissing the rocks and my saree hem
The salty sprinkles splattered by a
Chiffony breeze which had sprayed a few droplets
On my locks and on my cheeks
And you had pulled me up from the rocks
Taken me into your arms
Wordlessly we had moved, swayed along
Till the roar of the waves played a Mozart
In my veins, we had mingled into one soul
That moment is still rumpled inside the
The purse with delicate care
But now I think I have lost my purse
Forever, and you…………………

Please post me back the purse, will you?
If you find it languishing in one
Speechless corner of the room
It belongs to me you know
The salty sprinkle
The sprayed droplets
The chiffony breeze
The wet saree hem
And that warm touch on my palms
The sway and the dance
You remember
I had broken my heels in that instance
The shoe with the broken heels
Still lie wrapped in a silver foil
At the back of the almirah
Underneath the soft folds of my
Clothes and spreads
A gift so dear
From you, to be cherished forever
A shoe with broken heels
And a lost purse
Return it to me please,
Will you?
If you find it ever

INCOMPLETE

2010-09-13T08:04:00.001-07:00

She has tasted the thorn
And bled profusely
In the arms of the man
She loved

As I have..............

THE MIRAGE

2010-09-13T08:02:00.000-07:00

A wrinkled hand shades
A pair of vacant eyes
Scanning the barren horizon
Blazed by the wrath of Apollo

Tears have been choked to death
Lest they spill over
On the jagged floor
Uncorked

A black veil disrobes
An emaciated frame
And caresses longingly
The vessel of God
Precariously balanced
Between life and death

A pair of sun-burnt feet
Desperately desire
A toehold on the
Boundless sheet of golden grains

Miles and miles need be trudged
In search of the ever elusive
Mirage

A few droplets of water...

O YE DREAMS!

2010-09-13T08:01:00.000-07:00

O ye dreams
Tread softly
You may awake
Me from
Deep slumber within
With flailing fingers
I may try and grip
Thy chiffon wings
In darkness
Hollowed by
Nothingness...........

O ye dreams
Tiptoe please
So softly
Into my room
Wakefulness may
Prod me so
To hug you
To my heart
Weak with desire
Impassioned ........

O ye dreams
Do please stride in
But so careworn
With a finger on your lips
Like a mother tucking in
Her baby to bed
With delicate warmth
And care

O ye dreams
Petal soft dreams
Do come in
Do walk in
Softly
Though............
like a hmmm
Of a breeze
Swishing past my ears

O ye dreams
My only dreams
My lovely dreams
Nestle your head
On my downy pillows
And sleep a wink
By my side
So that as I turn
Ye embrace me
Like a lover's arm
In longing, linger
On like a
Melody of a song
So dear
But perhaps
Forgotten over the years

O ye dreams
My sauntering dreams
My floating clouds
My fragile shroud
Of joy and splendour
O ye dreams
Ye for ye alone I live
I breathe, I rejoice
I believe in
What could happen never

O ye dreams
My illusive wish
My passionate prayer
Hope unfulfilled
My only friend
My soul mate sincere
My phosphorous dreams
My effervescent dreams
My bubbly fizz
My vapourous glitz
I know you may never be there
But oh so I wish
You be always there
Lining the lashes
Swimming with lust
In my eyes
With loving care

THE LONER

2010-09-13T08:00:00.001-07:00

Questions for the day
Gone unanswered any way
A few thoughts stray...

Will I ever find my way?
In the meandering bay
Where the blue sky sways

In a lazy lusty way
"Never make hay
It's just a sultry day"

The green grass nod n' say
"You'll always find your way
As lone you tread your way"

I step in and softly pray
That I find at last my way
In the tortuous pathway

But a few thoughts stray
Still tickle my mind and say
You've yet not found your way
And answers till this day...

OH! THESE SENTI SOAPY SERIALS

2010-09-13T07:14:00.000-07:00

My mother is an octogenarian. Though otherwise very active, she is predominantly confined to the four walls of home and spends most part of the day alone. Old age coupled with isolated existence can be a potent cause of many psychosomatic problems. Doctors have, therefore, advised her to keep the TV/Radio switched on so that the flurry of voices movement and music proxy the much needed human company. My mother has thus naturally fallen prey to the glitz and glam of the soap serials aired 24 hours on TV which easily replace her earlier interests in theatre, movies and books. I am citing this very personal example to highlight the importance of television in our lives as such and especially the quality quotient of social soaps telecast.

The Indian TV viewers got the first taste of soap opera in
Hum Log (1984). Soon Badki, Cchutki, Majli, Bassessar, Dadi and other characters (played by veteran theatre personalities) of the serial became household names. Hum Log centred on the daily strife and dreams of the middle class. The quick recap at the end of each episode by Dadamoni Ashok Kumar was the added attraction. Incidentally, the serial was the brainchild of the then I&B Minister Vasant Sathe. Next came the block buster Buniyaad (1987-88), a saga based on Hindusthan-Pakistan divide and the post divide survival of the uprooted middle class. It showcased heart rending performances by ace actors/actresses e.g. Aloknath (Master Haveliram), Anita Kanwar (Lajjoji), Kiran Juneja (Veerawali), Vijayendra Ghatge and others. These trail blazing serials were directed by veteran film makers, P. Kumar Vasudev and Ramesh Sippy respectively and scripted by none other than Manohar Shyam Joshi. No wonder that both the serials boasted of finesse, strong story line, script, dialogues, performance, consistency and focused continuity of drama. These were followed by Tamas, (by Govind Nihalani, director par excellence), a gripping and harrowing tale of an estranged couple (Om Puri and Deepa Sahe) in the communal riots staged by political aspirants/activists. These were serials of substance in terms of thematic concepts and overall influence on the masses. Subsequently, a few more serials were made based on the novels of Bimal Mitra, Ashutosh Mukhopadhyay R.K. Narayan (Malgudi Days), Gulzaar (Terah Panne/Mirza Ghalib), to name a few. The common thread of these serials being their limited episode editions and diligent adherence to the basic story line.

It was simultaneously during this period that the “corporate sponsorship” of serials was initiated at first in gradual measures soon giving way to full fledged commercialization. Enter the period of long drawn serials running into hundreds of episodes like Shanti, Swabhimaan, Junoon, Tara and the likes wherein script, story, characterization etc were conveniently sacrificed at the altar of prolonged duration. It was with the advent of private channels, TRP ratings and investment of “big” money in television that soaps, with the exception of a few, witnessed a steady degeneration in terms of content and concept. The invasion of Balaji Telefilms culminated the bizarre chronicle to perfection with its head honcho's obvious initial K fascination (Kkusum, Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki, Kasam Se,Kyunki Saans Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, moving on to the more current non-K titles like Bairi Piya, Tere Liye etc.).

Nowadays we live in an era of over-hyped costume dramas of larger than life size characters pioneered by Ms. Ekta Kapoor & Co. Generalization befits as all seem to be mass produced at the same factory & specifications overruled as all are cast in the same mould. (Those which do not subscribe to the patent formulae are smirked at as positively down market). These serials not only thrive on and promote but also loudly justify all social aberrations - extra marital flings, bigamy, polygamy, feudal debauchery, familial conflicts/conspiracies, illegitimate relations, the quintessential mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law discord, scandalous affairs, sexual impotency with covert hints at homosexuality, the list is quite exhaustive. A gourmet garnished with half truths; a bouquet of obsolete, medieval values as fringe benefits to go with it. For example, the oft-flaunted Achilles Heels of joint family systems, blatantly overlooking the fact that joint families do not only symbolize divides and disputes but are also founts of emotional & social support & security. Randomly watching a few of these serials, I realized that these are more stress inducers than stress busters. When you expect an outburst or quick reflexes from the protagonist, the camera pans interminably on his/her dead pan/tear smeared face. The over-glamourized vamp always hogs the limelight while the personification-of-all-virtues female lead(s) suffers silently for aeons (read episodes). Neither of them age even after their grand children are married off. The characters change colours (from good to bad to good again) overnight giving a massive inferiority complex even to the chameleon. What to speak of the
three jhatkas to hyphenate a milestone in the macabre twists and turns of the non-existent plot. It is no surprise, as contrary to the earlier trailblazers directed in its entirety by one director, now every episode has a fresh director and writer. I am given to understand that the Hindi pulp fiction writers (with due respect) are roped in to punch in the masalas to sensationalize each episode. Story jaaye bhaad mein! As a result, the plot/script in the 100th episode of the serial goes off on a tangent to that of the previous episodes. The half an hour time span is unequally divided with ad-breaks, leaving may be a miniscule quarter for the serial. The corporate money is invested majorly into heightening visual opulence (with regard to looks, attire & sets). There is no advancement/innovation in so far as technique, presentation or camera angles etc. are concerned let alone the story, script, plot etc. Ms. Kapoor has gone on record (in Koffee with Karan) stating that she generates employment by prolonging a serial. Very noble deed (read guise) indeed! But is it adequate justification for the over sentimental trash in the garb of social drama that the viewers are compelled to gulp down with dinner every night?

