Reflections

Dam-ned?

2011-12-15T00:21:00.003+05:30

Mullaperiyar, or Mullaiperiyar Dam depending upon your loyalties, is a catastrophe in waiting. The adjoining info-graphic traces the history of the issue and lists the arguments given by the two conflicting states. Click on it to enlarge.

Being dependent upon water bodies flowing in through neighbouring states, Tamil Nadu has always been on logger heads with them. Its concerns are genuine as these rivers are mainstay for its economy, providing irrigation facilities for agriculture and power generation for the industries. However, Mullaperiyar is a case of much more grave concern for the state of Kerala.

Kerala government has been defending its case for a new dam on the basis of the ‘Precautionary Principle’ laid down in the famous Rio Declaration on Environment and Development (1992), of which India is a signatory.

Its Principle 15 states, “In order to protect the environment, the precautionary approach shall be widely applied by States according to their capabilities. Where there are threats of serious or irreversible damage, lack of full scientific certainty shall not be used as a reason for postponing cost-effective measures to prevent environmental degradation.”

In the given case, the danger is not mere environmental degradation but major loss of human life and biodiversity.

In this scenario, the adamance being shown by the Tamil Nadu government is uncalled for. Not only is it denying Kerala’s demand for a new dam but is also not cooperating with the Center on this issue. Recently Jayalalithaa Government decided not to participate in the “informal discussion” on the dam dispute in New Delhi.

Moreover, Tamil Nadu moved the Supreme Court to restrain the Kerala Government from making any remark on de-commissioning of the dam or construction of a new one as it was allegedly creating a fear psychosis among the people.

At this juncture, it is important for Jayalalithaa Government to allay such fears if any by going an extra mile rather than rubbishing them altogether.

Meanwhile, Supreme Court, while asking both the states not to politicize the issue, has decided against Kerala's demand for reduction in water level from 136 ft. to 120 ft. Tamil Nadu Government must not regard this as a victory but help in restoring peace and normalcy in the region.

If steps are not taken to redress this issue at the earliest, any untoward incidence will be a blot on India’s federal polity.

Image Courtesy:

Self-designed

क्या तेरा है, क्या मेरा है?

2011-11-06T00:18:00.005+05:30

Images Courtesy:

Various sources. Kindly bring any copyright violations to notice.

Koodankulam to Chennai

2011-10-21T00:51:00.007+05:30

As banana bajji wrapped in a newspaper took the round of the motley gathering on the roof of a house in Besant Nagar, no one was too keen to have it. They had arrived at the venue at five o’clock as planned, after a tiring day at their jobs and colleges. However, their own hunger was not on their mind right now. They were more concerned about fisherfolk and local residents of a coastal village, more than 700 kilometers south of Chennai, many of whom have not gone to sea or earned any income since they started an agitation more than a month ago. These villagers have been protesting against the commissioning of Koodankulam Nuclear Power Plant in Tirunelveli district of Tamil Nadu, which according to them not only poses danger to their livelihood by endangering the marine life but even holds larger nuclear safety issues.

Nityanand Jayaraman, a well-known environmental activist based in Chennai had called ‘youngsters and other interested people’ to plan a solidarity action on the part of the capital city, through an impassioned appeal on various mailing groups, “We're faced with a tremendous opportunity, made possible by the struggles of thousands of fisherfolk, who are camped outside the gate of the Koodankulam nuclear power plant even as we speak. The Government of India is unrelenting in its insistence that the plant should be commissioned. The Government of Tamil Nadu has made half-hearted gestures that it is in support of the agitation. If people put their weight and support behind the struggle, we have a possibility of getting Tamil Nadu declared as a nuclear-free state, and closed for all future nuclear power plant proposals.”

Though hardly a dozen and a half turned up at the meeting organised today evening at the collective’s office, it did not deter those present to carry on the proceedings with utmost conviction.

Protests against this project have been going on since its very inception, more than two decades ago. The adjoining info-graphic traces its history. Click on it to enlarge.

The present round of agitations started with 127 villagers going on an indefinite hunger strike on Sep 11 as the date of commissioning of the first two reactors neared. Their basic apprehensions rose from the plight of Japanese towns of Okuma and Futaba following the Fukushima-Daichii nuclear disaster in March earlier this year which led to release of radioactive material.

Those present at the meeting concurred that Fukushima disaster being fresh in the minds of the people can also be used as a rallying point in their solidarity action. On the basis of extensive brainstorming, various ideas came up, were rebutted, were shelved or accepted.

Nityanand cautioned that the solidarity action should be immediate but not sporadic. The group narrowed down to a petition campaign as their central medium. However, they argued for it to be more meaningful than just a signature campaign. It was decided that it will include fund-raising, in form of Rs 5 donations, to help the poor agitators, and will invite all those interested to further workshops and seminars on the issue. Besant Nagar was chosen as the venue for the petition campaign where the volunteers will create awareness over the weekend. A photo exhibition and a documentary screening were also planned at various venues which will exhibit the nuclear accidents at Chernobyl, Jaduguda and Fukushima to bring to light the dangers of nuclear reactors.

There was also an appeal to push the envelope further. A suggestion was made in this direction to encourage the petitioners to adopt bio-composting at their homes. The argument was that by doing so, they can reduce their carbon footprint considerably which can act as an alternative to government’s assertion that nuclear energy is the only answer to global warming being caused by carbon-based fuels.

Around half past six in the evening as it started getting darker, the collective members decided to disperse. The action will now shift to Besant Nagar beach which will see the tides of a new commitment, promising to be more than just a token gesture.

Image Courtesy:

My new found interest in Photoshop

A political victory or a lost Cause?

2011-10-18T17:52:00.003+05:30

The result of Hisar by-election is being read in many ways by the political pundits. The event kick-started the anti-Congress campaign of Team Anna. It seems as if Team Anna has taken it to itself to be the panacea of all ills in Indian political landscape. Its first detour from the basic objective of getting the Jan Lokpal Bill legislated came when it called for electoral reforms. It included introduction of negative voting and the recalling of sitting legislators. In this context, campaigning in Hisar should have been about making the voters aware about the credentials of all the candidates. The choice of candidate should have been left to the ‘informed’ citizenry.

Fight against corruption should not be limited to the political party in power at the centre. It is endemic to the whole political system. It is questionable if Team Anna’s intervention had any role to play in the defeat of Congress candidate and the forfeiture of his security deposit. However, the way Team Anna is meddling in the actual political process puts a big question mark on its often claimed apolitical overtures. With the eyes now set on the UP assembly elections, it may do further disservice to its own cause. Anna, himself has been vacillating between the stands of giving Congress a breather till the Winter session of Parliament on one hand and personally entering the anti-Congress campaign in UP on the other. Focus needs to be shifted back to the Jan Lokpal Bill. The support that Team Anna garnered was for this basic agenda. It cannot keep stacking newer agendas on it, hoping that all its wishes will be fulfilled within the ambit of this single movement.

It is true that Congress has been making many political manoeuvrings inside and outside the Parliament to stall the passing of a meaningful Jan Lokpal Bill. However, Anna should continue using the civil society route to bring to light such practices. He might have testified it many a times that he is having no political ambitions. But this might not be true for his foot-soldiers. It is a known fact that one of the Team Anna members resigned from the police services on being bypassed for a coveted office. So to claim that the people behind this movement are above such power motives will be naïve. In this context, taking the fight to political arena will only make things more complex. Moreover, the movement may also lose a considerable chunk of sympathisers if it gets reduced to anti-Congress from anti-Corruption.

