‘Its not what you think... I..’
‘You don’t have to say a thing... I saw it with my eyes’, she retorted and.... he kept quite.
How many times has this happened. You want to say something, convince somebody that what they think is not correct, but then the person says ‘I saw it!!’ and you don’t have an answer.. After all seeing is believing !!! We see something and then our mind builds on it making its own conclusions. Isn’t it the way it works and why not after all we saw it ...right ...
Let me tell you a couple of anecdotes that my old colleagues once shared with me..
One is surely a liar.
Once a city witnessed a gruesome hit and run case. A speeding car crushed a rebelling union leader. The morning newspaper quoted an eyewitness saying ‘a black car crushed the man and sped away, I saw it!!!’. That evening the local channel telecast an interview of a lady who around the same time was trying to cross the road. She confidently said ... ‘I saw it.. a white car hit the man..’
How can this be, somebody is trying to protect the culprit the rich industrialist whom the union leader was at loggerheads with..
One of them is surely a liar.. bought by the culprit... they are trying to distract the investigators!!!
He is such a cheapo.
He was the star salesman of the company, touring twenty days a month visiting his market. After the dust and toil of field visits, company allowed him the luxury of a star hotel to rest and rejuvenate. Feasting heavily on the complementary breakfast is one routine that he never misses. There’s another one that he always does. When he checks out, he makes sure that he has picked and packed all the toiletries that are kept for him to use. Those bonsai soaps, shampoos, talcum powder sachets.. he would miss none. ‘I have seen it when I am on tours with him.... such a cheapo.. and you know what, he makes a hundred grands a month.. even then...such a cheapo ’ said a colleague of his...
Such a cheapo he is!!!
Isn’t our interpretation correct? One of the two witnesses is a liar trying to protect somebody and our star salesman is a magpie, trying to stash every penny. Or is it...
All of us are like this. We believe what we see, what we hear... provided we like to believe it. Its because ‘we’ see it and ‘we’ hear it and ‘we’ cant go wrong. We presume our perception based on the primary inputs received from our sensory faculties as gospel truth. It is not limited to the inconsequential happenings of our day to day lives but spreads to the more serious undertakings such as personal relationships, professional equations etc. We see our close friend chatting animatedly with a neighbour with whom we had a fight and then seeds of doubt creep in.. Is he really my friend or he swears allegiance to our enemy camp? You see your colleague come out your boss’s cabin and then your boss calls for you to give a piece of his mind... I know its him... He has filled boss’s ears against me.. I saw him walk out of the cabin... I know... Isn’t it?
Now back to the anecdotes..
After a week of rumours, allegations and conspiracy theories, the police arrested a college dude for drunken reckless driving causing the death of the union leader. He was driving a chequered car with jazzy white paint on one side and metallic black on the other. The dude was on a high trying some of his drifting skills when he overstepped the pedal crushing the poor man to death... Wasn’t one of the witnesses a liar? We knew it right???
One day after returning from the tour a colleague followed our cheapo as he filled his loot into a bag and set out. The chase took him to a huge compound with a rusted gate that seemed to house an old dilapidated mansion. Across the gate was written in bold letters.. ‘Helping Hearts – house for destitute ’. Our cheapo donated all his loot there. He does this every time when he returns from his field visits. ‘When I pay for the stay in the star hotel, I pay for the toiletries also... why should I leave them there? I might as well pick it and give away to the needy’... he told his colleague. Wasn’t our protagonist a cheapo... we knew it right???
This is the fact in most of the cases. We are ready to give more credence to what ‘we’ see and ‘we’ hear. The faith in our fellow beings, friends, relatives, society... everything can be doubted. What we see is right, what we hear is gospel. Belief somehow seems to be a prehistoric adage... Seeing is believing ... or is it????
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Muscat- Magic, Masti, Mwaaaaah... Part II
And the flight landed. I don’t know why but I felt like cheering out loud, like the passengers of those low cost East European Airlines do every time a flight lands safely. But I didn’t dare move, you are in the Middle East for heaven’s sake, you don’t mess there. “Earn your Riyals and move on” my friends had advised me. So finally here I was, the dream destination, goes without saying it was just a dream an Oasis which was nothing close to what I had imagined.
The Airport was little larger than the Shantinagar Satellite Bus Stand and it had planes ‘if only you could call them so’ parked haphazardly. My Passport doesn’t boast of many entry / exit stamps, but I have had my share of domestic travel and I must say, the Sultan Qaboos Airport was among the smallest and least crowded that I had ever seen. Anyways, now that I only had a one way ticket, I decided to follow the de-planing passengers and open the next chapter in my book of destiny.
Middle East they say and I realize has this odd and consistent thing. Whenever anybody returns from their home country, the first couple of days are spent in absolute depression, no matter how long the person has been abroad. Believe me, it is a fact. In the two and half years I stayed out, I have come to India more than 7 times. That adds up to coming home once every four months. Still every time I land back at the Muscat Airport, I feel so low, not home sick, but a feeling of loneliness as if I have lost something. When you come out of airport, you literally search for reasons that could take you back, like you pray that your Visa is expired, or your driver has not come to pick you up or at least US has attacked Iran. But as always, when you expect something goes wrong, it never does. Your Visas are intact, Driver is at the Airport before time and US is more interested in Af-pak. You have no way other than following the driver.
Another thing peculiar to Middle East, at least to the place and company that I worked for is that one thing of yours, that you never get to keep is your passport. I had heard of it, but thats for uneducated labourers, I am an Engineer with a post graduation in International Business I thought. “Passport please”, commanded the driver. “Why, what, who the hell...” all these questions came to my mind. “Here” I said handing him my prized possession meekly. I would get it back the evening I fly out of the country and till then it would be in the company locker for what they call ‘SAFE CUSTODY’. Who the hell would be interested in my passport, I thought. Anyways, you don’t ask questions, especially when you are in Middle East and that too when you have just handed over your passport to a complete stranger. The driver had seen many Prasheels and half way through the drive, he said “even the company MD’s passports are in the company locker”. Must say that was a consolation.
The drive was un-eventful, so was the scenery if only you could call it so. Only thing exciting was the Camry Car that had come to pick me up. I had seen many posh cars, but a Camry coming to pick me up was flattering. This high however didn’t last long as a quarter of the taxis that plied in the city were, I found out- Camry. Fighting my loneliness I reached my accommodation, a leased building of six floors. Each floors had four flats fully furnished with all amenities, bed, A/C, Sofa, TV, Fridge, Washing Machine, attached bathrooms with hot and cool water, bath tub., nothing short of a three star facility. The top floor had pantry that served veg and non veg food cooked by company’s cooks. The driver introduced me to the care taker and the care taker lead me to my flat.