More worrisome is the fact that these regressive serials enjoy direct intrusion in our drawing rooms where the entire family including children robustly eat, drink, belch them. With globalization hugely impacting the television, it is more than apparent that the permissiveness advocated by these serials, is a blind Photostat of the West (of the league of Bold And The Beautiful etc.). Sociologists are still divided on the issue whether we are ready yet to digest the same. But what irks more is when these corrosive convolutions spill out on the open (street, alleys, parks et al) hurting the sensibilities of the elders and scarring the innocence of the children. Wish Ekta Kapoor and her compatriots introspect a little more on that!

Interestingly, the serials derive the name soaps from the early radio broadcasts (1930s) which were predominantly sponsored by soap manufacturers to arrest the attention of their niche customers, the housewives to their products. Nowadays these are called soaps because they are too slippery to “reach out” and grasp!

DUMB DAMSEL REINFORCED

2010-09-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

Saturday nights are generally meant to be de-stressing time for my workaholic family when we all relax and watch a movie or enjoy an occasional dinner in a restaurant. This Saturday was movie time. There were three movies to choose from – Once Upon A Time In Mumbai, Peepli Live and Aisha. We chose the third one. Our funda for movie selection was very simple – (1) Sonam Kapoor looked smashing in the promos, (2) The story was an adaptation of the classic - Jane Austin’s Emma and most importantly for me (3) The hero was Abhay Deol.

However, the predictable candy floss extravaganza that unfolded in two and a quarter hours time made me think seriously. Candyfloss it was – red roses, pink bows, satin sashes through and through. Only the Siamese kitten was conspicuous by its absence. Much has been already written and re-written on the movie on this site. So, I will abstain from a frame to frame, angle to angle, dialogue to dialogue, score to score dissection of the same. Just a few thoughts which tickled my mind while watching the movie.

It is an Anil Kapoor production. Hence, the role is inarguably tailor-made for Aisha i.e. Sonam Kapoor – a daughter of a rich father who has a single vocation, no, passion in life that of matchmaking. Somehow I always associated this “frivolous” activity with the middle aged housewives who did not have much to do than snoop around for marriageable sons and daughters and paired them off successfully and at times unsuccessfully. I am talking about those times when the parents did not depend on innumerable matrimonial sites and dedicated sections (running into pages) in Newspapers for marriage alliances. Also, my contemporaries were less self opinionated unlike modern girls and boys who have very clear and at times uncompromising notions about the institution of marriage. Matchmaking may have its own social significance and the ones actively involved in it perhaps be doing a great favour to society at large, but I am yet to come across a young girl clad in designer outfits and of, I presume, little more than average intelligence, devoting all her talents and papa’s paisa (source undisclosed in the film) to this activity.

Emma was written at a time (in 1813) when ladies with their fancy, frilled parasols, lace handkerchiefs, corsets, coiffures, chaperons and bottles of smelling salt were confined to their homesteads and whiled time in “womanly” activities like gardening, embroidery, socializing and taking care of the household in general. Jane Austin’s novels depicted the social milieu of her times. I always found it difficult to go through one as her characters were invariably caught up in social niceties like who is courting/angling for whom, mamas worried about their daughters not getting married on time, aunts entrapping unsuspecting, eligible beaus for their dumpling nieces and so on and so forth. At the same time, Jane Austin’s novels were hard hitting satires on the then prevailing social system wherein the womenfolk had no other option but to be dependent on marriage for financial and social security. No such message seems to be filtering through the script of this film as the adaptation is superficial without much effort at making the theme contemporaneous.

Given the backdrop of these classic creations, it will not be impertinent to ask whether an adaptation of a Jane Austin novel, especially Emma, befits the contemporary consumerist society, a by-product of an increasingly competitive market driven economy, where women have to precariously balance family life with a 9 to 5 job and at times play the role of the sole bread earner of her clan.

Randhir (Cyrus Sahukar) & Pinky (Ira Dubey), epitome of modern youth, depicted as somewhat paranoid of “being and dying single”, made me wonder whether marriage and relationship are really the foremost concerns of gen now. One may argue that the movie insinuates at the life and mindset of the more comfortable class, scions of which, do not actually have to worry about how to earn their daily grub. But I have also sampled a few specimens of the upper echelon who not only have greater drive and means to further their status but in the process make the race harder for those running in the survival of the fittest track.

What the movie successfully brings forth is the class contempt which is regrettably prevalent in, I think, every society, be it East or West. The continuous jibes at the middle class mentality represented by the “Bahadurgarh girl”, Shefali, aptly portrayed by Amrita Puri, are bold indicators of social snobbery at times bordering on extreme unkindness. Though, the script is amply punctuated by Arjun (Abhay Deol) chastising Aisha to stop reorganizing other people’s life and do something more constructive instead, nothing much propels her to do otherwise which again raises the quintessential debate whether Rajashree Ojha through her directorial debut is reinforcing the dumb damsel status quo wrapped in glitzy package.

The only glimmer of sunshine in the whole movie is the sensible, down-to-earth character of Arjun, played by Abhay Deol. That man has a knack of fitting into a character like hands slithering into a pair of well fitting gloves. His presence in the movie is like a breath of fresh air. I was taken aback to see M. K. Raina (Aisha’s father) dancing to Bollywood beats. Besides his nocturnal adventure with gajar ka halwa, Raina is grossly underutilized in the film. Anuradha Patel has nothing much to do but look elegant which she is.The opulent sets more than hint at a lifestyle where money is no issue. Ms. Ojha is promising but at times the infinitesimal pauses between dialogues (especially when Randhir proposes his undying love to Aisha to her utter chagrin) could have been pruned to make the pace racier and story telling crispier. The music by Amit Trivedi is passable.

All said and done, I would not say I yawned through the movie. The movie has great visual impact and the character portrayals are very good, especially that of the lovable Shefali i.e. Amrita Puri, who with her so-called “behenji” syndromes offers an equal match to the overpowering screen persona of Sonam Kapoor, if not outshine. Overall, running the risk of being branded as moral police, I’d say it is a clean film viewable with family and even enjoyable at times, especially, the repartees of the young ‘uns.
In fact, I am a little surprised that the movie could evoke such strong sentiments in me and incite an incisive analysis of the screen play. It is not that I have not enjoyed such light hearted chickflicks before. But the peach and cherry cake splattered with an additional ounce of icing and cream dished by Ms. Ojha, indicated another, rather a more disturbing fact, that I am way past that phase of life when I could thoroughly enjoy a mindless recreation cooked up by throwaway money and wasted energy of aimless youth.

HOSTEL ANECDOTES - A CLOSET FULL OF OPEN SECRETS

2010-09-13T06:58:00.000-07:00

Upon a premier preview……………….

Well, I consider myself one of the lucky few to have gone through the short story captioned as above, written none other than an MSian of consequence, Virat Nehru. A premier preview before the publication is a privilege by itself! But at the very outset, I may confess that I am not much of an on-line reader, though I take pride in being quite a site-marauder these days. However, if given a choice between an “ink & quill” paginated version and an electronic one, I’d definitely choose the former. But having said so, let me also record the fact that I finished reading the story at one go along with the Foreword and the section dedicated to the Indian Readers, which given my fidgety self, is quite something.

Before delving into the subtle nuances of the write, let me assuage the writer’s doubts about the softer sensibilities of Indian Readers. I take pride in proclaiming that the Indian Readers have also “come of age” and no more take shelter in Victorian camouflage. Globalization has its own advantages and disadvantages and one of its aftermaths, nay, consequence, is embracing the “openness” of the West with such gusto that the latter may now be put to shame of backwardness. This I announce purposely because the afterword for Indian Readers seems to have been writ in an apologetic and explanatory veneer which need not be necessary. Of course the writer knows best.

Much has already been clarified by the writer in his Reflection Statement about the background, construct and thematic concept of the story and any comment thereof would either be an over-statement or an unnecessary repetition or expansion of the same. I’d only attach the views and feelings of a layperson to this review – the thoughts that came to my mind and emotions that I experienced while going through the story.