The movement is already being negatively affected by the incoherent statements coming out of the Team Anna camp. While Anna and other members have distanced themselves from Prashant Bhushan’s statement on Kashmir, Santosh Hegde has openly shown his displeasure over Kejriwal’s move to meddle in the Hisar by-elections. As Anna sits on a week-long vow of silence for ‘peace of soul’, two prominent activists P V Rajagopal and 'Waterman' Rajinder Singh quit its core committee over the latter issue of ‘political turn’ of movement. Democracy within the movement should definitely be appreciated. All the members should have a right to voice their personal opinions on different issues. However, for the sake of Jan Lokpal Bill, some coherence is needed. Any such incoherent statements and infighting give the detractors an opportunity to make a mountain out of a molehill. Therefore, it is important for Anna to bring together his foot-soldiers and unify the camp. This is a prerequisite to sustain the battle against the indifference of the political honchos towards an effective Jan Lokpal Bill.

P.S. This is the first draft of my editorial for our Lab Journal in ACJ to be published this Saturday

Image Courtesy:

A Bookmark From Life

2011-10-11T01:11:00.002+05:30

In the Image:
I standing on the Besant Nagar (Elliot's) Beach.

Image Courtesy:
Saurabh Goyal

Beyond Words

2011-09-23T14:30:00.000+05:30

She always wants me

When she has to pee

When I rush to loo

She wants to come too

In the Image:

Me with my niece in Delhi (clicked a couple of hours back)

Image Courtesy:

No one but me

That Anonymous Nice Young Ailment

2011-09-21T16:37:00.001+05:30

She's an ordinary girl

A girl next door

And thats the thing about her

That i adore

She has no pretensions

Won't go case by case

She is what she is

Always in your face

She is too matured

At times for her age

At other times she's a kid

Difficult to engage

She will pull your legs

With a naughty glint in eyes

That you will just give in

To her innocent tries

She likes to be by her own

Most of the times

But is a great company

When a partner in crime

She is the perfect girl

Am I Done With Love?

2011-08-24T19:49:00.002+05:30

Each time it happened, it brought a ray of hope

But now it carries with it, just a fear to cope

Am I done with Love?

Or I still have it in me?

Is it just a mirage?

Or can I still succeed?

When I look back at what transpired

Sometimes it was them, sometimes me

But whoever be blamed for the failures

In the end I was the loser to be

So when the heart skips a beat again

How can it be a reason to smile?

For I have learnt it the hard way

That this thing is not meant for me.

Am I done with Love?

Or I still have it in me?

Is it just a mirage?

Or can I still succeed?

I've always seen myself as a romantic

And this notion has taken my toll

Weaving the dreams just too soon

I have seen them tumbling galore

I want to take a chance again

But know well, that’s not the right way

For each smile that adorns my face today

Will be paid by a drop of tear not far away

Am I done with Love?

Or I still have it in me?

Is it just a mirage?

Or can I still succeed?

P.S. - A comment posted on my novelette 'Everyone Has a Cupid Tale to Tell' after a long time brought out this stupid song. So please don’t ask ‘who is she?'

Image Courtesy:
A friend behind another friends's camera

The Face Off

2011-08-18T00:53:00.005+05:30

Flaunting the newly learnt Photoshop skills.

And now a GIF image. Click on it to enlarge and see it in action.

For a change, I do not want to comment about the developments around this movement. However, you may read my Op-Ed in The Tribune which got published during the first wave of the movement.

Images Courtesy:
Various sources

Life Within The Four Walls

2011-08-15T00:01:00.003+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 23; the twenty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. The theme for this month is FREE. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Your whole life can be packed in a single room. Within those four walls you can measure expanse of your knowledge, and within those few meters between floor and ceiling, depth in your understanding can be gauged. It is nothing less than incarceration, an imposed limit on your physical space to allow you to wander more freely within your mental space. Even I went through this stage when I decided, like many other brave souls before me, to sit for the civil services examinations.

Immersed in studies within the three dimensions of my room, I soon became oblivious to the fourth dimension of time. The chirping of birds followed by sound of gong emanating from a neighboring boarding school used to intimate me that it is dawn and I should be going to sleep.

My day started with the shouts of my mother followed by incessant thumping on the door to wake me up. The poor creaking door had to go through this ordeal everyday till I finally got up and unlatched it.

In those days, I preferred to stay in my room with innumerable inanimate things accompanying me. The only live things were the lizards on the wall and my reflection in the long mirror on the right corner of the room.

I was envious of the lizards because they could traverse more dimensions within the room. For them the room was infinity, an end in itself, but for me it was just a means to an elusive end.

The 6 by 6-foot bed felt like a mother’s lap since the day it got a new pair of mattresses. They were expensive but were needed to cure the constant pain in my back. Despite many rebukes from my father, I continued lying on the bed to study, while the uncomfortable chair that accompanied the study table stood vacant and listless.

I was very fond of the study table which took up most of the space opposite my bed. It had retained its woody smell despite thick coats of varnish and was the only link to nature in this lifeless room. Though seldom used to study, the books with their different-colored bindings decked on the two shelves of the table, were a constant reminder and motivation to keep studying.

The night lamp on the side table became an innocent accomplice in my contemplations. As my thoughts meandered through the unknown reaches of my consciousness, I kept switching it on and off subconsciously. Every other month its bulb had to be replaced, tormented by my thoughts and actions.

On the far left corner of the room, by the curtained windows, stood my personal computer with all its paraphernalia. The dark monitor of the computer always stared at me with expectant eyes, which were only a reflection of my own eyes, waiting to be switched on. But it had already been replaced by my new laptop which lay regally on one side of my bed. The computer reminded me of those days when gadgets were much larger and the life was much simpler.

My mother had the nagging habit of opening the curtains whenever she got a chance. I somehow felt more secure in the darkness and dampness of the room. The sunlight that came through the window seemed to me as an unnecessary intrusion into my own space. The pale-looking curtains became focal point of this unspoken jostle between me and my mother as we tried to outdo each other every day.

Two years had passed in this room when the result of my second attempt came. Keeping the laptop aside, I looked up at the ceiling with moist eyes.

The worn-out fan was revolving as usual, emitting the ugly noises. There was certain movement in it but there was no displacement.

Then my eyes moved towards far corner of the wall where it met the ceiling. A trapped moth was struggling to get free from the cobwebs that had formed there.

The following day, I took a broom and removed the cobwebs from there.

The following day, I opened the curtains to let the slanting rays onto my bed freely.

The following day, I unlatched the windows to allow fresh air into the deoxygenated corners of the room.

The following day, I decided to let go my ambition and venture out to find some work.

Image Courtesy:
My camera (clicked in November 2007)

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My third published article

2011-07-28T18:14:00.002+05:30

Its 4 in 4 months. Of course, as I mentioned in the previous post, the actual third article I wrote for Tribune was not published in its totality but only some of the sound-bytes I had gathered were used. So here is my third published Op-Ed in which I have compiled the whole page including my own write up, the photograph (of my students in Bulls Eye), the counter argument (by my colleague) and the opinions of the students.

You can read the article here - Coaching Industry - A Parallel Education System

However, the article got pruned down a bit due to space constraints and the end result seems a bit incoherent. Somehow, I feel this particular line from the original draft should not have been removed by the editors -

Many academic trainers in this industry have emerged as the role models for the students and work hard under very stressful schedules in helping them to crack the tough examinations.

Do give your feedback and suggest what other issues I can take up for my future Op-Eds.

Here are links to my previous articles -

GenNext Can Help Banish Corruption (The Tribune; Apr 9, 2011)
The Myth and Reality About The Global Indian (The Tribune; May 17, 2011)
The 'World-Class' Debate (The Tribune; Jun 1, 2011 and The Viewspaper; Jun 26, 2011)

Image Courtesy:
My dad and his cell phone :)

The 'World Class' Debate

2011-07-27T18:13:00.002+05:30

Here I am reproducing an article originally written for The Tribune but finally published on a web portal The Viewspaper sometime back.