All employees of Saud Bahwan Group are provided accommodation. Some get villas, some furnished houses, some stacked in rooms that resemble poultry farms, all based on whats written on the Visa that allowed you inside the country. I had a single room with attached bath furnished with a TV, Sofa, Bed and Fridge that could conveniently take in a full grown ostrich. Dropping my stuff in the room the driver drove me to the office.
Thus began a very interesting phase in my life. Finishing the HR formalities I was escorted by to what would be my abode for the next 29 months of my life- my office.
Ford is advertised as the Largest Selling American Car in Oman, but an annual number of 1200 units in a market of 75,000 does not in any way do justice to the tall claim (not that its a false one, the other American Company GM sold 1180 cars that year). So its office, my office was well... uninspiring to say the least!!! A dungeon on the first floor of the Ford showroom that had files piled all over, the old carpet had a shade of brown that deceives you into thinking it was matched to the mahogany furniture. An office that had a lift with only one floor to service, no stairs and no fire exit. They say the President of the company once used to operate out of this office and the over sized bathroom and the remains of what was once rich furniture do make you believe the hearsay. ‘What am I doing here?’ From a proud Area Sales Manager for the sixth (must admit it was seventh back then) largest automobile company in the world to a Product Executive for a dealer who sells 1200 cars a year! I never hated myself more.
I hated the office on day one and I hated it till about 2 months then on. Then I fell in love with it. Not because it grew on me, but because the dungeon gave me an ideal den to bury myself, far from the nagging senior management. Once in the office, it was like being on an island that somehow didn’t find a place in ‘maps of the world’, unexposed, hidden, cool and free. This is the place where I would spend 325 days every year, the other 40 being in India.
A day in my life
Life is easy in that part of the world. At least it was so for me. My previous stint at the Hyundai Motors’ West Regional Office in Mumbai was, well back breaking to say the least. I used to slog in office from 7.45 AM to 8 PM. Add one and half hours of to and fro travel with a local train journey from Borivali to Mumbai Central and back six days a week and you have a tortured soul who will be ready to take up an assignment in Tora Bora. So when I had this job that required me to reach office at 8 only to go back home at 1 PM for a 2 hour siesta was heaven. I would then be back to office at 4 for a 3 hour work. The Air conditioned coaster and later my Ford Focus made the 15 min travel a pleasure.
Coming up .... ‘A Day in My Life.. Contd’, ‘LTFL Policy’ ‘License to Live’, ‘Friends are for Life’, ‘Dance Bar’, ‘Chastity Preserved’...
The Airport was little larger than the Shantinagar Satellite Bus Stand and it had planes ‘if only you could call them so’ parked haphazardly. My Passport doesn’t boast of many entry / exit stamps, but I have had my share of domestic travel and I must say, the Sultan Qaboos Airport was among the smallest and least crowded that I had ever seen. Anyways, now that I only had a one way ticket, I decided to follow the de-planing passengers and open the next chapter in my book of destiny.
Middle East they say and I realize has this odd and consistent thing. Whenever anybody returns from their home country, the first couple of days are spent in absolute depression, no matter how long the person has been abroad. Believe me, it is a fact. In the two and half years I stayed out, I have come to India more than 7 times. That adds up to coming home once every four months. Still every time I land back at the Muscat Airport, I feel so low, not home sick, but a feeling of loneliness as if I have lost something. When you come out of airport, you literally search for reasons that could take you back, like you pray that your Visa is expired, or your driver has not come to pick you up or at least US has attacked Iran. But as always, when you expect something goes wrong, it never does. Your Visas are intact, Driver is at the Airport before time and US is more interested in Af-pak. You have no way other than following the driver.
Another thing peculiar to Middle East, at least to the place and company that I worked for is that one thing of yours, that you never get to keep is your passport. I had heard of it, but thats for uneducated labourers, I am an Engineer with a post graduation in International Business I thought. “Passport please”, commanded the driver. “Why, what, who the hell...” all these questions came to my mind. “Here” I said handing him my prized possession meekly. I would get it back the evening I fly out of the country and till then it would be in the company locker for what they call ‘SAFE CUSTODY’. Who the hell would be interested in my passport, I thought. Anyways, you don’t ask questions, especially when you are in Middle East and that too when you have just handed over your passport to a complete stranger. The driver had seen many Prasheels and half way through the drive, he said “even the company MD’s passports are in the company locker”. Must say that was a consolation.
The drive was un-eventful, so was the scenery if only you could call it so. Only thing exciting was the Camry Car that had come to pick me up. I had seen many posh cars, but a Camry coming to pick me up was flattering. This high however didn’t last long as a quarter of the taxis that plied in the city were, I found out- Camry. Fighting my loneliness I reached my accommodation, a leased building of six floors. Each floors had four flats fully furnished with all amenities, bed, A/C, Sofa, TV, Fridge, Washing Machine, attached bathrooms with hot and cool water, bath tub., nothing short of a three star facility. The top floor had pantry that served veg and non veg food cooked by company’s cooks. The driver introduced me to the care taker and the care taker lead me to my flat.
All employees of Saud Bahwan Group are provided accommodation. Some get villas, some furnished houses, some stacked in rooms that resemble poultry farms, all based on whats written on the Visa that allowed you inside the country. I had a single room with attached bath furnished with a TV, Sofa, Bed and Fridge that could conveniently take in a full grown ostrich. Dropping my stuff in the room the driver drove me to the office.
Thus began a very interesting phase in my life. Finishing the HR formalities I was escorted by to what would be my abode for the next 29 months of my life- my office.
Ford is advertised as the Largest Selling American Car in Oman, but an annual number of 1200 units in a market of 75,000 does not in any way do justice to the tall claim (not that its a false one, the other American Company GM sold 1180 cars that year). So its office, my office was well... uninspiring to say the least!!! A dungeon on the first floor of the Ford showroom that had files piled all over, the old carpet had a shade of brown that deceives you into thinking it was matched to the mahogany furniture. An office that had a lift with only one floor to service, no stairs and no fire exit. They say the President of the company once used to operate out of this office and the over sized bathroom and the remains of what was once rich furniture do make you believe the hearsay. ‘What am I doing here?’ From a proud Area Sales Manager for the sixth (must admit it was seventh back then) largest automobile company in the world to a Product Executive for a dealer who sells 1200 cars a year! I never hated myself more.
I hated the office on day one and I hated it till about 2 months then on. Then I fell in love with it. Not because it grew on me, but because the dungeon gave me an ideal den to bury myself, far from the nagging senior management. Once in the office, it was like being on an island that somehow didn’t find a place in ‘maps of the world’, unexposed, hidden, cool and free. This is the place where I would spend 325 days every year, the other 40 being in India.