The Story Line - This is a story of a child who comes to term with his own self, his physical disability and prejudices of society in accepting his incapacities. A child, suffering from cerebral palsy, who is sent off to Boarding School (Scindia School, Gwalior) , to get over his inability to mingle in society, his closeted life of a bookworm and the growing obese proportions due to lack of physical agility. Here, I may say, I fully empathize with the protagonist, as I , myself was the most grudging school-goer of my time, not because of any physical handicap but of a more endangering mental disability to mix with people. A psycho-analysis may trace my site-addictions back to this inability to inter mingle with my peers and the comfort that I feel in “deliberately distanced” social exchange at times facilitated more by a degree of anonymity. So, it did not take time for me to find myself in the child who struggles for survival under the austere conditions of hostel life (some of my colleagues hail it as the best period of their lives), his initial opposition to all that it symbolizes, his gradual initiation into and final acceptance of the scheme of things.

The Essence Of The Story - To put it succinctly, it’s a “man story”. There is nothing to enchant or attract the interest of female readers but nevertheless it does because there is a kind of universality in the essence of the storyline - a subtle narration (though as per the author he’d prefer a more refined version), an undisrupted flow which took me back to my Enid Blyton gorging days and more recently J.K. Rowling, though many chastise my inclination towards children’s literature. Yes, the story did at times remind of “3 Idiots” more so may be because the movie is the most contemporary and strong statement on our education system - a celluloid text of the same genre as the short story is. One may also draw some sort of parallel to a Chetan Bhagat story but Virat’s calligraphy is more finely tuned and elevated in stature, the influence of classical and modern thinkers being prominent on the writing style, as confirmed by the writer himself. Further, the narration is not cluttered by too many incidents.

The Writing Skill& Narration - Superlative contemplations juxtaposed with crafty writing skill can be a dangerously powerful weapon. The chapters end as though in provocative mid sentences like a swish of a painter’s brush to grip the readers’ minds left salivating for more. The narration or the flow has a cascading pattern as though a tributary is galloping down the rocky inclines and finally loosing identity into the bigger water bodies. Though the writer has chosen the medium of short story, the ethos of the story transcends the narrow confines of its character and his predicament and takes the shape of a broader statement of human evolution from the stage of infantile naivety to cynicism and astuteness of adulthood – a process natural to mankind tampered merely by personalized ordeals.

Language & Descriptive Style - At times, I was taken aback by the unique mix of American colloquial and classic English. Some of the depictions are so terse and apt that they take ones breath away, especially, those who rely heavily on language rather than incidents to explore and express the intricacies of human emotions. The phrases like ‘phenomenon of bathing” to describe the closed door adventure & “unspeakably wicked” to highlight the curse of a physical disability speak volumes without being verbose. “The questions never stopped like a tap leaking because of a bad washer” is packed with dark humour and can be an unequivocal allusion to the pathological snoopiness of idle, inquisitive minds about anything which does not conform to the society’s norms of “normalcy”. “In this wide paddock, the herd disintegrated and could now be found in small patches of grass’, to describe the first impression of a child of his school premise, seems an adult expression for juvenile thought. “Few can stand mediocrity and most can’t stand success” is again a hard punch on the face. Further, the description of day to day hostel life, the comfort of the child when he sees that the school building has an "overly -used " facade, the end when a transitioned protagonist gives in to " This will have to do… for now”, ..............and countless such other make it an extremely engrossing read, especially, for those who find solace in word portrayal. It would also be euphemistic to say that the story is a satirist's delight. There is satire, there is humour, there is pathos, there is an endlessness to the story which transports it to a higher level.

Characterization& Story Telling- But the best is the finely worded derisive caricature of Mr. Pennsylvania and a very bold attempt indeed since the publication is for the Western Readers. The utter disregard for an NRI and his contemptuous treatment as the “Other” in the hostel dominated by Indian mentality may be a point of surprise for the West. On the contrary, the generalization on Indian aspiration of settling abroad may be a little farfetched if not completely untrue. The story is autobiographical and a capture of an innocent mind of his surroundings. The story telling is on one hand simple and involved and on the other aloof as that by a detached spectator. The awestruck son and a distanced father relationship is I believe part of and natural to growing up.

Highlights - Since, I am constrained not to divulge too much about the story as it is in the pre-publication stage, I’d briefly discuss the milestones without going into too many details. The highlight of the story is the coming of age or “transition” of the child into adulthood penned with a macabre but at the same time sensibly ordinary (read understated) twist (which does not jar with the flow of the narrate). This foretells the power and promise of the author in days to come. As I have earlier said, the flow though uninterrupted, has much unsaid. One has to read more between the lines to absorb the full import of narration and descriptions which in itself is a very enriching experience as it leaves much scope and gives leverage to the readers in terms of interpretive liberty. By which I mean that there is no "definitiveness of a grand finale" in the conclusion of the narrative. The ethos lingers on and hangs over the reader like a pall of smoke in mid air. The climax though conclusive can imbibe several meanings depending on the fertility of readers’ mind which definitely is an indication of the caliber of the writer. However, there is a veiled bitterness, a cloaked wistfulness, threading the tale, which I am afraid, can be a figment of my imagination also. The endeavour of the author to showcase and uphold Indian values and faith in family system is commendable.

A highly recommended read not because it is woven by a fellow MSian but because it boasts of superb craftsmanship coupled with powerful writing skill and sovereignty of thoughts, inspired yes, but in no way partial to influences.

However, the short story is basically targeted for Australian publication and will only be available in private circulation (along with the Reflection Statement and the Afterword for better appreciation) in India, for which you may get in touch with the writer by e-mail.

METRO PURAAN - PART IV

2010-09-13T06:57:00.001-07:00

The metro now connects some parts of NOIDA (UP) and Gurgaon (Haryana) and will soon be racing towards the Delhi Airport. In addition to the other important landmarks of the capital, the Railway Stations – New and Old have already been connected.

It was a pleasure and a surprise to witness the progress of the metro. As they built, DMRC (Delhi Metro Rail Corporation) progressively made improvements too, in its style and pace of functioning and constructing, learning from their previous (construction) experiences and also mistakes and lapses, if any. Thus, construction became faster as each part was completed. It is also to be mentioned the manner in which the constructions were conducted with the highest degree of discipline, order and cleanliness.

While DMRC epitomized punctuality, stuck to its deadlines and completed its task on and sometimes even before time, stray accidents here and there marred the journey hampering the progress of work (e.g. NOIDA, Punjabi Bagh line) and at times incurring the ire of the general public too. I vaguely recollect the details of one such accident wherein a few labourers were either crushed to death or badly mutilated/injured and another perhaps included the road commuter(s) as well who also met similar fate. In two instances, if I remember correctly, it was the crane lifting the concrete cups for fit, lost grip, causing the heavy cups to crash down on hapless traffickers or workers who happened to be underneath at that spur of the unfortunate moment.

This gave rise to various (public) speculations and media sensations like DMRC was buckling under tremendous pressure of meeting its pre-fixed targets and that these were the evidences of self-imposed stress borne out of rigid adherence (stipulated by DMRC Chief, Mr. Sridharan, a strict disciplinarian and a man of his words) to sincere but impractical timelines promised to the Government and the masses and DMRC’s insatiable desire to prove that they were the best etc. etc. Resultant – hurried, callous attempts to finish the work. DMRC spokespersons, on each such occasion, either furnished explanations (a tad apologetic at times), wherever the cause could be easily discerned, or assured enquiries into the mishaps stating that they would revert with the report, once the investigations were concluded.

But why dwell upon the gloomier aspects of a heritage in the making? Running the risk of sounding brusque, it might as well be pointed out that enormity of tasks always entail a certain quantum of pitfalls. The reasonability and justifiability of such shortcomings shall always be under the scanner. Nevertheless, it’s almost like an axiom of history which may or may not have been recorded or deliberately overlooked time and again by the data collators. But yet fact remains that jobs of massive proportions, voyages of boundless encompass, revolutions of overhauling dynamism have always been undertaken and completed on human sacrifices and travails. It is the commoners - the unsung, unspoken of, obscure men of non-repute, who have always paid heavy prices in creating and re-creating civilization and invariably history chroniclers have carelessly excluded their unrewarded contributions (!) from the pages of time. Men who lost their lives in these accidents taught the men at work what not to do and where to be more cautious.

It is said that the Mughal emperor, Shah Jahaan, engaged approximately 500-600 workers per day (or perhaps even more, 20,000 being the total number) of high repute and craftsmanship, who converged from different parts of his kingdom and outside, for building the Taj Mahal. Just imagine the employment generated by the exquisite construct! But at the same time, the phenomenon saw an artificial famine as the emperor diverted bulk quantity of food grains, for feeding the craftsmen at work, which was otherwise meant to be distributed around whole of his kingdom*. History does not enlist the names of those men, women and children who lost their lives in the famine in order to give birth to one of the flawless wonders of the world!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Contd…..