The Union Minister for Environment, Jairam Ramesh has the knack to remain in the news with his proactive but sometimes provocative take on environmental issues. However, this time he chose an unrelated issue to make the headlines once again. According to this IIT Bombay graduate; the most coveted and sought after seats of learning in India, i.e., IIT’s and IIM’s, lack the world-class faculty as well as research facilities. He believes that these institutes have been able to survive due to the world class students who take admission into these institutions after a grueling selection process.

Before one starts taking sides, it’s important to define the term ‘World Class.’ Going by its dictionary meaning it is to rank amongst the foremost in the world and to meet the international standards of excellence. If one adopts this definition, then Jairam Ramesh is not that wide of the mark as it’s true that in most of the world rankings, these institutes fail to reach the top-notch positions.

However, is it justified to use such objective parameters given the grand divide between the West and the East? To create a world-class research institute, the foremost requirement is a world-class policy formulation and world-class funding for the same. With the meager amount of resources made available to these institutes, how can one expect them to compete with the best in the business?

To add to this, the fact is that these institutes were incepted with the objective of developing a skilled workforce to support the social and economic development of India. Research and development was started much later. Hence, to compare the amount of research done by these institutes with that done by the MIT’s or Harvard’s is again unfair.

Rajesh Behera, an IIT Bombay alumnus, unequivocally attributes his success to the guidance he got from his teachers. According to him, it was their experience and exposure to the international environment that enabled them to find the true potential of the students like him and instilled in them confidence to become world-class.

Taking the example of the Civil Engineering Department of his alma mater, he shows how all the major infrastructural development taking place around Mumbai, in one form or the other, has inputs from the IIT Bombay faculty, from consultancy to actual implementation.

One cannot deny that the faculty of these institutes have to work in a much harder environment than their counterparts in the West. Take the example of the student to teacher ratio which according to an internal study of Union Human Resource Development Ministry is as high as 15:1 in the leading institutes of India as compared to around 5:1 to 7:1 in the leading technical institutes of US, West Europe and even Singapore or Hong Kong for that matter. Moreover, funding at both the project level and at the level of personal compensation to teachers make the situation graver.

The whole issue gathers more importance in the context of the new IIMs and IITs that have opened recently to cater to the ever growing demand for the world-class education in India, a prerequisite to tap India’s demographic dividend.

Swati Gupta, an IIM Indore alumna feels that there is a dearth of world-class faculty in the new IIMs. However, she considers Jairam Ramesh’s statement pretty harsh and feels it’s naive to tag all the professors under the same umbrella.

To quote her, “There is no doubt that there is a visible gap in the style and understanding of the newer faculty as compared to the old professors. While the latter make sure that there is a conceptual clarity before teaching the contextual application, the former at times tend to focus too much on the case method.”

This perspective shatters the belief that the older professors are too rigid and averse to adopt newer world-class methodologies as there is still substance left in the older teaching methodologies.

Overall, it’s important to take into consideration all these contingencies before coming to any concrete conclusion. However, one cannot deny the fact that there is a lot that needs to be done to make the Indian premiere institutes, globally more competitive and this statement of Jairam Ramesh might act as a stimulant for the same.

Click here to see the article in The Viewspaper.

The following sound-bytes taken from IIT Mumbai faculty members, however, were published in Tribune and attributed to me.

Two senior members of IIT, Bombay, on the condition that their names would be withheld had this to say:

Make it attractive for the best

The profession of teaching and research is not an attractive profession for most young students due to financial reasons. The top talent is not opting for a career in teaching and research. There are perhaps only 25 per cent of faculty members who do research that can be termed “of international standards”. The IITs are far ahead of any university in India in terms of research quantity and quality. The socio-economic conditions must improve in order to create world class universities and institutes. World class institutes did not become world class in 50 years. The top universities in the world have a long tradition and attract talent from all over the world.

The Government must provide autonomy to institutions of higher learning. The UGC and AICTE have failed in managing higher education. There is a lot of corruption in these bodies. Every minister in charge of the Ministry of Human Resource Development tries to change something in IITs to get public attention. They will serve the country better by improving schools and colleges which are in a pathetic condition. Once these improve, there will be better people going in for higher education.

The Chinese invest heavily in higher education and elementary education. They offered 50 per cent of the American salary to the Chinese who were teaching in developed countries. As a result, hundreds of Chinese came back and enriched their universities. There are talented Indians abroad, the MHRD should devise a strategy to encourage good researchers to come back. In developed countries, teaching is a respected profession but in India it is not. One may ask any class in a school and verify this. Hardly any one wants to go in for teaching and research. Creation of world class institutions requires full autonomy, a good pay and a large proportion of people going in for higher education. Until this happens, we cannot have world class institutes.

No roadmap for higher education in the country

In my opinion, the decision to open new IITs without having an adequate number of skilled scientific/technology manpower in the country was, by itself, a wrong decision. It was only motivated by considerations that were non-professional and had to do more with realpolitik in the then ruling class that took the decision. It is slightly irresponsible on the part of the minister to make such statements, instead of helping out the IITs that are already facing far too many difficulties due to the government’s decision of opening IITs in a thoughtless manner.

The IITs have a better faculty than most state universities but that is hardly any consolation given that they have larger funding and better facilities. The entire thing boils down to one moot question.: It is not this government (to which Jairam Ramesh belongs) or that government, but no government in India has the desire to work out a well thought out roadmap for higher education in the country. The late Rajiv Gandhi made an attempt to start something in that direction but it was all lost later. (As told to Vipul Grover)

Click here to see the article in The Tribune

Image Courtesy:

Star News

Finding My True Self

2011-07-22T22:49:00.000+05:30

I don’t know how it all started but I do have a faint idea that it was around the time I entered secondary school. Until then, I had always longed for opportunities to excel in extra-curricular activities. Debating in particular gave me an opportunity to enhance my knowledge beyond text-books.

Then, one day, I started finding it difficult to speak. The words came out with utmost difficulty or with involuntary repetitions and sometimes they just wouldn’t come. Passion became p..p..p..p..passion or sometimes it became just a long pause. In short, I developed an acute case of stuttering.

I began to find excuses not to read aloud in class. Each time a friend or a cousin made fun of my stammering, I grew diffident and insecure. However, my passion for singing was still unaffected by it. As you might know, stuttering is not an impediment to singing. However, with adolescence as my voice cracked, I was politely asked to leave the class choir too.

When I was chosen for a Hindi play because of my consistently good performance in the subject, I could not utter a single dialogue. Though I still participated in events like quizzing and dumb charades, I found myself shying away from limelight.

The two years in senior secondary school were spent studying hard for the engineering entrance examinations and somehow, the speech impediment took a back seat. But when college started, it came back to haunt me.

Reading a self-help book during my first year at college, I suddenly decided to throw it in the dustbin and take matters into my own hands. To get rid of the fear of public speaking, I had to seek occasions when it would be necessary for me to speak. Thus, Panache was born, the first students’ organization of my college. With it was born a new me, one who mustered the courage to stand in front of the class and give the presentation regarding the proposed organization.

As I pushed myself more and more, I was able to devise new ways to tackle the problem and soon I was confidently compering at the freshers’ party and delivering the opening address at a Rotaract event and imitating Inzamam-ul-Haq at a mock press conference while throwing the packed audience into fits of laughter.

It’s not that I stopped stuttering. I just stopped thinking about it and stopped thinking about the derogatory comments by others. Once this burden was gone, I could speak freely.

I have shared this story innumerable times with my students in personality development workshops. We all may have our inhibitions in public speaking due to lack of fluency or due to a speech disorder like mine. Even today, when I have to speak impromptu, I do shiver from within.

However, it’s important to face these fears because as long as we keep hiding from them, we won’t be able to search our true self. I don’t remember when it all started and I don’t even care if it ends in this lifetime or not. I have found my true self.

In the Image:
I, Me and Myself (Shot by - Saurabh Goyal, Location - A beach along East Coast Road, Tamil Nadu)

The King of Dystopia

2011-07-15T19:06:00.002+05:30

Originally published at The Mind Blogglers.