A day in my life
Life is easy in that part of the world. At least it was so for me. My previous stint at the Hyundai Motors’ West Regional Office in Mumbai was, well back breaking to say the least. I used to slog in office from 7.45 AM to 8 PM. Add one and half hours of to and fro travel with a local train journey from Borivali to Mumbai Central and back six days a week and you have a tortured soul who will be ready to take up an assignment in Tora Bora. So when I had this job that required me to reach office at 8 only to go back home at 1 PM for a 2 hour siesta was heaven. I would then be back to office at 4 for a 3 hour work. The Air conditioned coaster and later my Ford Focus made the 15 min travel a pleasure.
Coming up .... ‘A Day in My Life.. Contd’, ‘LTFL Policy’ ‘License to Live’, ‘Friends are for Life’, ‘Dance Bar’, ‘Chastity Preserved’...
Friday, March 19, 2010
Muscat – Magic, Masti, Mwaaaaah….
Couple of month’s back I had to back-pack for this whirl-wind tour of God’s own country. I don’t know why, but my friends usually choose the same day or at best subsequent days to get married. Perhaps their way of testing who my loyalties are towards! Anyways, it puts you in this strange corner where you not only have to think about a valid excuse for a longer leave but also one for not attending one of the weddings or (if you manage to plan and attend both) even worse excusing yourself to leave early after showing your sleep ridden, fatigued face. One such ordeal took me hopping across seven cities of Kerala over a period of two days.. well you may say technically Kerala doesn’t have seven CITIES… but who’s ever cared for technicalities!!!
During this ‘hop-skip & jump –ethelon’ when my bus was in the middle of nowhere heading towards somewhere, my mind started wandering. All the various places, big and small that I have ever frequented started waltzing on my cerebral arena. Think of it.. all places that you have ever visited in your lifetime, all cities, towns, villages, hamlets. And in my not so long lifetime (I wish it were but many would otherwise!!), I’ve visited quite a few. Well nothing un-natural, a jaded mind finds its own way of entertaining itself!!! But what interested me was the thought that followed.
My mind, as jobless as I was, started to compare the different places, as if to find out the best among them. My father’s Central Govt service made the adjudicator’s role that much more complex, what with him and us packing our bags to a new place once every thirty six new moons!!!
That being the case the race to top of the list of best places began. I am impartial, at least I pretend to be… so my being a Mallu couldn’t or wouldn’t shift the scales in the favor of the so called CITIES of Kerala. Hence began a sojourn down the memory lanes, across the meadows of Pollachi to the waste lands of Kutch, across the un-ending chawls of Dharavi to the high rises of Dubai, across the humidness of Chennai to the chill of Mount Abu. Each place, each city, each road, each person had a story to recount.
Have you ever thought of it… the best place you have ever been to! No, not the most beautiful or exotic, nor the dream destination, just the normal place where you would like to return, say fifty years from today if the place was still the same, with the same lanes, same shops, same markets, same people, same friends, same enemies. Is there one such place you can think of?
Coimbatore is a city that I like very much. I have spent two invaluable years of my life there and if I was Chetan Bhagat, my ‘Two States’ would have been based there. The city, its people, the love-hate relationships that I developed, the foes turned friends that I cherish to this day make me nostalgic. I have always wanted to return to that place… to the open air college canteen for the sugar-less tea (yeah.. they are highly health conscious !!), to the Caramel bakery for their exquisite cream bun with added sweet when the girls from the nearby medical college are sitting a gape away, to the Ramu’s bar that serves more of touchings (for all you boozilliterates, that means a side dish!) than the actual drink, to the auntie’s tea shop across the road for the mid-night teas. But somehow it was not the place.. over the last six years, while I have wished I could go there, I haven’t really missed it !
I have done crazy things with my life and crazier things with my career. I was this young (yes at one point I too looked young!) and influential (of course…my Regional Manager had hand picked me and moved me to this new assignment, nobody dare mess with me, I am the boss’s boy!) Area Sales Manager of this leading automobile company. Learning the tricks and thoroughly enjoying myself I was, when I don’t know why, but I decided to apply for this job in the desert country, perhaps I was searching for my oasis.
And before I realized I was on a plane to this no man’s land… Middle East is the happening place dude, the cloud kissing buildings across the Sheikh Zayed road are a testament to it !!! Little did I know that Sheikh Zayed road was 450 km from this hamlet called Muscat the capital of Oman. They say Sindbad the Sailor set sail from Oman and now I know the reason why!!!
One hour after the flight took off I was scanning the surrounding for the mystical Arabic country, but all I could see was endless wasteland of cottony cloud. I stared and stared till my eyes could stare no more and I didn’t realize when I dozed. Jumping to attention when the flight attendant announced ‘fasten seat belts, seats up-right and tray table closed’ I continued my gaze. From the half-open windows of the Gulf Air flight all I could still see was endless wastelands of barren dunes and rocks, as if some mega construction was happening and the contractor had carelessly unloaded ship loads of sand across. The only high-rises my eyes could distinguish were at the max a three or four storey structures a la over-sized villas. I told myself, this is not it. This is some small town before we land in Muscat; the magical Muscat is some distance away. And then the flight landed!!!
End of Part 1....
Dedicated to you Shail, who brought back the memories of Muscat... not that I forgot them !!!
During this ‘hop-skip & jump –ethelon’ when my bus was in the middle of nowhere heading towards somewhere, my mind started wandering. All the various places, big and small that I have ever frequented started waltzing on my cerebral arena. Think of it.. all places that you have ever visited in your lifetime, all cities, towns, villages, hamlets. And in my not so long lifetime (I wish it were but many would otherwise!!), I’ve visited quite a few. Well nothing un-natural, a jaded mind finds its own way of entertaining itself!!! But what interested me was the thought that followed.
My mind, as jobless as I was, started to compare the different places, as if to find out the best among them. My father’s Central Govt service made the adjudicator’s role that much more complex, what with him and us packing our bags to a new place once every thirty six new moons!!!
That being the case the race to top of the list of best places began. I am impartial, at least I pretend to be… so my being a Mallu couldn’t or wouldn’t shift the scales in the favor of the so called CITIES of Kerala. Hence began a sojourn down the memory lanes, across the meadows of Pollachi to the waste lands of Kutch, across the un-ending chawls of Dharavi to the high rises of Dubai, across the humidness of Chennai to the chill of Mount Abu. Each place, each city, each road, each person had a story to recount.
Have you ever thought of it… the best place you have ever been to! No, not the most beautiful or exotic, nor the dream destination, just the normal place where you would like to return, say fifty years from today if the place was still the same, with the same lanes, same shops, same markets, same people, same friends, same enemies. Is there one such place you can think of?
Coimbatore is a city that I like very much. I have spent two invaluable years of my life there and if I was Chetan Bhagat, my ‘Two States’ would have been based there. The city, its people, the love-hate relationships that I developed, the foes turned friends that I cherish to this day make me nostalgic. I have always wanted to return to that place… to the open air college canteen for the sugar-less tea (yeah.. they are highly health conscious !!), to the Caramel bakery for their exquisite cream bun with added sweet when the girls from the nearby medical college are sitting a gape away, to the Ramu’s bar that serves more of touchings (for all you boozilliterates, that means a side dish!) than the actual drink, to the auntie’s tea shop across the road for the mid-night teas. But somehow it was not the place.. over the last six years, while I have wished I could go there, I haven’t really missed it !