(* Source - Nat Geo)

METRO PURAAN - PART III

2010-09-13T06:54:00.000-07:00

At first the capital dwellers were in awe of the long, silvery, tubular machine snaking noiselessly through the cityscape. Impressive pieces imported from South Korea whose bogies (4 in number) were interconnected, seating space was sparse and AC more than functional. The best part was that it did not matter whether you got a seat in the tube or not - a standing journey was as comfortable.

The initial phase connecting Shahadara to Rithala, two polar ends of the NCR, was seamlessly accomplished and inauguration equally impressive. The only jarring note being the mob that gate crashed into the stations to witness/experience the first run and almost vandalized the newly-imported machines in their unrestrained excitement. This may still be evidenced in the hideously cracked glass door/window panels of one or two otherwise unblemished trains – a painful reminder of the mob-mania, a daily eyesore

But the stations remained empty thereafter barring a few adventurous ones who did not fear trying out something new and hitherto not experienced. Everything was steel and chrome (look wise) and shining. The stations were spotlessly clean, the maintenance meticulous, the counter-girls helpful, the Security Guards alert (they thankfully still maintain the same standard) and above all the fare more than reasonable for an AC ride. It was reported that in comparison with the expenses incurred in its institution, Metro was earning less revenue and consequently running at a loss.

Notwithstanding the statistics of profit and loss, there were points of advantage accruing by the situation. Initially, the gentry which traveled by the metro was more sophisticated, paid heed to all the instructions repeatedly announced by DMRC inside the train (like no consumption of food materials, no music etc. while traveling) and saw that others obeyed the same too, showed courtesy to fellow travelers, offered seats to ladies and senior citizens (in the beginning there were no reserved seats for the fairer sex and elders) and in general made the NCR proud of a newly flourishing commute-culture.

Then gradually more and more people came to grasp the advantages of commuting by metro. How comfortable it was to travel by the same in hot, muggy days with the AC on in full volume! How one could avoid the on-road traffic jams and reach the destination hassle-free and in less time though by a roundabout route! How the city looked like the kingdom of ant dwellers during day time! How the garland of lights blinkered like stars on earth in the evening! How the scathing rays of Apollo blazed the sides of the crawling tube without scorching the bodies of the passengers within! How the train rushed into the moonlit/less nights undaunted and unhindered even through some areas shrouded in darkness by unexpected load shedding! All seen through the windows of the overhead metro during different times of the day! Glimpses of sophistry till now past imagination of the slogging middle class! And the commuters gravitated, increased in no. till it became a crowd of marauders daily dotting the metroscape.

Contd…….

METRO PURAAN - PART II

2010-09-13T06:51:00.000-07:00

Hopefully, before the commencement of the Commonwealth Games, the initial phases of “metromorphosis” (a term coined by DMRC) of NCR would be complete. Who could have imagined that the capital would one day be flaunting a network of columns, supporting the metro tracks, weaving through the cityscape, connecting remote locations thereby making travel through the city this easy and comfortable? Even a few years earlier this was unthinkable. Our residential area was one of the first to be connected by the Metro. During the construction, it used to be our favourite leisure time activity to stand by the main road and watch the yellow-helmeted labourers and engineers work day and night to install the massive construct (just a 5 to 7 minutes walk from my flat). How the monstrous machines, the rubbles, the cemented and metallic parts of the structure had become common fixtures of the landscape! How a thick layer of dust and smoke hung in the atmosphere permanently to be dissipated only after the construction was over! How our flats vibrated in the night, as though under virtual earthquake, when the underground diggings took place to fit in the columns! How the numbered columns were transported and lay by the road to be painstakingly put up to hold the track in its horizontal stance! How the cranes picked up each cemented cup to fit it to perfection to form the base of the track! How we used to wonder what would happen if suddenly the tube fell off its track, while plying, on to the busy road below, flanked by crowded shops and markets! Conjectures and realism, mixed together, added a new dimension to the paraphernalia. Now, when we find a slightest flaw in the working of the system we crib and complaint. But we have also seen the meticulous planning and back breaking toil that have gone into its making.

When the construction was on, our area was invaded by the yellow helmeted men. Early in the morning, they would come in groups (they had shift duties) with their helmets on and thereafter they would be everywhere. We’d find them cleaning the roads around the construction (including the placards with the logo of DMRC emblazoned on them, put up to barricade the construction site), managing the traffic to avoid unnecessary mishap or mess, working atop the half complete structures and during lunch time resting and relaxing in the MCD parks.

When the trial runs began, we saw the engineers with walkie-talkies running up and down the station building to ensure smooth coordination. At that time it was peak summer and the temperature neared 45degrees and some days even more. But still these dedicated souls worked undaunted and how they stuck to their deadlines was amazing given the way things work in our country!

That is how in our locality and I am sure in other places too the mammoth task of instituting the Metro was completed, part by part, phase by phase.

Contd……

With the advent of metro, the metamorphosis of the Capital or for that matter the NCR that has taken place or “metromorphosis” as DMRC calls it, is an important chapter of the history of the city/region. We are lucky that this phenomenon is taking place in our lifetime and we are direct witnesses to it. In a place where dependence on private vehicle (be it two or four wheeler) has been constantly on the increase in the past few decades, the Metro has not only provided an alternate means of public transport but also given rise to a commuting culture running parallel to city life. Though, insufficient and transient (being restricted to short bursts of travel), it is a world unto itself.

As we keep witnessing this piece of Capital’s history taking over our lives in an inescapable manner, what best can we do but act as a social commentator to this change agent. Yes, it has brought about lot of changes in the lives of the Capital dwellers. So, I thought, it would make interesting reading to chronicle little incidents and minute details of travel by metro, though mundane, yet which may provide a peek into this world which is at times highly enjoyable and at others equally infuriating.

Puraan was not created in a day. This Puraan will also be lengthy and take its own course and time to be completed - posted in spurts and gushes as the vagaries of metro-life come to the fore,in all its ecstasies and eccentricities. Part I and II may please be considered distinct chapters of this Puraan.

METRO PURAAN - PART I

2010-09-13T06:49:00.000-07:00

Last to last week (Wednesday, 11th of August, to be precise) I had the most harrowing experience of my life. The sky was overladen since morning but decided to unburden right at the time when we proceed homeward from work. Finally the torrential pour gave way to a mild drizzle. But it was good enough to congest the roads with stranded traffic. The city came to a stand still.

I missed my chartered bus due to the untimely rain. My colleague gave me a lift till Pulbangash (Old Delhi) Metro Station. Pulbangash is not a place to be visited by ladies unchaperoned after nightfall. But that was the only station which could be accessed enroute that too after patient maneuvering for almost two hours through bumper-bumper traffic. To my horror, the platform was pitch dark, Metro was not plying due to technical fault and above all there was no guard at the station to manage the restless crowd. Alternate transport was next to nil. Ultimately, out of desperation I had to call home. My family came all the way to pick me up from the station. The journey took them an hour or so by car.

While exiting I made sure that my Metro Pass gets registered at the gate. It’s a penal offence if the Pass only reflects an entry without a corresponding exit. A DMRC personnel was having a furious debate with a drunken chap who demanded he be returned one of his chappal which he claimed to have lost in the over-crowded train. I requested the official to punch in my exit as the machine was not registering the same. He did and confirmed so.

But next morning, as usual my Pass was not accepted by the machine at the entrance. On enquiry, I was told that the Pass did not reflect yesterday’s exit. I narrated the whole story of the previous night to the official at the counter but to no avail. As penalty, I had to pay the fare of the entire journey which I had not undertaken. It was a nominal sum but I decided to lodge a complaint with DMRC just to make them aware of the loopholes in the system and consequent harassment to the general public.

I was pleasantly surprised when a voice promptly replied my call (there is no customer care e-mail service; one can only make a call to a toll free number readily available at every Station). In fact, I had expected the call to go unattended. Anyway, I related my experience. He was considerate, took my Metro Pass no, apologized for the inconvenience caused and informed politely that DMRC would get back to me by the next morning after making necessary investigations into the matter.

A week has passed by since then and I am yet to receive any come-back from DMRC on the issue.……………….

A FEW "STRAY" THOUGHTS PLEASE

2010-09-13T06:44:00.000-07:00

Animals have always been worshipped in our country. The Gaou Maata (holy cow), Pawanputra Hanumanji and our most beloved the elephant headed Lord Ganesha. In our mythology too, animals have been bestowed an exalted position. Jataayu, the Good Samaritan, old bird who gave away his life to save Sitaji. Gaduda, Lord Krishna’s vaahana, Bali and Sugriva, who in spite of their sibling rivalry came forward to help the banished princes Ram and Lakshman and last but not the least the unforgettable vaanar sena led by none other than Marut Nandan, himself. Our religion preaches nature worship and all the good things that Nature has endowed us with have been treated by our predecessors, the sages and seers, as sacred and worshipped in acknowledgement of the divine blessing. This has been our heritage. But sadly when I look around now I feel that our bhakti bhaav is only confined to the four walls of the temple. As we come out of its gate, we forget ourselves and our history.