Whenever I come across a news report about some new political scam or scandal which is pretty regular these days, I wonder if it is the ignorance of the masses that is allowing the political elite to indulge in such rampant corruption and malfeasance. Is India or even the world at large moving towards the dystopian society envisioned by George Orwell in his novel Nineteen Eighty Four?

In this novel, Orwell had described an Oligarchic dictatorship which borrows its stability from three basic tenets; one of these being - 'Ignorance is Strength'. Through pervasive government surveillance and incessant public mind control, the ruling ‘Party’ is able to subjugate the individual and manipulate humanity, hence strengthening its own domain.

It will be far-fetched to compare the present society with the society projected by Orwell; however the way things are going, the Orwellian conception remains still relevant and is a prism to the ill-fated consequences of a society that lacks democracy and free will.

Born in India as Eric Arthur Blair to a civil servant father in 1903, Orwell found the inspiration for his writings from his own life experiences. These included an early childhood in London, education in a missionary school, policing in Burma, his bohemian lifestyle in Paris, seeing the hardships of economically depressed North England, the participation in the Spanish Civil War and many other experiences which gradually developed in him a “natural hatred towards authority”.

He mentions in his essay Why I Write that “Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism, as I understand it,” evidently triggered by the Spanish Civil War and the increasing influence of Nazism and Fascism.

However, even his debut novel, The Burmese Days which got published in 1934, talks of the travails of a British subject in Burma disillusioned by imperialism and white domination.

It was his political satire, Animal Farm published in 1945 that brought him into limelight and for the first time prosperity in a life, otherwise filled with hardships. In a compact piece of fiction, he targeted the Stalin brand of Communism and was well appreciated in the West. The story revolves around a farm where animals take over control under the leadership of pigs but the leader gradually corrupts the socialist ideals on which their revolution was based.

However, Orwell’s concept of free will was not in consonance with the philosophy of another contemporary author hailed by the West, Ayn Rand. Both are known for their belief in individualism; however, while Rand stands for libertarianism, essentially a capitalist model, Orwell stuck to democratic socialism, a model of the welfare state which can be compared to Gandhian and Nehruvian socialism.

Despite this, several critics, particularly from the Left, accused Orwell of exploiting the street-folk, calling him a wolf-in-sheep's-clothing upper class intellectual posing as a revolutionary. However, Orwell withstood these criticisms and remained true to his convictions till the end of his life.

In his seminal work, Nineteen Eighty Four, published just before his untimely demise in 1950 due to an artery burst in the lungs, he once again brought to the fore the struggle between totalitarianism and an individual’s yearning to break the shackles imposed by it. Like most of his other novels, it had an unhappy ending where the individual finally succumbs to the system.

For this reason, Nineteen Eighty Four is usually categorized as a novel portraying political pessimism. However, it will be wrong to term his writings as pessimistic because Orwell preferred to stick to his conceived dystopian structures in order to make his argument against them stronger. Moreover, to consider it Orwell’s forecast of the probable future will be naïve as the author clarified it in a post-publication statement.

Just like the instability portrayed in his writings, Orwell had a rather unstable life. Growing up in the absence of his father, lack of resources in the family, a bitter school life, initial struggle to get his due as a writer, contracting tuberculosis and the subsequent deteriorating health and an unhappy married life, marked the forty seven years of his life.

However, his life did a great service to the literary tradition of that era and continues to inspire even today. According to Orwell, there are four great motives for writing; sheer egoism, aesthetic enthusiasm, historical impulse and political purpose. He was honest enough to mention the first motive though his way of writing and prose was by no means elitist. However, the other dimension of egoism is to be remembered for our work. Orwell’s legacy can be gauged from the simple fact that ‘Orwellian’ is now a byword for any oppressive or manipulative social phenomenon opposed to a free society.

As far as the last two motives go, his later works that in addition to his novels include a number of essays, literary reviews, linguistic articles, anti-war propaganda and other journalistic endeavours in BBC, the Tribune, the Observer and other journals ensured that they served the political purpose and facilitated the historical impulse.

In fact, many of his observations hold a lot of historical significance as they portray how some of the societal structures haven’t changed much in all these years. For example, in his autobiographical essay, "Such, Such Were the Joys" published after his death in 1952, Orwell describes the education he received as "a preparation for a sort of confidence trick," geared entirely towards maximizing his future performance in the admissions exams to leading English public schools such as Eton and Harrow, without any concern for actual knowledge or understanding. The education reforms in India today are also addressing similar problems in our system of education.

As for the final remaining motive, only the man of his genius could make a twelve line poem Romance written during his stay in Burma and based on the negotiations of a foreigner with a local prostitute, seem so aesthetic. Sample it for yourself.

When I was young and had no sense

In far-off Mandalay

I lost my heart to a Burmese girl

As lovely as the day.

Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,

Her teeth were ivory;

I said ‘For twenty silver pieces,

Maiden, sleep with me.’

She looked at me, so pure, so sad,

The loveliest thing alive,

And in her lisping, virgin voice,

Stood out for twenty-five.

Image Courtesy:

http://www.guardian.co.uk

My second published article

2011-05-17T13:31:00.001+05:30

I might be away from blogging but my freelancing assignments are giving me a chance to update the blog. Here is my second published article in the Op-Ed section of The Tribune, Chandigarh-Delhi.

You can read the article on the newspaper's website - http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110517/edit.htm#7

Image Courtesy:

My mobile phone and The Tribune

My first published article

2011-04-09T15:03:00.000+05:30

Hello friends, I mean all those who are still lingering around this nearly dead blog :)

I just came over to share with you my article which got published today in the Op-Ed section of The Tribune, Chandigarh.

Here is the link to the online edition - http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110409/edit.htm#6 - where you can read it without straining your eyes on this low-resolution image.

Image Courtesy

WTF.. It's my own article ;)

Change

2011-03-05T00:01:00.002+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton Season 2 edition 18; the eighteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Change, they say is always for good. But what if the thing you fear the most is the change itself? I always thought that my path is set clear in front of me. But, some contingencies, I forgot to account for. Now, I had two options, either to keep treading the same path or change the path itself. But how could I overcome the fear of change?

My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist. No points for guessing that I am a huge fan of Shahrukh bhai. And my life is as filmy as his movies. However, I didn’t come to Mumbai, like many other fans of his, to see him. I was here to create a spectacle for the world to see.

I come from a village, some miles north of Peshawar. I was happy rearing my father’s cattle and my world was limited to that village and the vast grazing terrain around it. How was I to know, that my horizon will soon be broadened and I’ll become a carrier of Allah’s message. Or that’s what they claimed. They, to whom my father sold me to buy some more cattle.

I was sent to a training camp in Azad Kashmir along with two other boys from my village and about a dozen from neighboring ones. It was literally, a crash course to manhood. From there, we were sent to another training camp in Punjab, a more sophisticated one. Finally, after an intensive training of one year, a team of fifteen was formed. Our mission was to reach the shores of Mumbai and recreate the horrors of 2008. However, this time, we were to wait, live amongst the people for some time and carry out the assigned task when called for. In short, we were to form a sleeper cell.

We reached Mumbai safely. It seemed the Indians had learnt nothing from the previous catastrophe. I along with couple of others moved to a kholi in Dharavi where we were to be harbored during our stay here. And within no time, thanks to the training we had obtained, we melted within this subaltern melting pot of Mumbai.

So now, you must be wondering, when are we planning the next 26/11? You’ll get your answers soon. Picture abhi baki hai mere dost!!!

I wasn’t a Khan anymore, I became Raj. I had a tough time making a choice between Rahul and Raj but DDLJ made all the difference.

While, I was busy waiting for the final orders, I had no idea that here in India, I’ll also meet my Simran, my P…P…P…Pooja. And, yes that is the contingency that I had never accounted for.