I have done crazy things with my life and crazier things with my career. I was this young (yes at one point I too looked young!) and influential (of course…my Regional Manager had hand picked me and moved me to this new assignment, nobody dare mess with me, I am the boss’s boy!) Area Sales Manager of this leading automobile company. Learning the tricks and thoroughly enjoying myself I was, when I don’t know why, but I decided to apply for this job in the desert country, perhaps I was searching for my oasis.
And before I realized I was on a plane to this no man’s land… Middle East is the happening place dude, the cloud kissing buildings across the Sheikh Zayed road are a testament to it !!! Little did I know that Sheikh Zayed road was 450 km from this hamlet called Muscat the capital of Oman. They say Sindbad the Sailor set sail from Oman and now I know the reason why!!!
One hour after the flight took off I was scanning the surrounding for the mystical Arabic country, but all I could see was endless wasteland of cottony cloud. I stared and stared till my eyes could stare no more and I didn’t realize when I dozed. Jumping to attention when the flight attendant announced ‘fasten seat belts, seats up-right and tray table closed’ I continued my gaze. From the half-open windows of the Gulf Air flight all I could still see was endless wastelands of barren dunes and rocks, as if some mega construction was happening and the contractor had carelessly unloaded ship loads of sand across. The only high-rises my eyes could distinguish were at the max a three or four storey structures a la over-sized villas. I told myself, this is not it. This is some small town before we land in Muscat; the magical Muscat is some distance away. And then the flight landed!!!
End of Part 1....
Dedicated to you Shail, who brought back the memories of Muscat... not that I forgot them !!!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Gait to Destiny
"That new guy is a real pest. What does he think, he is Rajesh Khanna of Bawarchi? I hate such pseudo-altruists" Ketaki spewed. "I know, these guys think they are one-stop-shop for all problems - Any person, Any issue, Any time, Any where - Raghav the Great has the solution; doesn't matter whether you know him or you wish to seek his succor- Its always there, like the stray dogs on Madhopur's roads" Sudha buttressed.
There was some truth in this late afternoon grumble on the bank of the village pond. Raghav had recently moved in to the house next to Rashmi's, down the Banyan tree. With it, changed the life of Rashmi who was a young widow who till some time back never stepped out of her veiled melancholy. It was as though somebody had inadvertently pressed the 'Pause' button in her life. Every thing was so still and bland like the eroded boundary wall of her two room dwelling. You could sense the pain in the air, even the sparrows had deserted the Banyan tree in front of her house.
Some said, she was ill-fated, others believed she was a sorcerer who annihilated her husband's life. The men always sympathized with her and women never missed an opportunity to nail her. It was not that men of Madhopur were very cognizant and women cruel. Just that, men like all men were from Mars !! Eternally long-faced Rashmi was any day more alluring than the best of Madhopur's beauties, even Takur's city-returned daughter was not a match. Women were women, they abhorred the hushed flutter that Rashmi used to cause when she frequented Lalaji's Kirana shop every Tuesday of the week.
But all this was a full fourteen days back. Time had changed since then and so did Rashmi. From a loner who hardly spoke to herself, she had started music classes where seven kids would exercise their vocal chords thrice a week, week after week. Somebody had suddenly pressed 'Play' and also changed the Channel!!! You could now hear an occasional giggle, and yesterday she had even ventured into Somnath's 'Bombay Fancy store' hitherto a no-stray-zone.
All this was rightly attributed to Raghav and now a cheerful Rashmi had become 'threat numero-uno'. Sudha's husband had started coming home early and Ketaki's younger brother had got a new-found love for his niece and insisted on dropping her every time to the music class!!
The talk of Raghav's affair with Rashmi died a pre-mature death when daadi mai the mid-wife for three generations of Madhopur announced that Raghav was Rashmi's aunt's son- her brother. The women had suddenly lost ammunition to get even.
Rashmi's life was one of the several that Raghav had painted green in the past two weeks. He had fixed job in the city for Abbas, helped the school teacher enroll new students that saved three jobs, convinced Panditji to give his daughter's hand to her lover- the high school passed Kishen and promised ten thousand rupees for a new community well. Raghav had suddenly changed the feel of the place and the yeah with sparrows, even parrots had returned to the Banyan tree.
Every time somebody thanked Raghav, he would say "Life is of twenty days, if you are happy, I am happy". This had become a kind of new anthem. The un-attached girls were betting on their chances and the newly-married one's cursed their bad-luck for saying 'yes' a tad early. Raghav had suddenly become the cynosure. His rough looks, pale skin and lean built did not deter ogling eyes, beauty after all was truly, only skin deep.
But this was just one part of the story. Not everybody was happy with Raghav's homecoming. Rising popularity gave Netaji the Panchayat President, sleep-less nights and Bhiku made it a point to stoke the fire further. After all every additional bit of information was rewarded with a bottle of Tadi the country liquor. The elections were fast approaching and there was a talk of Raghav taking on Netaji. And if that happened, it would mean not only loss of face but missing out on a fortune. Netaji had plans to propose construction of a road and a bus stand on the barren land that he owned. That would make him a rich man for sure.
Being a true politician Netaji was biding his time to level scores, but when he saw Raghav encouraging his son Amit to get friendly with Rashmi, it was the last straw. The camel's back was broken and he had to act. Munna was called immediately.
"Hands, Legs or Ears?" That was Munna style. Whatever his sponsor asked for would be brought. After finishing his prey, he would keep one Ear with him and gift the other to his sponsor.
"Legs, I don’t want that scum bag to wear a shoe again. Reptiles are really beautiful" Netaji responded. Munna started shadowing Raghav but the very next day vanished from Madhopur. Couple of days later Netaji got a message from Munna, "Any other work, I'll be there. This is beyond me, Sorry".
Netaji tried pleading, threatening, goading, Amit into submission, but he would have nothing of it. "I will marry Rashmi" Amit had made it clear. Being left with no choice, Netaji went to the city and got Abdul langda involved. Next day Raghav's mutilated body was found floating in the village pond. The whole of Madhopur descended to Rashmi's house where Raghav was resting, the whole of Madhopur wailed but Rashmi was silent.
Netaji also came to pay his final respect camouflaging the demon within him with his Gandhi cap. Laying the trademark politician's wreath he wanted to slip away when he overheard Ganpath speaking in hush tones to a group.