I am talking about how we treat the stray animals/friends with which we have to coexist even in the most upbeat of cities and metros. Though city planners may cry hoarse that these animals, dotting the roads and streets, mar the beauty of the landscape and there should be separate grazing lands and barricaded zones for them. Agreed, that there should be such facilities. But as long as these are not happening can we not at least be nice and kind to the mute beings and try and understand them as they cannot express their pains and discomforts in languages comprehensible to us.

I find cattle grazing by themselves on the roadside or by the busy boulevards, wherever they find something green, because their owners cannot provide them with sufficient fodder. As a result, they munch whatever they find lying here and there along with what they should not be eating as well. I have seen cows dying of asphyxiation on the road because they make the mistake of swallowing plastics containing thrown away food. (Of course how to use and discard plastics or not to use them at all is another issue of concern which I will not venture into at this juncture. But it is also something to ponder upon seriously.) They are cause of many accidents too as they stray onto the main road during peak traffic hours. Now, isn’t it the responsibility of the owners to provide the poor animals with proper, healthy and sufficient food?

The children pelting stones at stray dogs and puppies, to shoo them away, because these have playfully followed them around, is another common occurrence. Dogs, especially, do not harm human beings. They love and desire human company. You give them a little food morning and evening and they will guard your house like their own from all and sundry. You may have noticed old ladies sitting in the park sunbathing in the winter afternoons or chatting with each other on some other days and one or two stray dogs sleeping or sitting beside them peacefully. Unless and until they are ill treated or are sick and/or rabid, dogs do not bite or chase humans without reason.

But limited knowledge and awareness give rise to fear. Parents instead of teaching their children not to run when a stray dog wagging its tail comes sniffing around, they find it easier to beat up the dog. Dogs always chase running objects either playfully or considering them to be miscreants. Somewhere at the back of our minds also play the fact that stray animals are fit to be treated callously because they are just stray orphans! Had it been a dog of high breed, matter would have been different. But fact remains that these stray dogs are as intelligent as any other dog and if well trained and cared for they are as good watch dogs and friends as any best breed.

One cannot blame the parents as well because they themselves may be ignorant of these facts. Once you tell the dog not to come near you, it will always maintain safe distance. If you talk to them in your own language they listen and understand. But there is no forum to teach these things in a structured manner in play or high schools. We enroll our children for summer/seasonal courses to learn music, dance and other extra curricular activities but alas there is no course to teach them how to live with these animals that have always been domesticated and made use of, for varied and advantageous purposes, by homo-sapiens since the very inception of civilization.

WIERDO

2010-09-13T06:43:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I happened to be the most staunch believer of astrology (western as well as eastern) , palmistry, Linda Goodman, zodiac signs, tarrot card readings, et al and wouldn't even sneeze without looking into my horoscope or calculating my planetary position for the day. Thank God I am over that phase of life, now. But sometimes, things go so haywire that I really feel like orbiting into the solar system and watch over the sun, moon, earth, mars, mercury , in short all the nine, sorry, eight planets, including Rahu and Ketu, in case visible, whether these are behaving okay.Take for example, today, I happened to click on the following sites and the end result - ONE BIG FIASCO :

My Blog - Locked, reason unknown !

Facebook - Guarded by Fortinet (over-active IS snoops) !

G Mail - Somebody's trying to hack it from New York ( Just imagine, somebody finding

my uninteresting self, intriguing) !

Twitter - Temporarily blocked on account of technical snag !

What's this happening ? Whatever I am turning to is crashing down to bits and pieces? Somebody's playing the tricks on me? Or pulling a fast one? Or more importantly, its my electro-magnetic effect? Which one is it? Pray guess!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE DAY BEGINS

2010-09-13T06:42:00.000-07:00

The holy grease and grime of hard work is all over me just marginally diffused by the pearly droplets of the incessant drizzle outside paving the way for a steaming hot cup of tea. The day begins. Soon I'll be submerged in the labyrinth of papers, software glitches and legal jargon. Somebody help me please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why do super workaholics fail to inspire me?????????????????

THE WEE HOURS OF MORN

2010-09-13T06:41:00.000-07:00

The euphoria of childhood rains is replaced by the perpetual perspiration mode. Nature has written a special addendum to the monsoonal deluge with a crackling sun and 200% humidity. As a result, one feels like freshly washed clothes perpetually being wrung out of excess water, if any left still, so to speak. This is the most enervating, exasperating and unproductive season converting homosapiens into useless zombies. Morning or evening walks are simply no-no because the clothes get glued to your limbs so irritatingly that movement of any form becomes a repulsive exercise. There's a warm, suffocating stream of vapour constantly rising from the soil which once inhaled (there's no other choice) ignites tongues of flame inside the veins. The ktichen feels like a blast furnace. A portable AC ( a sort of a back pack) seems to be the only solution for survival which remains yet to be discovered, mass manufactured, wildly advertised and cunningly marketed to produce 400% surplus value for the patent holder.

The only time of comfortable existence is the wee hours of the morning when the sky is not yet streaked with grey and the night has still not discarded its electric blue veil. The crescent moon has a fading smile on its face and the stars blink like drowsy kids ready to flop their heads down on their mother's shoulders and dose off to dream. I and Mr. Boots take a stealthy walk around the block, come back and empty a bottle of frozen water each. This is the time when night sounds are mute. The tired night guards steal a quick nap on the stone benches lining the streets. This is the time when I stretch my hands out to my creator and have an intimate conversation with Him. A conversation that leaves me fulfilled, energized, focussed and ready to confront the world.

Gradually the sun peeps up from the easterly direction and the moon quietly tiptoes out of the horizon. Time to have a cup of steaming hot tea, pick up the newspaper, water the plants and welcome the milkman. The beginning of a new day. As the sun spreads its golden man across the sky I pick up the threads of my new found valour to face my opponents eye to eye.

THE STORY OF THE FAMISHED ONE

2010-09-13T06:39:00.000-07:00

This is the story of the frail willed, frugal in effort, feeble minded, forever-giving-up types. My question for today is how much time one requires to learn from one’s past and repeated mistake(s). (Mistake repeatedly committed is known as blunder; blunder twice made is known as idiocy; idiocy….lets not go further). It/these can bring forth a drastic change by one instance itself or may take weeks, months, a year or two, nay, perhaps a whole lifetime?

Of course, here, the protagonist of the plot is me and myself – the kachhua of the khargosh and kachhua fame. The only difference being, the kachhua, though slow, was the ultimate winner in the story. In this instant case, kachhua is forever slow in picking up the moral of the story and consequently lags behind, stumbles and falls prey to all the vices under the sun. The mistakes? Countless, out of which a few I enlist below –

Mistake No. 1 - Salivating over junk food – Maggi Noodles being the all time favourite, recent addition to this genre is the yummy pazzta ( I think that’s the spelling), especially, the “cheesy” one.

Mistake No. 2 – When in the market, feet spontaneously turning towards the street food stalls – the mouth watering gol gappas, the chaat pakaudis, the aloo chaats, the tikkis with the red hot/sweet tamarind sauce etc. which the capital is famous for.

Mistake No 3 – Hands automatically stretching towards the spiciest dishes on the buffet table – the chicken butter masalas, the paneer kormas, the dal makhnis, the makhaane ki sabzi etc.

Mistake No. 4 – “Snubbing off “the mobile screaming the exercise alarm in the morning and wandering off to dreamland

Mistake No. 5 – Invariably calling out to the rickshaw wallah to cross-over a “walking” distance.

Mistake No. 6 - Inevitably gorging on second, naah, third and fourth helpings of rice on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and then snoring away to glory.

Mistake No. 7 , 8 , 9, 10……………………….I can go on, pal, this is never ending.

Result ? Do I have to elaborate or the strenuous expression on the emaciated face of the rickshaw puller or the frown on my physician’s forehead says it all!