I didn’t meet her on a train or a local, as they call it here, with my hand extended at the door as she came running on the platform. My life is filmy as I said, but not that filmy too. We crossed each other’s path for the first time while I was rushing to join the line outside the public lavatory one early morning. Not an ideal setting for the love at first sight but still kuchh kuchh hota hai… tum nahin samjhoge.

I can’t claim that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. On the contrary, her virtue was her simplicity, the indefinable thing about her that made her look so familiar. It felt as if I had known her all along. I bet, even you must have felt like this about someone at some point of time in your life. If not, then you have missed upon a feeling which has no match.

Pooja stayed just a couple of lanes across and we started meeting in the evenings when I returned from the shop where I worked.

They had told us during our training that if we kept following His path, one day we will experience completeness – the completeness of conviction and purpose. With Pooja around, I could experience the same. It seemed as if she was the missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of my life.

I used to wonder at nights that how could the passion for Jihad be more essential than this passion of souls? If it was so insignificant, then why did Allah allow such thoughts to enter our mind? Or was it the devil playing games on me? Should I leave her as she is the source behind all this inquisitiveness? How can I be with her when she is a kafir? But how could she be a kafir? Both of us seemed so alike. And what harm had she done to anyone?

Such jihad within my mind kept me awakened for hours.

To ward off these thoughts, I started recollecting the verses from the Holy Book which were incessantly recited to us day and night during those days of training. The things started becoming clearer as such contemplating nights passed.

They used to say that He loves the one who does good, the pure, the righteous, the patient and persevering and also the one who takes up arms to fight in His cause.

But that made me wonder, where is the love for those who have sinned and erred? Where is the love for those who are not like us and don’t share our beliefs? Is their path not righteous just because they choose to follow a different path?

We humans too tend to love those who demonstrate good qualities and are obedient to us. Then what is the difference between Him and us, the mere mortals, if his love is also based on conditions.

I had achieved the Jihad. As Shahrukh bhai would have said, "Pyaar zindagi ki tarah hota hai, Jiska har morr aasan nahi hota, Har raste per khushi nahi milti, Par jab hum zindagi ka saath nahin chorte, To hum pyaar karna kyon chorein!" Other things were of no consequence to me.

They wanted me to become a carrier of Allah’s message. And I decided to become one. So this morning, I gathered my belongings and left the kholi discreetly. I wanted to meet Pooja first but decided against it. I went straight to the police station to surrender and become the whistle blower. As it is, whistle blowing is the new fad.

In my voice, Allah won’t speak of Jihad-e-Asghar, the 'Lesser Jihad' of purifying the world with war and crusade. He shall speak only of Jihad-e-Akbar, the 'Greater Jihad' of cleansing ones soul with love and compassion. Nasrun Minallahi Wa Fathun Qareeb!

Sitting here in this cell tonight and thinking about what all has transpired in all these days, I realize that wasn’t it a change itself that made me change my path? Yes, the change of heart nourished by someone’s love. And wasn’t it this change that changed the very message I set out to convey to the world? And wasn’t it this change which gave me the strength to ward off the fears of the eventuality of such a decision?

Change, my friends, is indeed always for good.

***

Reflections for Reference
My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist is the defining dialogue of Shahrukh Khan’s (SRK) My name is Khan (2010)
Picture abhi baki hai mere dost is the famous line from SRK’s Om Shanti Om (2007) and it means, ‘The movie is still not over, my friend’.
Raj is the name of the character played by SRK in DDLJ, the abbreviation for Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayeinge (1995) and Simran is his love interest.
Rahul is the name of the character played by SRK in Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai (1998).
P…P…P…Pooja is a reference to SRK’s stuttering K..K..K.. Kiran in Darr (1993).
Kuchh kuchh hota hai… tum nahin samjhoge is the romantic line from SRK’s Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai (1998) and colloquially it means, 'Something transpires in the heart... You won't understand'.
'Pyaar zindagi ki tarah hota hai...' is SRK’s famous dialogue from Mohabbatein (2000) which means, 'Love is like life, whose every turn isn’t easy, there isn’t happiness on every path, but when we don’t let go of life, then how can we let go of love!'
Nasrun Minallahi Wa Fathun Qareeb is an Arabic phrase meaning ‘With the help from Allah, the success is near’ which was rendered by SRK in his movie Chak De India (2007).

In the Image:
An edited poster of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayeinge (1995)

Image Courtesy:
http://wallpapers-desktop-studio.blogspot.com/ (edited)

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

The Last Flight

2011-02-28T14:19:00.002+05:30

He revved up his bike as he neared yet another bend. He had done it each time but somehow at the last moment, allowed himself to flow with the road. By now, he had ascended much higher than he had actually planned to. But on the contrary, his actual plans were to ascend much higher than these physical bounds and measures. He could see another bend approaching some meters away. He throttled his bike further and this time his grip on the accelerator didn’t loosen. There was no fencing on the outer side of the bend. The bike smoothly shifted from the solid concrete road to the weightless air below it. He was flying. He had heard it many times that at such moments, the whole life flashes through in front of you. He saw nothing. He shut his eyes. The only thing he could feel was weightlessness - weightlessness of his mind and of his body. Soon the gravity took over. And he let go of the bike. As he descended, his sensory perceptions kept shutting off one by one. Whole through, he could hear the air gushing past him. Soon, that sense also got shut off. However, a faint smile still remained on his face, an expression embossed there upon the realization that he had eventually ascended much higher through this descent. While the searchers recovered his dismantled body from the foot of the gorge, his soul had been recovered by him much earlier during that last flight.

P.S. Though not an ideal plot for a post commemorating a milestone on this blog, it happens to be the hundredth published post on Reflections of an Empathic Libertarian.

Image Courtesy:

http://andrewmagrath.files.wordpress.com (edited)

My Hinduism

2010-12-24T17:41:00.005+05:30

I am an atheist; I have lost interest in offering prayers or visiting temples. However, being atheist doesn’t make me a non-Hindu. I don’t see Hinduism as a religion but as a way of life, the Indian way of life.

Historically, for foreigners the Hindus were those who resided beyond the river Indus. They were the citizens of Hindustan.

Hinduism is an eternal cultural revolution. It is known for its openness and has always adapted itself since the Vedic ages. New influences, ideologies and cultures have arrived from outside and many new have taken birth within this region but Hinduism has always embraced them and coexisted with them.

When the Vedic way of life or Brahmanism was threatened by the liberal ideologies of Buddhism and Jainism, it adapted itself and rejuvenated within some centuries. It sustained the rule of Islamic rulers in the medieval ages and even forced Islam to adapt itself to the Hindu way of life.

There is no scope of so called fundamentalism in Hinduism as Hinduism never propagated any fundamentals. Stop confusing Hinduism with the ancient Vedic religion and look at it with an open mind. I believe in this brand of Hinduism.

So when people talk about reviving the old glory of Hinduism, they are just fighting a personal battle with vested interests. Hinduism is forward looking and not backward looking.

It was this backward looking tendency that made some maniacs destroy one place of worship to erect another in 1992 to correct an alleged wrong committed in 1528. Because of this one act, India has bled again and again in the last two decades. The covert actions of Pakistan are not as much responsible for the Islamic brand of terrorism as these politically motivated acts of violence which are claimed to be spontaneous outbursts of the population.

And now, those who want to turn a blind eye to a new brand of Militant Hindu Nationalism or don’t want to see it as a big threat are just giving into the wishes of these backward looking ideologues who want to tarnish my faith, my Hinduism.

In the Image:

A confluence of rivers. Just like it, Hinduism is a confluence of various ideologies, cultures and traditions.

Image Courtesy:

http://gallery.nen.gov.uk (original)

The Threat Quotient

2010-12-22T00:13:00.004+05:30

Since long I have been thinking about returning to serious blogging and last week an issue did come up which presented that opportunity. However, thanks to my laziness, I kept procrastinating but finally I am here dishing out my humble views on the issue which has created a slight furor in the political arena though the rising onion prices has relegated it to the back burner. Nonetheless, it is an issue which will keep returning and haunting this country.