"His real name is Raunak Singh, the notorious bandit of yester-years. He was in jail for the past six years when his case was going on. He was to face the gallows next week and was out on parole." Mohan lal continued "It is said that he had connections with many big leaders with whom he shared his loot, but when the verdict was announced, he did not even try for an appeal". "A bandit!!! and look at what he has done for us" Naseer said. "But why?".
"What do you do if you know the exact date of your death!!" Amit quized... 'Have you thought about it?"
There was some truth in this late afternoon grumble on the bank of the village pond. Raghav had recently moved in to the house next to Rashmi's, down the Banyan tree. With it, changed the life of Rashmi who was a young widow who till some time back never stepped out of her veiled melancholy. It was as though somebody had inadvertently pressed the 'Pause' button in her life. Every thing was so still and bland like the eroded boundary wall of her two room dwelling. You could sense the pain in the air, even the sparrows had deserted the Banyan tree in front of her house.
Some said, she was ill-fated, others believed she was a sorcerer who annihilated her husband's life. The men always sympathized with her and women never missed an opportunity to nail her. It was not that men of Madhopur were very cognizant and women cruel. Just that, men like all men were from Mars !! Eternally long-faced Rashmi was any day more alluring than the best of Madhopur's beauties, even Takur's city-returned daughter was not a match. Women were women, they abhorred the hushed flutter that Rashmi used to cause when she frequented Lalaji's Kirana shop every Tuesday of the week.
But all this was a full fourteen days back. Time had changed since then and so did Rashmi. From a loner who hardly spoke to herself, she had started music classes where seven kids would exercise their vocal chords thrice a week, week after week. Somebody had suddenly pressed 'Play' and also changed the Channel!!! You could now hear an occasional giggle, and yesterday she had even ventured into Somnath's 'Bombay Fancy store' hitherto a no-stray-zone.
All this was rightly attributed to Raghav and now a cheerful Rashmi had become 'threat numero-uno'. Sudha's husband had started coming home early and Ketaki's younger brother had got a new-found love for his niece and insisted on dropping her every time to the music class!!
The talk of Raghav's affair with Rashmi died a pre-mature death when daadi mai the mid-wife for three generations of Madhopur announced that Raghav was Rashmi's aunt's son- her brother. The women had suddenly lost ammunition to get even.
Rashmi's life was one of the several that Raghav had painted green in the past two weeks. He had fixed job in the city for Abbas, helped the school teacher enroll new students that saved three jobs, convinced Panditji to give his daughter's hand to her lover- the high school passed Kishen and promised ten thousand rupees for a new community well. Raghav had suddenly changed the feel of the place and the yeah with sparrows, even parrots had returned to the Banyan tree.
Every time somebody thanked Raghav, he would say "Life is of twenty days, if you are happy, I am happy". This had become a kind of new anthem. The un-attached girls were betting on their chances and the newly-married one's cursed their bad-luck for saying 'yes' a tad early. Raghav had suddenly become the cynosure. His rough looks, pale skin and lean built did not deter ogling eyes, beauty after all was truly, only skin deep.
But this was just one part of the story. Not everybody was happy with Raghav's homecoming. Rising popularity gave Netaji the Panchayat President, sleep-less nights and Bhiku made it a point to stoke the fire further. After all every additional bit of information was rewarded with a bottle of Tadi the country liquor. The elections were fast approaching and there was a talk of Raghav taking on Netaji. And if that happened, it would mean not only loss of face but missing out on a fortune. Netaji had plans to propose construction of a road and a bus stand on the barren land that he owned. That would make him a rich man for sure.
Being a true politician Netaji was biding his time to level scores, but when he saw Raghav encouraging his son Amit to get friendly with Rashmi, it was the last straw. The camel's back was broken and he had to act. Munna was called immediately.
"Hands, Legs or Ears?" That was Munna style. Whatever his sponsor asked for would be brought. After finishing his prey, he would keep one Ear with him and gift the other to his sponsor.
"Legs, I don’t want that scum bag to wear a shoe again. Reptiles are really beautiful" Netaji responded. Munna started shadowing Raghav but the very next day vanished from Madhopur. Couple of days later Netaji got a message from Munna, "Any other work, I'll be there. This is beyond me, Sorry".
Netaji tried pleading, threatening, goading, Amit into submission, but he would have nothing of it. "I will marry Rashmi" Amit had made it clear. Being left with no choice, Netaji went to the city and got Abdul langda involved. Next day Raghav's mutilated body was found floating in the village pond. The whole of Madhopur descended to Rashmi's house where Raghav was resting, the whole of Madhopur wailed but Rashmi was silent.
Netaji also came to pay his final respect camouflaging the demon within him with his Gandhi cap. Laying the trademark politician's wreath he wanted to slip away when he overheard Ganpath speaking in hush tones to a group.
"His real name is Raunak Singh, the notorious bandit of yester-years. He was in jail for the past six years when his case was going on. He was to face the gallows next week and was out on parole." Mohan lal continued "It is said that he had connections with many big leaders with whom he shared his loot, but when the verdict was announced, he did not even try for an appeal". "A bandit!!! and look at what he has done for us" Naseer said. "But why?".
"What do you do if you know the exact date of your death!!" Amit quized... 'Have you thought about it?"
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A jaunt to humanity..
Bus journeys are not something that I enjoy, especially if its a crowded, rickety BMTC ride from Kodihalli to Shivaji Nagar (God bless Volvo!!! and curse the BMTC route schedulers - very few ply on my route!!!). But its something that I have to live with, the tales of my brother's bike driving me and mom promising never to sit next to me when I drive the car are legendry. "Why cant these guys follow traffic rules, there's no lane discipline, Cant that jackass see I've put an indicator !!! ","Stop it... Its you who doesn't know the Indian Driving ways, this is not Muscat with empty six track roads" my brother would say.. (so much to say about my cruising skills...)
Back to the story... this being the case, BMTC is like the un-polished, horoscope matched bride that I have to accept with the Pecos frequenting high healers not even bothering to throw a glance !!! So BMTC it was...
Crowded BMTCs interestingly irritate you with a cacophony of jarring songs (hello.. thank you for being considerate and sharing your music, but no thanks..), loud personal mobile chats (and I thought those deafening trunk-call days are over!!!) and odd scuffle for seats. Move over road rage, bus rage is here..
Its not that I am a saint. If its a crowded bus and I am bundled into one and half square feet of floor space, I make sure that when the bus reaches Shivaji Nagar, I block atleast two fellow commuters who till this moment had snuggled in the seats and now want to be the first one to de-bus (my way of ensuring natural justice, after all I've paid the same fare, if he's got a cozy seat, I have the birth right of getting out of the bus first !!!)
In one such expedition yesterday I saw this spectacle... Two school kids were sitting on the either side of the aisle and as usual I had the comfort of my one and half square feets. The bus was noisy as ever and the two kids were having animated communication through gestures. Then one of those loafer looking (munna bhai types, not the MBBS but the Rangeela types) lean guy with long hairs and cap came closer, showed some gestures and took the kid's seat and made him sit on his lap. My social instincts rattled, another paedophile on the loose, was the first thought (I have heard that crowded buses are their favorite hunting grounds!!).