I know it’s a matter of will power, knowing and doing what’s best for you, listening to the doctorsssss seriously (that’s not one, too many) and indulging in all the right kind of activities (including exercises, yoga, regular walks, change in dietary habits etc.) which one should be doing. If not anything else, listen to Bipasha Basu, yaar! Take to stairs and Sugar – free Gold! Its not that I do not know these things by heart now! Its not that I have not tried out all the possible measures by now! Its not that I do not like soups and salads! I do, seriously. But the problem is I like all food types and of course “the other kind” of food, a wee bit more. One view of how to prepare kakori kababs on Discovery Channel (Imagine Discovery’s also gone foodie!) and all my self control vanishes into thin air. Who said its gluttony? Is it a crime to love the “good things” in life? Nooooooooooo! But all good things have an exorbitant (keeping in mind the inflation) price tag attached to it and I believe, I am paying the price for them. Please do not sermonize me with “where there’s a will, there’s a way” etc. stories. Had I an iota of that “supreme consciousness”, this post would not be happening. Till then, happy munching (toot pado style) Traaalaaaa!

METROSCRAPE

2010-09-13T06:38:00.000-07:00

Today I was unusually late to office. Reason metroscrape. The train next to ours, on the same track, conked off. Then the overhead wire at Kashmere Gate(KG), the main junction, broke down. As a result, the train which takes twenty minutes to reach us to KG took an hour. At KG, one has to change over to the underground blue line metro to proceed further. But today there was an almost stampede like situation at the underground station. Though there were constant announcements by DMRC informing the public about the cause of and apologizing for the delay, the public became unruly. People were pushing and pulling each other, trampling on female passengers, shouting, screaming and jostling as soon as a train would arrive. Fact remains that DMRC did its level best to increase the frequency of the trains so that the peak office hour movement could be managed and the delay due to technical snag could be made up for. But it was a one sided effort as the public refused to cooperate with the Authorities. They would not even allow the inside passengers to come out of the train! Where a little bit of patience would have helped a lot, the angry impatience and mob like behaviour of the public worsened matters. Being a Friday, the crowd was much less than usual weak days. But panic ruled and indiscipline prevailed to the extreme. At last, failing to board the train from KG, I took the train in the opposite direction, went to Civil Lines Station and boarded the train to Patel Chowk from there. It took me four hours to reach office which normally takes one hour fifteen minutes.

I was just thinking proudly the other day that metro has given quite a new culture to the city and the city dwellers. But today I am forced to think just the opposite. As Mr. Sreedharan said in one of his moving speeches, "Delhi is not yet ready for metro," seeing today's man-made crisis, I agree with him hundred percent that Delhites are yet to learn to behave in critical exigencies and are truly not ready for the metro yet.

ANXOCARE - A CANINE ELIXIR

2010-09-13T06:36:00.000-07:00

I have always had pets around me because my father was an animal lover. I grew up with Julie, a German Duschund and Jill, a Spaniel. When we moved to Delhi, we had Badshah, a German Shepherd mix and Jojo, a Pomeranian. In short, we had the best breed canine as pets at home. It was, therefore, very difficult for us to adjust to Mr. Snow Boots, who was a stray Indian whom we had picked up from the roadside, being inspired by Ms. Maneka Gandhi. He had many mental problems like fear psychosis and a complete distrust for humans including us. He was non-communicative, ill tempered, aggressive with a biting tendency, over excited, hated strangers and did not gel with the family at all. So much so that, at one point of time, we were compelled to think of giving him away to a good canine association who might be able to “manage” him well. The thought made us extremely unhappy and created a lot of tension and dilemma in the household because we had never abandoned our pets before. Our wonderful vet Dr. Chanana told us that Mr. Snow Boots was special and needed extra care as his odd behaviour dated back to his infancy whence he might have been ill-treated by other street dogs or humans. Snow had come to us when he was three months old and we did not have any inkling what had happened to him prior to that. (Notwithstanding, these symptoms can happen to the best breeds as well.)

Then Anxo Care happened to us! It was recommended by our vet. It’s an animal health care product by the well-known Himalaya Drug Company which also manufactures medicines for human beings. Like all its products, this is also Ayurvedic and highly effective. Each tablet contains extracts of Brahmi, Mandukaparni, Ashwagandha, Vishnukrantha, Tagara, Vidanga etc. and such other compounds in measured proportions. It is anxiolytic, mood elevator and behaviour modifier and cures non-specific anxiety, depression, fright and emotional stress due to unfamiliar people, environment, noise, traveling etc. It deals with behavioural problems like aggression, restlessness and hyper-excitability and promotes better receptivity and learning abilities. It is available in tablet form. (Earlier it was available in syrup form as well which has now been discontinued). One bottle contains 60 tablets and can be used for a prolonged period as per vet’s advice and guidance. It does not have any expiry period and therefore, once purchased and preserved properly, can be used for quite a long period. Generally, for small breeds 1-2 tablets twice daily and large breeds 2-3 tablets twice daily is advisable depending upon the condition or symptoms. It can also be given to cats. It is reasonably priced too. The change in behavioural pattern is visible very quickly almost as soon as the dosage begins. Since the tablets are honey coated, dogs love to have them. Otherwise it can also be given in powder form mixed with food or milk. Most importantly, prolonged dosage is not harmful. Being Ayurvedic, the medicine does not have any side effects either.

After a prolonged dosage of Anxo Care, there’s a remarkable change in Snow now. He is docile, friendly, receptive to instructions, communicative and we can now have a “full fledged conversation” with him. He is the sweetest dog we have ever had and mixes with us very well. He is still part of our family which speaks a lot for the product itself. I appeal to all dog owners and lovers who face similar problems with their pets, as I have had, should once again consult your vets about this product and administer it to your pets under, of course, vet’s orders. It is easily available with vets and shops selling canine products.

Please do not think of abandoning your pets because of their behavioural problems. They are special and need your help, patience, sympathy and love.

In the end, just one word of caution: This medicine is not meant for human use.

A WORD REDEFINED

2010-09-13T06:34:00.000-07:00

A pearl drop secluded in a sea-shell.

A rain drop clothed in a cloud.

A dew drop encasing a rainbow.
A sea weed coral crowned.

A moon beam trickling through the window.
A wee wish in the heart enthroned.
A lavender dream lacing the lashes.
A secret whispered aloud.

A hint, a glint, a smile , a tint.
A throb, a pain, a sob.
A coax, a cajole, a craving.
Indeed, a mischief lurking around.

A touch, a sigh, a hum, a high.
A moment lived profound.
A blush, a splash, a jolt, a hush.
A mist in a maze of shrouds.

These and in similar other and many more ways, the ever-elusive, exact four lettered word LOVE has been defined and redefined in versified and non-versifed forms. The ambrosia has been sipped and re-sipped and the goblet of life filled and re-filled.

But the one that attracts me the most, thuds with my heart and pulsates in my veins is the one penned by the inimicable Gulzar Sahib which runs in his style incomparable:

"Sirf ahsaas hai yeh rooh se mahsoos karo, pyar ko pyar hi rehne do koi naam na do"

A CRADLE SOFT WISH

2010-09-13T06:29:00.000-07:00

The road that dashes by the side of Sai Baba Temple and hits the traffic signal half a kilometer further down and turns waywardly towards CGO Complex, I am talking of that junction. The left side is free at that signal point. But some scatterbrained driver will invariably halt or park a bus or a car so that the turn is blocked and you are stranded for at least five minutes. And these five minutes are so precious when you are in a hurry to reach office on time! Today is no exception. The auto wheeling me to office plunges in a race against time but alas comes to a rakish halt at this point. This time it is a Honda City, brand new, straight-off-the-showroom, shining in the dazzling sunlight, its inflated rear side plonked at a crooked angle disallowing a left turn. Impatience mixes with something else, an apprehension. Soon the traffic light beggars will gherao the auto whining, pleading, and nagging for alms. I hate it. It is not that I do not want to help the downtrodden! But giving alms signifies encouragement to apathy, joblessness, social degenerates who hate honest, hard work. Fuming and fretting silently, I steal a glance at my watch, peer ahead; my eyes suffer a rude jolt as they hit the shimmering rear of the Honda City once again. I am about to steal another impatient peep at my watch when a skinny, bony arm sticks out inside the three wheeler. I follow the arm - slightly disfigured, just an over shooting length of calcified stick which gives way to the rickety mound of the cringing shoulder on which is tilted a small cherubic face with a pair of round black china balls in a sea of blue, a set of perfectly shaped milk teeth gleaming in the daylight and pale cheeks an inch hollow but glistening in unearthly merriment. A few stubborn strands have fallen at a naughty angle on his forehead which add an impish glow to the face. He does not say anything but just smiles shyly pointing a small soft palm frilled with little snow flakey fingers curling at the tip. The way pampered children haggle mutely with their mothers to buy them a Milky Bar out of turn. He is a novice. Naïve to the trade! He hasn’t rehearsed his lines well. Hasn’t picked up the whine yet! He just smiles and tilts his head further so that it almost bumps into his ball and socket.