Wikileaks which was turning out to be an embarrassment for the American government reached the Indian shores with the news that the Yuvraaj Rahul Gandhi thinks that Militant Hindu Nationalism is a bigger threat to India than the terrorism being perpetrated by militant outfits like LeT.

Do I agree?

Well, Yuvraaj ji, though I hate Dynastic politics and hence I am no big fan of yours, still I agree with this statement of yours because I tend to think objectively.

First of all, Rahul never said that Islamic Terrorism is not a threat to India. In absolute terms it definitely is and one should note that during the above mentioned candid admission of Rahul to the US Ambassador, he had also admitted that there is evidence of some support for LeT among certain elements in India's indigenous Muslim community too. Maybe, this statement lost its importance in the entire furor created by the other big statement.

According to Rahul, it is on relative terms that Militant Hindu Nationalism becomes a larger threat to India. But then one will argue, can we quantify the threat while talking about terrorism, whichever hue or colour it might be having, here ofcourse green versus saffron.

Definitely, you can’t. Terrorism in any form is equally threatening. So why do I say Rahul is right?

It’s important to look at the overall consequences of the actions perpetrated by Militant Hindu Nationalists and the situation arising from such violent polarization of the society. It is this situation that poses a bigger threat and that’s what Rahul meant when he spoke those words.

How am I so sure if this is what he meant?

Well, because I hold the same views and hence, somehow I can gauge the sentiments behind the statement.

Opposition keeps accusing Congress of indulging in Muslim appeasement. However, the fact remains that appeasement never leads to actual upliftment of the community being appeased. Hence, the situation of Muslim community remains as abysmal as it was. Findings of Sachar Committee Report substantiate this fact.

Ofcourse, the community feels cheated by both the sides, those who allegedly appease and those who accuse them of doing that. In such a scenario, certain sections within the community are definitely going astray. However, to catch hold of these sections is not that difficult for the simple reason that they are a minority within a minority and those responsible for catching them largely come from the majority community.

Then why they don’t get caught is a different story linked to the so called minority appeasement by those in power. Anyway, without going off topic, I must tell you why I brought this up.

Now think of the terrorist activities being committed by those who comprise a minority within the majority, i.e., Militant Hindu Nationalists. Here sympathies of those responsible to catch them might hinder them from doing their duty. I am by no means questioning the honest police officials but then there are black sheep in their ranks and frankly, many of them as we all know.

What happened in Gujarat is known to all. You may keep on prolonging the investigations but the horrendous stories that came out couldn’t be someone’s figment of imagination.

Hence automatically, militant activities being committed by those sections which come from the majority community become bigger threat.

The polarization it creates is even bigger as now the minority community tends to feel even more insecure and hence, those from amongst them supporting groups from across the border increase in proportion.

The situation can only worsen from here.

It is this situation being created by the Militant Hindu Nationalism that is posing the biggest threat to India. The terrorism from across the border can be tackled by the mere patriotic conscience against it but that being bred in the name of religion within the country by the majority community may go out of hand.

So to sum it up, Militant Hindu Nationalism is a bigger threat to India’s integrity than the Islamic Terrorism being perpetrated from across the border. Period.

Off the Topic Reflection:

In a class some days ago, I was discussing similar issues with the students. There was one student who kept negating my stand on little being done for Muslim community and threat from Militant Hindu Nationalism. To some extent it was irksome but overall he was a very intelligent and responsive student. While taking the attendance, I realised he was a Muslim.

Before leaving the class, one student asked me that what is the biggest example of secularism in India?

Though, I just replied that it is the fundamental right to freedom; I actually wanted to say, see how I, a Hindu is accusing the successive governments of doing little for the Muslim community and talking about threat from Militant Hindu Nationalism and this student, a Muslim is constantly negating me.

Militant Hindu Nationalism is the biggest threat to this very secular fabric of my nation.

In the Image:

A news report about Malegaon Blasts (2008). The investigations led to the unmasking of the ugly Militant Hindu Nationalism.

Image Courtesy:

www.dnaindia.com (original)

एक टूटे दिल की शायरी सीधा दिल से!

2010-11-29T03:04:00.004+05:30

Well friends, here comes a lame post just to keep this dying blog alive. For those who have no clue what this title (which happens to be in Hindi) translates to, here's what it means - "Poetry of a broken heart straight from the heart". Don't get emotional now!

A couple of these were actually written with a broken heart about four years ago for my ladylove on whom my Cupid Tales were based which were published on this blog earlier this year.

Please read them the way shayari is recited/read. So, here comes the first -

Arz kia hai...

सोचा ना था वो हमें यूँ भूल जायेंगे

इक छोटी सी खता की हम ऐसी सज़ा पायेंगे

क्या करें हमें तो भूलना भी नहीं आता

तुम्हारे लफ्ज़ सुने बिना अब रहा नहीं जाता

तुम ना हो तो तुम्हारी तस्वीर से बातें कर लिया करते थे

पर अब तो तुम्हारा अक्स भी हमसे रुसवा रहता है!

Ok, enough of wah wah. Save them for the remaining ones. So, here comes the second. I know the starting is pretty similar.

Once again arz kia hai..

सोचा था कभी तो पलट कर देखो गे इस ओर,

पर तुम तो नाता ही तोड़ कर चल दिए;

कच्चे धागे थे जो टूट गए, समझाता हूँ अक्सर मैं खुद को,

पर ये कम्बख्त दिल है कि मानता नहीं!

Can't stop from doing wah wah myself for this one. Well finally, here is another heart broken piece but just from the perspective of a heartbroken poet composed much later than the above two.

For the last time arz kia hai..

शायर ना कहो मुझे, मुझे शायरी नहीं आती,

कुछ लफ्ज़ जोड़ लेता हूँ बस, इनकी अदाएगी नहीं आती!

ज़िंदा ना कहो मुझे, मुझे ज़िन्दगी नहीं आती,

सांसें भर लेता हूँ बस, इनकी रवानगी नहीं आती!

बन्दा ना कहो मुझे, मुझे बन्दगी नहीं आती,

आंसू बहा सकता हूँ बस, मुझे शहादतें नहीं आती!

फिर भी जी रहा हूँ मैं, क्यूँ मौत नहीं आती,

क्या मकसद है ज़िन्दगी का, बात समझ नहीं आती!

In case you do not understand Hindi (though many words are from Urdu too), I am sorry that I can't translate it into English. Maybe it was your lucky day.You can steer clear from this torture.

Ok.. That's it. Now do leave some comments but please, please, please; I don't want any condolences as its a thing of past and the last one is not even straight from the heart but from the brain.

Image Courtesy:

http://imageshack.us (original)

Mystery of the Deserted Station

2010-10-02T00:00:00.005+05:30

This post garnered third most number of votes from amongst the 54 entries for Blog-a-Ton 15 and won me the Bronze Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka BRONZE BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

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

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon as Vikrant deboarded the Uttar-Dakshin Express. Despite the one day long journey, there wasn’t a trace of laziness in his stride as he marched towards the exit. He was beaming from within with an odd mix of anxiousness for what awaited in his new assignment.

One could easily make out from his demeanour that this was a man of strong will and he had established himself as one, fighting the hardened criminals in his last posting as an Assistant Superintendent of Police.

Lalitgarh was a new place and he had a new position to take over. He was joining its police department as Superintendent of Police, having climbed the rung much faster than others.

He had just moved some paces when he got thronged by a dozen men with garlands in their hands. It took him about half an hour to get through the sycophants and their hollow pleasantries before he could move to the awaiting car.