Not daring to take a pro-active step I just waited for the next move. The two guys started interacting excitedly, not with words or eyes but with hands and I realised that they were deaf n dumb. How did the guy and the kid find that out. Why did the young boy so happily give his seat to that loafer??
The communication continued and from whatever I could gather, pleasantries were exchanged, school, class, and perhaps names too. The new friend made it a point to chat with the other kid sitting across the aisle. This was going on when from two stops further two handsome guys got in. One wore a glass perhaps made out of a Pepsi bottle and the other a bright smile that could give any girl in the bus an instant crush. Well dressed in Spykar jeans, Nike shoes and Jansport bag the guys looked very much a typical suave Bangalore College guys. But what atracted all our attention was that the two guys held their hands close and tight, never leaving for a minute...
Letting the loafer and the kid be, I moved my antennas to cover the new Jay n Veeru in the bus. The two guys came and stood next to our kid. Within a second they started talking (obviously with gestures). Even the two smarties were deaf n dumb!!! But again how did they know and how they started talking immediately? I could see the economic, class and perhaps a religious divide (one of them wore a prominent cross around his neck). But none of it ever seemed to matter.... Have you ever bothered even to smile to a loafer looking guy (not the right kind of guys to mingle with right!!!).
I gave a break to my thoughts and tried to follow the conversation. The loafer seemed to be bothered about the spectacled guy. He enquired about him. The friend perhaps replied that, he was deaf and dumb like them and his vision too was weak. Thats the reason he was holding his hands tight. Immediately the loafer got up and literally pushed the spectacled guy to his seat. The friends resisted, but he didn't want to listen and said he'll get down in next stop or so. So the spectacled guy sat with the school kid in his lap. While sitting he took the bag from his friend and held it for him. All this while the two friends were still holding hands!!!
The next five minutes the discussion was about the spectacled guy and the loafer was empathising. He seemed so genuinely concerned!!! The spectacled guy was definitely from a well-off family and I felt that the poor looking deaf n dumb loafer's situation was worse than the spectacled guy. But here is this guy empathising so sincerely to a far more well off comrade...
I am not sure if my writing does justice to capture the emotions that I was going through seeing all this compassion and camaraderie. The boy's respect for elders, the loafer's empathy about a fellow being, a friend's concern for a semi-blind buddy!!! The heart-felt reciprocation of small favours, the interest that they had in each other's lives, the smile that one person's happiness brought to the other.. seeing is believing... All the people around them were watching them, just out of curiosity and boredom. But they didn't feel embarrassed about their deficiencies, they didn't try and hide it. They kept on enjoying each other's company, not bothering what others thought about them. But believe me, I felt my con-science prick me. I've always complained that I don't have this, I didn't get that, Lord has been partial, but after looking at all this, all I could do was offer the vacant seat next to me to the loafer!!!
God has been so un-fair to these angels and they don't seem to complain. They make the maximum out of whatever they have and don't forget the basic human qualities of compassion, respect and co-existence. The bus reached Shivaji Nagar and everybody jostled to jump out and I for once waited for all including the two kids, the loafer and the two smarties to get out...
Back to the story... this being the case, BMTC is like the un-polished, horoscope matched bride that I have to accept with the Pecos frequenting high healers not even bothering to throw a glance !!! So BMTC it was...
Crowded BMTCs interestingly irritate you with a cacophony of jarring songs (hello.. thank you for being considerate and sharing your music, but no thanks..), loud personal mobile chats (and I thought those deafening trunk-call days are over!!!) and odd scuffle for seats. Move over road rage, bus rage is here..
Its not that I am a saint. If its a crowded bus and I am bundled into one and half square feet of floor space, I make sure that when the bus reaches Shivaji Nagar, I block atleast two fellow commuters who till this moment had snuggled in the seats and now want to be the first one to de-bus (my way of ensuring natural justice, after all I've paid the same fare, if he's got a cozy seat, I have the birth right of getting out of the bus first !!!)
In one such expedition yesterday I saw this spectacle... Two school kids were sitting on the either side of the aisle and as usual I had the comfort of my one and half square feets. The bus was noisy as ever and the two kids were having animated communication through gestures. Then one of those loafer looking (munna bhai types, not the MBBS but the Rangeela types) lean guy with long hairs and cap came closer, showed some gestures and took the kid's seat and made him sit on his lap. My social instincts rattled, another paedophile on the loose, was the first thought (I have heard that crowded buses are their favorite hunting grounds!!).
Not daring to take a pro-active step I just waited for the next move. The two guys started interacting excitedly, not with words or eyes but with hands and I realised that they were deaf n dumb. How did the guy and the kid find that out. Why did the young boy so happily give his seat to that loafer??
The communication continued and from whatever I could gather, pleasantries were exchanged, school, class, and perhaps names too. The new friend made it a point to chat with the other kid sitting across the aisle. This was going on when from two stops further two handsome guys got in. One wore a glass perhaps made out of a Pepsi bottle and the other a bright smile that could give any girl in the bus an instant crush. Well dressed in Spykar jeans, Nike shoes and Jansport bag the guys looked very much a typical suave Bangalore College guys. But what atracted all our attention was that the two guys held their hands close and tight, never leaving for a minute...
Letting the loafer and the kid be, I moved my antennas to cover the new Jay n Veeru in the bus. The two guys came and stood next to our kid. Within a second they started talking (obviously with gestures). Even the two smarties were deaf n dumb!!! But again how did they know and how they started talking immediately? I could see the economic, class and perhaps a religious divide (one of them wore a prominent cross around his neck). But none of it ever seemed to matter.... Have you ever bothered even to smile to a loafer looking guy (not the right kind of guys to mingle with right!!!).
I gave a break to my thoughts and tried to follow the conversation. The loafer seemed to be bothered about the spectacled guy. He enquired about him. The friend perhaps replied that, he was deaf and dumb like them and his vision too was weak. Thats the reason he was holding his hands tight. Immediately the loafer got up and literally pushed the spectacled guy to his seat. The friends resisted, but he didn't want to listen and said he'll get down in next stop or so. So the spectacled guy sat with the school kid in his lap. While sitting he took the bag from his friend and held it for him. All this while the two friends were still holding hands!!!
The next five minutes the discussion was about the spectacled guy and the loafer was empathising. He seemed so genuinely concerned!!! The spectacled guy was definitely from a well-off family and I felt that the poor looking deaf n dumb loafer's situation was worse than the spectacled guy. But here is this guy empathising so sincerely to a far more well off comrade...