A scrawny body refusing to hide under a button-less shirt and a pair of oversized shots which seems to dangle from the fragile circumference of his thin waist! An irresistible urge to clasp the baby fingers and pull him inside asking”Chalega, school, padhne?” Just a few stray moments. The signal changes colour. The Honda City shows off its burning brake lights. My carrier purrs into action. I unzip my bag hurriedly, fumble for my wallet, rummage in it blindly, scoop out whatever comes my way and shove it in his hands. He does not look at the crushed, crumpled notes. He just smiles. He is happy. The happiness pours out like sunshine through crevices of the mischievous glint of his eyes, pallor of his cheeks, the white innocence of his teeth. An unhurried pause in the revving up scurry of movements! A few seconds! He is gone!

It’s a bright morning. Very bright! Everything around refracts the glitter of the post rain sun. But the dazzle does not prick my eyes. There is a veil of mist which surrounds and deepens as I blink. Suddenly, a breath of breeze blows in from an unfamiliar direction crooning craftily a lullaby into my ears. A lullaby which sounds uncannily familiar! Words resonate eerily in the sonorous voice of Nidaah Fazli Sahib. The unforgettable lines aptly epitomizing the remnant of the moment just swished by:

Ghar se masjid hai bahut door chalo yun Karle
Kissi rotey huey bachhe ko hansaaya jaaye!

A TALE UNTOLD BY TIME

2010-09-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

I see him quite often trudging his way through a maze of unknown faces in the metro station. Our timing coincides perfectly when I am a little late than usual. He maintains his time around ninish every morning. At first I thought he was a student. A dark, longish face, close cropped hair, medium height, he drags his right leg along in a pronounced limp. He dresses well with matching shining boots and a rucksack rests peacefully on his back. He lumbers on threading his way efficiently through the crowd. Sometimes he halts on his way and lets the mad rush pass by. I observe him often – straight backed and proud.

Two days back it so happened that I got a seat in the train by a stroke of luck. As I gazed around, I found the boy standing right in front of me. I gestured to him and offered my seat. He looked aghast and said “No please! Never mind.” A deep, strong, confident resonant, well modulated voice! A mesmeric moment of melodious notes! More so may be because I have an ear for music, the rendition sounded sonorous and soothing to say the least. The faint but firm stress on the “please” restrained me from insisting further. I realized that I had made a mistake in concentrating on his handicap. We are all mutilated and tainted, aren’t we? In thoughts and deeds if not in appearance or attire!

He stood their looking like a mutinous child with his back turned towards me. His body language made me feel guilty. Did I do anything wrong by offering him a seat? Did I hurt his pride? Should I have treated him like all other passengers? Did he feel angry or embarrassed at my obvious display of kindness? Did he take my kindness to be pity? Would it not be against etiquette not to have offered him the seat? These and many more questions tormented me and still make their disturbing presence felt in my mind.

I grope in the dark for a suitable answer. I still do. An answer matching the rich diction of his unspoken words, his unpublished, unpublicised rebel with himself and the world which will not go down anywhere in the annals of history in indellible golden prints amidst a galore of pomp and show but which cumulates and consolidates in silence the day to day human efforts and endeavours against all odds - physiological as well as psychological, cerebral as well as social. In the mundane Draconian drudgeries of life, a flickering flame of hope.

Thus goes the tale of an ordinary man.
Who rejoiced in rain and against time he ran.
And made his presence felt
In the timelessness of time.
In silence, in words, in deeds,
In thoughts, may be not so sublime.
But still he tried, he pushed, he cried..
He toiled, he survived, he foiled, he surpassed.
He burnt and rose from ashes, he learnt
Perhaps his Heart to defy.
But he refused to be by-gone, lost in memory.
Forgiven by sorrow, forgotten by time.
He was one amongst many and many amongst one.
The connect divine in the multitude that thronged
The scampering paths of life.
He is, he will and shall always remain
Just an ordinary man.

A LOT OF RUBBISH

2010-09-13T06:26:00.000-07:00

A Penseive! A Room of Requirement! A Time Turner!

The Poteratti will know exactly what I mean.

A penseive, an oval-shaped, bottomless basin, to pour in priceless memories! Vaster than a bank vault and safer than the mind; without the encumbrances of rent or lease or such other grime! So much alike at the same time so unlike the cubby hole wherein we shove in the so called valuables - gems and jewels and sometimes a few wads of “grey” currency sublime (?); above all, the inexorable ritual of making it a point to peep into the pigeon-hole at regular intervals with thudding hearts, perhaps, something’s gone amiss, a piece of the dime divine. At other times the extravagance of pulling these artifacts out and placing them on necks, ears and hands feeling the immense pride of possession. Oh! The shackles that we adorn! The “grey” notes are of course not to be flaunted but just counted surreptitiously now and then and quickly stowed away before the intrusion of prying eyes – lest they lust on them in vain (of course!).

On the contrary, a penseive can be placed anywhere even next to the bedside and visited any or several times during the day whenever the heart wishes to. Many a times not alone, with friends too! No trudging over to the bank wading through busy boulevards.

The pragmatics may question the very utility of the same. As it is to manage the mind with its unending labyrinth of thoughts and memories is a task too mammoth to attain. On top of that a useless bowl to increase the strain? But the fickle memories go wayward, rusty and dusty, weathered and withered by time and sometimes lost too in the meandering alleys of the mind. It happens often, does it not? Whenever we want to recollect some crumb of the remote past? We keep on raking our brain till it bleeds to numbness fast. So, isn’t it safer and better option to have a penseive instead? And as and when we wish to cruise down the memory lanes, just sneak a peak into the vessel’s silvery glow and lo, the memories come alive and transported in time we are revisiting the past, involved, engrossed, engaged and at the same time stands by the detached spectator in us witnessing the unfolding of drama of by-gone follies and frivolities and sometimes, yes, angst and pain.

One such other thing is the room of requirement which is there all the time but invisible to uninterested eyes till we really require it. When we need, it appears right in front like Jack in a box. Not only that, it appears loaded as per our choice. For example, if you are a bookworm, the room of requirement shall appear with all the paraphernalia of a world class library. Stacks and stacks of books from floor to ceiling, plump and comfy sofas to relax and read; an assortment of table and side lamps and big, round, polished, mahagony, centre tables placed in orderly fashion all around. If you are a gizmo, the room will come loaded with gadgetry extravaganza. And so on and so forth. As soon as you are comfortable in there the door will close to lock you out of the din and the hum-drum of life. Of course, not forever and you can exit out of the room whenever you want. But just imagine the tranquil leisure, (otherwise almost impossible to get, with the door bell ringing, the TV blaring in the next room or other urgency/ priority rudely taking over) pursuing your choice hobby in that as-you-want-it-to-be room of requirement!

Last but not the least is the time turner – a somewhat clock like thing which can be wound/unwound to go back in time and erase and/or amend whatever we want to rectify and start afresh. Of course the time turner comes with a time tag within which we have to finish the modification of the past. If we fail to do the needful the opportunity is lost and gone forever. But that’s reasonable, I think! Such “expensive” packages do come with a certain amount of grim risk. Don’t they? But visualize thequantum leap! Reloading your past the way you wish to reap!

Though many, as they read will and do scoff at such Hogwartian mumbo jumbo. Many will say what’s the need? Many may rubbish the thought of it as Utopia! Many will enlist the superiority of arrangements that already exist. Many will be scared to go back in time, ruffle their memories and past as well un-timed. Why play God they’ll say though enthralled, but just imagine the blissful fun of it all and oh! How I crave and pray that I may save enough to own

A Penseive !A Room of Requirement! A Time Turner!

What say you, wanna apply for a loan?

ON FRIENDSHIP

2010-09-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

The road, undulating and slightly inclined rushes forward and takes a tortuous turn by the side of a mango tree to merge diligently into the main thoroughfare. The mango tree has always been there, jutting out on the road, stooped by thick foliage and network of branches. Some thoughtful philanthropist has cemented a seat around it so that panting walkers like me can rest for a while under its shade. That is what I do exactly every morning. Maneuvering the dents and the elevations of the road leaves me out of breath. The tempting shade of the tree beckons me everyday to sit underneath it and day dream for sometime. I rest my head against its thickened shoot and inhale deeply. The fragranceful freshness of the leaves courses through my veins rejuvenating me. After a while I resume my walk back home. On sweaty summer days, this is my regular routine.