As the car moved towards the officer’s guest house, Vikrant was surprised to see the railway station, he had seen just a few kilometres before his journey to Lalitgarh had ended. When he had seen it just about an hour ago, he was amazed by the beautiful architecture. It was reminiscent of the British era, something that he had only seen in the cities of Mumbai and Kolkatta.

“How come we have such a beautiful station in this remote district?” he asked his subordinate.

“Sir, this is Herbert Station. It was commissioned by the Nawab in the early 20th century and designed by the British architect Sir Herbert Manning,” he replied.

“Well, that is interesting. But then how come it is deserted and I had to deboard at that shanty of a station in the outskirts of the city instead of here?”

At that instance, the driver chipped in nervously, “Sirji, there is a long story behind it. Let us pass through this area. I’ll share it with you later.”

Vikrant had been in the district for a week when he decided to make a surprise visit to some distilleries in the outskirts of the city. It was then that he saw the Herbert Station again and all of a sudden all those unanswered questions sprung up again.

“Listen Raju, you never told me the story behind this deserted station,” he asked his driver.

“Sirji, its inauspicious to tell such a tale at the very place where it all has happened,” replied the driver, again trying to steer clear of the issue.

However, Vikrant wouldn’t take a no for an answer and asked again with a hint of anger in his tone.

Raju had to relent but only when they had driven past the station.

“Sirji, as DSP sahib told you that day, this station was designed by a British. He was paid heavily by the Nawab and hence, he took great care in its construction too. On the ill-fated day of the inauguration, among the entire hullabaloo, the man of the day, Sir Herbert slipped from the platform. He fell on the tracks, his head hitting hard on the steel frame. Despite the best possible medical attention of the time, he lost his eye sight due to this incident.”

“Oh, that is sad. So, this station never got inaugurated. Such a waste,” commented Vikrant empathically.

“No, sirji. That’s not the issue. The Railway Station was fully functional after that day. However, after this mishap, Sir Herbert became very reclusive. He never went back to Britain. On his request, Nawab arranged for his stay at a luxurious cottage near the station itself. One day, his caretaker, found him dead at his cottage. He had consumed some poisonous herbs. It was a suicide or yet another misfortune, no one could tell. He is buried just next to that cottage behind the railway station.”

“Ah, so that’s when this railway station was abandoned. I don’t think such a great artist would have wanted his creation to be deserted like this.”

“Sirji, even that’s not an issue. In fact, it was after this incident that the station got its name in memory of that man. No one even knew about this story until about ten years back. It was then that the first incident occurred.”

“What incident?” blurted Vikrant in a jiffy.

“It was a morning after the full moon. Just a day before that, the proposal for the renovation of the station was passed by the administration. It was then, that the Station Master’s body was found on the platform. His eyes had been gouged out mercilessly. The autopsy showed that he died of poisoning. Many investigations were carried out but no trace to the perpetrator could be found.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. What happened then?” he coaxed, fully engrossed in the story.

“Before the people could forget this incident, another body was found in the same condition. It was then that people started talking about paranormal explanation behind these happenings. The local newspaper came out with an article about Sir Herbert and gradually, a link was established between his misfortune and these deaths.”

“So, you mean to say, it is the angry ghost of Sir Herbert that is doing all this. What nonsense?”

“Sirji, there can’t be any other explanation. Till now about a dozen people have died; their desecrated bodies found on the platform by the drivers of the passing trains. People have heard noises, they claim they have seen things. After another couple of incidents, even the station was abandoned and the new make-shift station was built.”

“What about the investigations. Couldn’t they find even a single clue in all these years?”

“Sirji, one of the victim was an investigating CID official himself. There are things for which there can be no practical answer, you see. You may not believe in these things sirji, but remember, there is a big vacant space beyond our individual beliefs. Who or what resides in that void, no one can tell.”

Vikrant was pretty uneasy that evening. He had taken the customary shower and a drink upon returning from work. Usually, he just watched some news and waited for the dinner to be served. However, today he decided to go out for a jog. Maybe, a little fresh air will lighten me up, he thought. He decided not to go too far, the sky being cloudy; but lost in his own thoughts and jogging to the tune of the cool breeze, he didn’t realise how far he had jogged to.

It was then, that he saw that railway station again. It was across the fields with thick vegetation growing all around it. However, despite the dimming light, it looked magnificent. Someone else would have called it haunted, but at that moment he was just mesmerised by it.

It reminded him of his visits to his paternal village. There used to be a beautiful mansion there which was rumoured to be haunted. He always loved walking by it in the evenings while his cousins steered clear. It was only as he grew up, he realised, the mansion belonged to a rich influential family which now resided in the city and all the stories were just cooked up by the elders to keep the children away from it.

Suddenly, he had an urge to take a closer look. Aided by the full moon’s light, filtered and scattered through the clouds, he moved towards the station.

When, he had heard the story about Herbert’s ghost in the morning, he had been amused. If I meet this guy, I’ll surely compliment him for this beautiful architecture, he chuckled.

Upon reaching the station, he crossed the railway tracks and climbed onto the platform. He started walking on the platform enjoying the cool breeze and singing some old melodious song. It brought back the memories of his minor halt at another station while going on a trip with his college friends. They ended up making the life of other waiting passengers, a hell by playing antakshari whole through the night till the connecting train finally arrived around dawn.

Vikrant decided to enter the central hall which led to the main entrance and the exit. However, upon taking a glance, he realised there was no point exploring it as it was too dark inside. So he decided to go around by climbing a small wall which extended for some yards beyond the main structure.

Just as he jumped onto the other side, he could see a cottage on his far right. One could easily sense on seeing the courtyard that it had not been mowed since years. He got all the more excited on seeing a grave just next to the cottage. Though apprehensive at first due to the fear of any snake or scorpions, he decided to go and have a closer look.

Vikrant had always been adventurous. It was this love for adventure that made him opt for IPS instead of IAS despite the grander status associated with the latter. He couldn’t see himself stuck with the files in an air-conditioned office. He always wanted to have a slice of the real action.

Just as he reached closer, he heard some ruffled noises. It made him freeze in his tracks. Upon concentrating, he realised they were coming from the wall behind the cottage. He moved towards it cautiously trying to find a spot from where he could see through.

Finally, he found a crevice in the wall and peeped through. It was pretty dark and he found nothing suspicious. It must have been some animal, he thought. Just as he was about to turn back, his eye caught something odd. For a moment, he didn’t realise what was happening. However, it just took some seconds to realise what lay in front of him across the bricked wall.

He stood there stunned. A drop of sweat slipped down his forehead as he reached for his revolver that was tucked in the holster below his tee. Usually, he never carried it during his morning exercises but it being evening, he had decided to keep it handy. However, standing there, he wasn’t even sure if he was relieved to have it.

There was obviously something sinister about this place. How else would one explain such stories, he thought. How could he be so naive? All this police training and on the job action and this is what I get stuck into, he cursed himself. Adventure was one thing but acting like a jerk, a different. He knew he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He had to make his move quickly and quietly. He couldn’t just keep standing there. It was too dangerous.

He loosened his grip on the revolver and turned back. Concentrating hard on his track in the dark, he moved back slowly through the courtyard towards the wall. He was relieved that the overgrowth was cushioning any noise that his footsteps were making.

Despite the soup he got himself into, he humoured himself with the instance when he had walked unannounced into his elder brother’s bedroom while he was busy watching porn in the dark. He had tip-toed across the room to pick up his comics and moved back so stealthily that his brother didn’t have a chance to realise his presence.

Tip-toeing through the courtyard, Vikrant finally reached back to the wall adjoining the platform. Just as he tried to climb it, his foot gave away its grip and he fell down hard on his back.

Despite the heavy rains that had drenched Lalitgarh over the night, there was a lot of hustle and bustle around. For those who were surprised to see a sudden rush of police jeeps and other vehicles, the picture got clear as the evening newspaper reached their doorsteps.

It carried the following headlines.