I am not sure if my writing does justice to capture the emotions that I was going through seeing all this compassion and camaraderie. The boy's respect for elders, the loafer's empathy about a fellow being, a friend's concern for a semi-blind buddy!!! The heart-felt reciprocation of small favours, the interest that they had in each other's lives, the smile that one person's happiness brought to the other.. seeing is believing... All the people around them were watching them, just out of curiosity and boredom. But they didn't feel embarrassed about their deficiencies, they didn't try and hide it. They kept on enjoying each other's company, not bothering what others thought about them. But believe me, I felt my con-science prick me. I've always complained that I don't have this, I didn't get that, Lord has been partial, but after looking at all this, all I could do was offer the vacant seat next to me to the loafer!!!
God has been so un-fair to these angels and they don't seem to complain. They make the maximum out of whatever they have and don't forget the basic human qualities of compassion, respect and co-existence. The bus reached Shivaji Nagar and everybody jostled to jump out and I for once waited for all including the two kids, the loafer and the two smarties to get out...
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The third state- Pure Pleasure..
Its 1.45 am and I am awake. With only the creeping crickets and my dad’s intermittent snores for company, I am pushing myself – one more chapter, one more City...
I hate Chetan, he always does this to me and I end up feeling terribly drowsy the day after.
What differentiates a Chetan Bhagat offering from the rest of the crowd is this magnetism that captivates the readers. After three failed attempts to put the book away, I succumb to the temptation and I have no option but to finish it right away. Just like the smooth Blue Label that my friend wanted to leave it for the next celebration but couldn’t resist sipping till the last drop!!!
Man, this guy knows how to write. He is the Sanjeev Kapoor of urban literati, the offspring of a mating between Adoor Gopalakrishnan and David Dhawan. With his writing nib on the urban youth’s nerves, the realism is marinated with simplicity and peppered with wit and I savour it to the last with the periodic grins.
Love marriages around the world are simple:
Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy. They get married.
In India, there are a few more steps:
Boy loves Girl. Girl loves Boy. Girl's family has to love boy. Boy's family has to love girl. Girl's Family has to love Boy's Family. Boy's family has to love girl's family.Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.
.... goes the synopsis of this ridiculously predictable, but immensely entertaining book (“2 States- the story of my marriage”).
Although it begins with Krish our Punjab da puttar- protagonist being referred to a psychotherapist as he is deprived of sleep, has refused to eat and googled best ways to commit suicide (obviously because Ananya , the Tam Bram has ditched him), the climax is as clear and obvious as the result of a finals involving India.
But the fun of travelling is not in destination but the journey. The ups and downs that Chetan takes a reader through are a pakka paisa vasool... Don’t get surprised if you get the feeling of watching a Farhan Akthar movie, because it is what it is... fun, urbane with situations that you can relate to, and tongue in cheek one-liners that give you a grin once every 343 seconds. At the end of the 260 odd pages, you end with a warm heart wishing the book had a couple of hundred pages more...
Coming from IIT D and IIM A alma mater, I think an inverted normal curve is what Chetan was trying to fit his writing to. I became an instant fan of Chetan Bhagat when I read his ‘Five point someone’, a definite treat for everyone especially to the ones who’s come through the grind of a professional college. ‘One night at a Call Centre’ was a decent read, but eagerly waiting for ‘3 Mistakes of my life’ seemed more as mistake of my life.
So when I came to know that the fourth book was waiting to be released during Diwali, I only hoped that the curve had troughed and the diwali fire-works would light up the up-ward moving worm. And I must say, he didn’t disappoint. This is, if not the best, truly a better work of his with the trademark Chetan Bhagat wit water marked on each sheet. When the protagonists are in IIT or IIM, you can rest assured that it’s going to be a hell of a ride..
The book is written in Units with Cities as back-drop, so you have Ahmedabad where the boy meets the girl and falls in love, then you have Goa where the two families go to understand each other, or rather make the others understand them. Then you have a tick-tock between Delhi where the Punjab da puttar tries to impress his family n relatives to accept the madrasin and then Chennai where he tries to impress her relatives and then back to Delhi where she tries to impress his relatives and then Chennai where he makes his last ditch effort to save the tottering love life, and then Delhi where he returns dejected and then finally Chennai where the two families meet for the Marriage.
The book is filled with the loud Punjabis, for whom anybody who hails from south of Vindhya is a Madrasi, and Timid Tamilians who can’t spell ‘fun’ (fully filmi !!!). (Disclaimer: the book is blatantly racial and not meant for anybody who is even remotely regionalist). Pathetically trivial but hopelessly romantic, the sweet talk between the lovers is sure to remind you of your first love. By the end of the book, you’d wish you had a Krish or Ananya in your lives.
By no stretch of imagination, is this book going to win an International book of the year award, not even a Ganganahalli English society best author award, (the characterisations are stereotyped, the plot trivially clichéd pot-boilerish) still it will award the publishers with enough cash to literally laugh their way to the banks. The success of this book is the tom & jerry feel, you know that at the end of each series jerry wins, still you wait to watch till the end.
One thing this book has surely done is to re-kindle the book worm in me which was sent to exile by the idiot box and the Infobahn.
You can catch Chetan Bhagat at www.chetanbhagat.com
I hate Chetan, he always does this to me and I end up feeling terribly drowsy the day after.
What differentiates a Chetan Bhagat offering from the rest of the crowd is this magnetism that captivates the readers. After three failed attempts to put the book away, I succumb to the temptation and I have no option but to finish it right away. Just like the smooth Blue Label that my friend wanted to leave it for the next celebration but couldn’t resist sipping till the last drop!!!
Man, this guy knows how to write. He is the Sanjeev Kapoor of urban literati, the offspring of a mating between Adoor Gopalakrishnan and David Dhawan. With his writing nib on the urban youth’s nerves, the realism is marinated with simplicity and peppered with wit and I savour it to the last with the periodic grins.
Love marriages around the world are simple:
Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy. They get married.
In India, there are a few more steps:
Boy loves Girl. Girl loves Boy. Girl's family has to love boy. Boy's family has to love girl. Girl's Family has to love Boy's Family. Boy's family has to love girl's family.Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.
.... goes the synopsis of this ridiculously predictable, but immensely entertaining book (“2 States- the story of my marriage”).
Although it begins with Krish our Punjab da puttar- protagonist being referred to a psychotherapist as he is deprived of sleep, has refused to eat and googled best ways to commit suicide (obviously because Ananya , the Tam Bram has ditched him), the climax is as clear and obvious as the result of a finals involving India.
But the fun of travelling is not in destination but the journey. The ups and downs that Chetan takes a reader through are a pakka paisa vasool... Don’t get surprised if you get the feeling of watching a Farhan Akthar movie, because it is what it is... fun, urbane with situations that you can relate to, and tongue in cheek one-liners that give you a grin once every 343 seconds. At the end of the 260 odd pages, you end with a warm heart wishing the book had a couple of hundred pages more...