In the months of June and July when the city is taken aback by sudden, unexpected, downpours I have often taken shelter under its green awnings. Rains have given way to the pale sun of the autumn. I have so many times touched its coarse bark with delicate fingers and hummed a tune to myself. It has been my agog audience. On smoggy, bitterly cold, winter days, I have found warmth and comfort under the canopy of its broad branches frilled with frozen leaves. In spring, it has looked exuberant and glorious. Its green leaves glossy and glistening with uncontained joy; its brown rugged branches raising their arms towards the detergent-blue sky welcoming sunny, sprightly morns. Birds have chirped on its branches and bees have hovered around its buds. It has sashayed with the rhythm of the soft, chiffony wind and waved at me in happy recognition of a long association. When the tree has borne fruits, boys have clambered up its “body” to pluck them off.

Every season it has offered me its company and support in varied ways. I have listened to its silence loaded with words. I have sung so many songs sitting under its shade. So much so that sometimes I almost feel a palpable presence around its girth. A tangible feel! A perceptible touch! An audible sigh! It has always been there for me and I presume that it will always remain there for me.

I sometimes wonder what sort of relationship this is. What it gives me, it gives to all. There is no exclusive privilege or exchange here. But still there is a bond which deepens and strengthens with time. There is no mutual give and take. But the lack of it does not mar the understanding that we have. An understanding which we have never sealed with a sternly worded pledge! It is just there!

Without asking for anything in return, the tree gives me and the others so much, in fact, the best that it has, season after season, year after year. On very infrequent occasions, when I hurriedly pass by without spending a few minutes under its shade, the tree appears to be a little morose. As though the day has gone by without doing anything fruitful! Sometimes I feel it craves for my company as much as I do. Sometimes I feel it is over burdened by its loneliness. That is it. We have not exchanged words but we know about each other so much – the secret dreams, the hidden sorrows, the unstated thoughts.

My long time friend of all seasons who unconditionally gives me joy, peace and warmth of its blissful shade and silent company each and every day of my life! We "hold hands" in mute acknowledgement of each other. We enjoy this deep security of each other’s presence through thick and thin! We know what the other feels without a confession or a cringe!

That is what friendship is all about.

That is what friends are for.

Aren’t they?

TWO MEN AND A TIGER - PART II

2010-09-12T20:18:00.000-07:00

Bengalis are compulsive travelers. No other race that I know of can beat them in traveling. They know the remotest geographical locations on the face of this earth where nobody has ever set a foot on. This is most important because then a Bengali can take the credit of doing so before the others can boast of the same. They chew up the history, geography, anthropology of a place they are about to visit so that the guide accompanying them can be put to shame for lack of knowledge. They have the most extensive wardrobe which need not necessarily conform to their demographical/meteorological conditions. Kolkata (for that matter the whole of West Bengal) does not boast of extreme winter but a Bengali may proudly possess a few snow jackets with mink lined hoods in apprehension of loosing a chance to visit the Himalayas for want of proper clothing. You may even find the apparel of an Eskimo available with the diehard globe-trotter so that his may-happen-sometime-in-near-fu
ture Alaska visit is not marred by the lack of it. Even in the blazing stretches of Sahara, you may land up bumping into a Bengali on camel’s back shouting out excitedly to his compatriots (if they happen to survive) on spotting a hitherto unknown or uncommon variety of clump of thorny bush. When Bengalis travel they wrap their whole world in their suitcases which will and must include the technically best camera available in the market so that pics of unusual angles and frames can be clicked and stored to be brandished later with a bragger’s delight in the company of friends and foes alike. In short, the Bengalis are the biggest shutterbugs of the world.

Having said all this, I cannot resist recounting an anecdote recently told to me by my friend and colleague. I do not know the travelers personally. But my friend does. So, the story goes like this. My friend’s friend decided to visit the Sundarbans with the obvious aim of having a face to face tête-à-tête with the Royal Bengal Tiger(s). They were part of a group (comprising of a few more families) united by purpose. The husband of the lady (my friend’s friend) of course carried a new expensive zoom lensed camera to capture “the moment” forever. Nightfall the party (divided in two/three groups) settled in boats, for a ride through the thick forests, with the locals as guides and saviour in case of attack by the beast. They rowed through the jungles for a while before having the good (?) fortune of laying their eyes on the elusive beast that had come to drink water by the river side. The tiger, I believe, was so huge and monstrous in appearance (viewed even from a distance), that one look at it and the children started howling in mortal terror to the chagrin of the locals. The Royal Bengal tigers are great trackers. Once they come to know that somebody is following them they make it a point to get back at the innocent followers (read onlookers) by hook or crook. It was the nervous rebukes of the locals which brought the howling somewhat under control. My friend’s friend hugged her daughter so tightly to her chest that the poor child almost suffered from asphyxiation. But the all time best was the reaction of the husband who was so transfixed with fear that he forgot having a camera in hand let alone taking a snap. His wife was apprehensive that he might fall off the boat into the waters anytime as he seemed quite bereft of control over his limbs and therefore kept on tugging at his arm with one hand and clutching the daughter by the other. But thankfully no further mishap took place. Luckily the tiger was perhaps a little absentminded or dull witted that night and did not pay much attention to the tourists. It was after the beast had turned its back that relieved all cameras went up in air, including that of the awestruck gentleman, for hurried shots but alas of the back of the receding tiger.

After having narrated the story in all its gory details my friend confided that she too was planning to visit the jungles soon. I made a quick mental note of that for a subsequent diary post.

CITY DIARY

2010-09-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

Ours is a country where the traditional and the modern, the mundane and the bizarre, the primitive and the contemporary, all co-exist side by side peacefully. Some of the examples are:

(1) A bullock cart demurely parked beside a Ford Icon at the traffic signal waiting for the lights to change,

(2) A trawler carrying rows and rows of mean machines snaking through the crowded roads and an arrogantly upright frost - free refrigerator on a thela gadi trudging side by side,

(3) A pretty girl perched on a rickshaw with the latest Nokia mobile phone glued to her ears talking incessantly,

(4) An SUV crammed with burqa clad figures swathed from head to toe and faces covered; pairs of kohl laced eyes the only visible body part scanning the cityscape eagerly,

(5) A figure in body hugging jeans prostrate before the deity in a temple,

(6) A young girl in a short top ringing the temple bell religiously while her naval stone winks in the sunlight,

(7) A boy with punky hairstyle and studs shining on earlobes devoutly murmuring a prayer from the "Hanumaan Chaalisa",

(8) A matronly traffic police woman in her neat uniform and shining boots flaunting a big sindoor bindi burning on her sun-tanned forehead - a symbol of marital bliss,

(9) An exact replica of a branded outfit being sold by a street hawker at half the price in front of the authorized show room of the same brand,

(10) A young girl in jeans and short top with head covered by the hijaab,

(11) A female DMRC guard checking the passengers with a hand scanner while the bangles on her wrist jingle with the rhythm of the movement,

(12) A rustic woman with her face covered by an arms length ghunghat staggering ten feet behind her husband in the moving metro,

Many more like this accumulated in mind's memory bank - snapshots clicked hurriedly through cursory glances while travelling - recorded here without malice just to share glimpses of a city characterized by paradoxes, contradictions, thesis and anti-thesis - a picture post-card of a society under transition.

ELUSIVE

2010-09-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

The disheveled youth with matted coils
Dirty stubbles, stinking clothes and a hunched spine
Wants freedom from the needle and its prick
The convoluted imageries of concocted euphoria

The girl with the crimson pout, rich-kohled dreams
Loud garb, decadent glamour and deadened expressions
Wants freedom from the nocturnal ritual of
Permitted plunder of an irreproachable mind

The woman “all tattered and torn” decked up
With the blemishes of a tainted vow long forgotten
Wants freedom from the drunken assaults on the
Nascent dream nestling in her womb in fetal innocence

The mother with the wrinkled brows, crinkled saree, lost
Vigour, fading charm, musters the shards of courage forlorn
Wants freedom from the tight rope act, the Draconian
Dilemmas of family, foe, friends and future of a 9 to 5 job

The father with the harrowed smile, the stooped shoulders
The receding hair line has recently given angina a good fight
Wants freedom from this brewing fear of a skipped beat,
A missed chance of dragging breath just a wee bit long

The children with sagging forms, sometimes with a twisted arm
Saddled with the burden of tomes and at times a begging bowl
Wants freedom from this quest unbound of illusive ranks
And non-bailed imprisonment by the parasites of poverty

The stone-faced man fondling a barrel against his chest
Stares hard at the enemy post with unblinking gaze
Wants freedom from this bloody battle of mine and thine
Years he has postponed a vacation to his home town

The stranger with the haunted look caught in the rut of
Prefixed deadlines, the celeb tagged the “handsome hunk”
Blessed with the boon of ceaseless adulation infantile
The country with its sustained growth and territories
Ravaged by sanguine oath, all want freedom
From their vicious in-fights, all are irresistibly
Resigned to the closets of their preordained existence