Coming from IIT D and IIM A alma mater, I think an inverted normal curve is what Chetan was trying to fit his writing to. I became an instant fan of Chetan Bhagat when I read his ‘Five point someone’, a definite treat for everyone especially to the ones who’s come through the grind of a professional college. ‘One night at a Call Centre’ was a decent read, but eagerly waiting for ‘3 Mistakes of my life’ seemed more as mistake of my life.
So when I came to know that the fourth book was waiting to be released during Diwali, I only hoped that the curve had troughed and the diwali fire-works would light up the up-ward moving worm. And I must say, he didn’t disappoint. This is, if not the best, truly a better work of his with the trademark Chetan Bhagat wit water marked on each sheet. When the protagonists are in IIT or IIM, you can rest assured that it’s going to be a hell of a ride..
The book is written in Units with Cities as back-drop, so you have Ahmedabad where the boy meets the girl and falls in love, then you have Goa where the two families go to understand each other, or rather make the others understand them. Then you have a tick-tock between Delhi where the Punjab da puttar tries to impress his family n relatives to accept the madrasin and then Chennai where he tries to impress her relatives and then back to Delhi where she tries to impress his relatives and then Chennai where he makes his last ditch effort to save the tottering love life, and then Delhi where he returns dejected and then finally Chennai where the two families meet for the Marriage.
The book is filled with the loud Punjabis, for whom anybody who hails from south of Vindhya is a Madrasi, and Timid Tamilians who can’t spell ‘fun’ (fully filmi !!!). (Disclaimer: the book is blatantly racial and not meant for anybody who is even remotely regionalist). Pathetically trivial but hopelessly romantic, the sweet talk between the lovers is sure to remind you of your first love. By the end of the book, you’d wish you had a Krish or Ananya in your lives.
By no stretch of imagination, is this book going to win an International book of the year award, not even a Ganganahalli English society best author award, (the characterisations are stereotyped, the plot trivially clichéd pot-boilerish) still it will award the publishers with enough cash to literally laugh their way to the banks. The success of this book is the tom & jerry feel, you know that at the end of each series jerry wins, still you wait to watch till the end.
One thing this book has surely done is to re-kindle the book worm in me which was sent to exile by the idiot box and the Infobahn.
You can catch Chetan Bhagat at www.chetanbhagat.com
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Dance of an Elephant... (and no... I don't enjoy dancing !!!)
I've just discovered about a bug that bites me twice a year, year after year; the itch of which lasts a full 2 and half days. The sting per se was not new to me, but the periodicity of it was what made me jump out (albeit in my chequered loin cloth ....) shouting Eureka ... Eureka !!! The symptoms, among others include 'Increased forwarding of group mails n SMSes', 'Butterflies in Stomach while watching TV and listening to Songs', 'Idealistic Bantering' which ends with a cup of Coffee and an agreement that 'nothings gonna change' ... The Character of this bug is that, sometimes it stings out of turn... especially triggered by a forwarded mail that cost only a click..
This bug is as non-discriminating as a Talib and I am sure would have given you a good measure of the incisiveness of its tingle. I know, I know.... enough of buildup ( I am bored too...). The Bug is this itch of patriotism that flares up every time the Calendar Leaf flips to mid- August and late-January. I don't know from where, but I am suddenly inundated with plethora of emotions, a concoction of love, respect, duty, responsibility (and.. and... ah no more words in the thesaurus , you too Brutus !!!) for Mother India... I get all pumped up with 'Ask not what the country has done for you but what you can do for your country' kinda punch dialogs and search for the magic wand with which I'll wish away all the ills of this country.
When the mails list the achievements (of our forefathers of course... luckily they were not as useless as we are !!!) CHESS, ZERO, DECIMAL SYSTEM, AYURVEDA, YOGA, TRIGONOMETRY.... (the list goes on like a Saas bahu serial !!!) and the modesty with which we carried ourselves (and continue to albeit in our means of living !!!); it gives me hair raising feeling; a feeling that can be equalled may be by the one that we had when we saw crybaby SreeSanth take a sitter from Misbah..
Those 5 days I get the ghost of Hitlerian supremacy complex that makes me feel that I am blessed to have taken birth in this astonishing, awe-inspiring wonder land... Then on my way to the office, a look out of the broken pane of the BMTC bus (that I am clinging on to cursing the unshaven, sticky, stinky, illiterate who is trampling my Lee Coopers..) transports me from my dream goody goody Incredible India to the land of snake charmers and elephants. My journey of fantasy TRAMPLED by reality.. (and I thought reality BITES !!!).
The pot-holes of reality, trammels my flight of fantasy grounding me to actuality, resulting in the raised hairs to fall flat like a failed rope trick. And suddenly.. India, the land of kohinoor and TajMahal gives way to starvation deaths and Dharavi; the Butterflies fly out leaving the space to be filled by an eerie feeling of anguish and helplessness..
I am in a dilemma, am I a proud INDIAN or a PROUD Indian (trying to manufacture reasons to pat my back !!!). What is there to be proud of when nearly half of your fellow citizens live on less than 15 rupees a day, when a third of them cannot write their names, when you have the distinction of contributing one sixth of global population, one third of global poors, half of global heart patients and so on... India is the largest democracy, but 50% of them enjoy the holiday watching TV and visiting friends... Who cares yaar, sab chaltha hai !!! Look at the world around you, look at the US 'the land of dreams', look at China ' the rising tiger', look at what they have achieved and where they are... And look at us... a true Meena Kumari movie plot !!!
Today we are celebrating the 63rd Independence Day... Is there anything, anything at all to celebrate???
Not much, if you ignore that when we celebrated our 10th Independence day, 64% our fellow countrymen were below poverty line (today its 26%), 78% were illiterate (today its 34%), we were being haunted by the great Bengal famine which claimed 3 million people due to Starvation and malnutrition (today we are the second largest Agricultural producer in the world), our Foreign Exchange Reserves were USD 637 Million (today its USD 271 Billion).
Today our Softwares, Our Cars, Our Space Programs, Our Cricket team is making the world sit back and notice... If Google earth gives a zoom of 200m, our ISRO's Bhuvan (www.bhuvan.nrsc.gov.in) gives you 10 m (20 times better !!!); If China (known for its cheap products) takes USD 150 Million for a lunar mission, Our Chandrayaan achieves it with USD 80 Million, If Cherry QQ gave a new meaning to affordable cars at USD 4,800, Our Nano, nanoed it to USD 2,500.
India has been in a deep slumber for many many years... Basking in its glorious past, she lost her way, somewhere in the middle when the others sprinted to new glories... But now the giant has awakened... It took the 'Land of Dreams' two hundred and thirty Independence days to reach where it is today, we are just at our 63rd. At this pace, imagine where we would be 170 years from now...
The Elephant has begun its dance, dragons watch out !!!
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