Herbert Ghost strikes again - Body of new SP found with eyes missing.

The people were terrified upon looking at the picture that accompanied it. It took another month or two for normalcy to return to Lalitgarh. Investigations were held but as usual nothing suspicious was found. Meanwhile, the local community got a new tale to add to the existing tales of the haunted station. Vikrant, the illustrious police officer got reduced to a vignette in these never ending tales.

And yet again, the mystery of the deserted station remained a mystery.

***

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

Goodbye

2010-08-07T00:00:00.010+05:30

This post garnered second most number of votes from amongst the 75 entries for Blog-a-Ton 13 and won me the Silver Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka SILVER BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 13; the thirteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

As he entered the Hyderabad station, he could hear the whistling engine. Realizing that he is losing the time, he started running towards the platform as the train chugged along. Wasting no time, he hopped onto the first wagon within reach, hurting his left forearm which was already bandaged.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he greeted the men sitting in the first compartment as he searched for a vacant seat.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” replied three of them in a chorus.

One of them, a jovial looking person, made space for him on the rugged bench.

“Hello, I am Iqbal. That wound seems pretty nasty, brother,” he said looking at his bandaged forearm.

“A blow during a riot,” he replied with lack of emotions in his eyes.

“If you are the one with just a minor injury, then I believe that kafir must have gone down after inflicting it upon you,” interjected another fellow passenger with a flowing beard.

“You bet,” he replied, smiling with an evident sense of pride.

“I don’t think there is any need to smile about this senseless violence,” commented Iqbal in a serious tone, unlike his general disposition.

“I believe, you were lucky, not to be stuck in any riot then,” said the bearded passenger condescendingly.

“I lost my brother to it,” came back Iqbal’s matter-of-factly reply.

There was silence for some time before the bearded passenger spoke up once again.

“My name is Raza Khan. What’s your name brother?” he inquired the new co-traveller.

“I am Shah Mohammad from Multan,” he replied.

“Well, I’ve heard there has been considerable rioting up north in Punjab,” said Iqbal inquisitively.

“Yes, you have heard it right. As it is, there is little love lost between Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims due to the trust deficit created by all the political activities in the recent past.

“Moreover, the partition has been pretty haphazard, Amritsar and Lahore being the bone of contention. All this has led to a lot of inter-communal violence on both sides of the border,” affirmed Shah.

“Sindh has been pretty peaceful, unlike Punjab. I see no reason why can’t the existing populations keep staying where they are,” said Iqbal empathically.

“What are you saying? Pakistan is the land of Islam. How can kafirs stay here?

"As it is, there is such an influx of our Muslim brethren from across the border. Where will they stay if we do not kick out these dogs from here?” answered Khan indignantly.

“He’s right,” said another co-passenger as others also nodded along.

Shah wiped off his brow and adjusted his bandage, evidently still in pain due to the wound.

Seeing the odds against himself, Iqbal preferred to keep to himself while others started discussing the horrific tales of massacres and violence. Suddenly, the hustle and bustle was interrupted as the wagon jerked and the train slowed down near an approaching station.

“We all are the sons of the same God. This is His Land and we all have equal right upon it and its resources. May Allah’s mercy be upon you,” said Iqbal, picking up his luggage to deboard the train.

“Ah! Thank goodness that weak hearted dog has left this train. If he had stayed anymore, I would have definitely thrown him out of it,” said Khan with raised brow and quivering moustache, as the engine whistled again.

“Indeed,” replied Shah in acknowledgement.

“So what takes you to Karachi?” asked Khan.

“Well, I work for a merchant. I am going to Karachi in relation to some consignment that is reaching the docks tomorrow,” replied Shah after a brief pause.

“So, you were part of a riot, haan” commented Khan.

“Yes. As you have already noticed, this wound speaks for itself,” replied Shah matter-of-factly.

“How many dogs did you slay?” asked Khan continuing with his volley of questions.

“Well, a couple of them,” replied Shah, keeping Khan in good humour.

“You know why am I going to Karachi?” Khan said, wanting Shah to show some inquisitiveness.

Shah just shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, my brother worked for the government in Delhi. Upon hearing the news of partition, I sent him a telegram cajoling him to return to Hyderabad as soon as possible.

“As he was a government official, he thought unlike other fleeing Muslim brothers, he could take his time in disposing off his property and gathering some resources before he leaves India.

“By the time he left for Lahore, violence had reached its peak in Punjab. His train was attacked by the Sikh guerrillas near the Ludhiana station. Despite the Indian army that was accompanying them, he didn’t survive. I am so sure that the army must have conspired with the guerrillas too.

“What was his fault? He was just peacefully leaving their land and returning to Pakistan. Now, it comes upon me to avenge his death.

“They killed my innocent brother. And you know, now I’ll be killing their fleeing brothers,” concluded Khan, evidently seething within.

“Inshallah,” said a couple of co-passengers.

“Anyone of you wants to join me in this service of God,” asked Khan looking one by one at all the five men sitting in his compartment.

No one seemed to be forthcoming. Sharing tales of violence and condoning such heinous acts was one thing but being a part of it, a totally different thing.

“See, I have planned everything. As such there is little scope for violence in the city due to heavy security.

“My cousin works at the port who’ll let me through to the ship bound for Bombay. Once it drifts away, I’ll attack the unarmed passengers and before anyone can raise an alarm, I’ll jump overboard and swim back to the shore.

“With no witnesses to vouch for it, I’ll be a free man; free from the fire burning within me and free from any potential accusation,” Khan tried to convince others, pulling out a long dagger from his bag.

The co-passengers were taken aback and conveyed their unwillingness in hushed tones.

However, after contemplating for some time, Shah replied, “I am with you my brother. It looks well planned and it also gives me an opportunity to do some good.”

Once the train reached the Karachi railway station, both Shah and Khan proceeded to the port. The city seemed pretty crowded due to the migrating population. Khan kept close to Shah to ensure that his just acquired accomplice doesn’t have any second thoughts.

“We are well in time; ship leaves in just half an hour,” exclaimed Shah on seeing the schedule hung on the rope at the ports entry.

“Just see these dogs boarding the ship. They think, they’ll just move away like this. They don’t even know what is going to strike them,” snickered Khan.

“Brother, I’ll need a dagger too. You arrange for our mini-voyage and I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes,” said Shah.

“Don’t you worry about that. You hold this,” replied Khan pulling out a sharp knife from it’s holster tucked in his salwar.

Shah put it in his satchel and soon the two of them boarded the ship, waiting with bated breaths for their final assault.

As the ship hit the Arabian Sea, Shah along with Khan slowly moved to the deck. By now the ship had drifted about a mile from the shore on its way to the Bombay harbour. A crowd was gathered on the deck, emotionally waving goodbye to their homeland.

‘Now is the time’, Shah thought leading Khan to a secluded bulwark on an otherwise crowded deck.

Suddenly there was a subdued yell followed by a loud splashing noise. Half a dozen alarmed bystanders turned their heads to see Shah standing there alone against the rail, catching his breath.

“What happened?” asked one of them.

Shah quickly lifted up the sharp dagger lying at his feet and with one quick manoeuvre, ripped open his bandage, before throwing the dagger overboard.

“What’s going on?” said another curious onlooker before seeing Shah's scratchless forearm where there had been a bandage just moments ago.

“And what kind of wound did you have? It seems to have completely healed or should I say vanished,” he added ponderously.

Tilting his forearm, Shah grinned at his own ingenuity.

The baffled bystander looked at the name tattoo on his left forearm before giving a puzzled smile to the smiling Shah Mohammad.

‘Sham Mohan’, it read.

***

Image Courtesy:
http://www.pbs.org (original)

Explanation
I know the twists in my stories can be tricky at times. So explaining the plot. Sham Mohan is a Hindu fleeing Pakistan during the partition. In those days, many people usually tattooed their names on their forearms. If caught, Sham could be killed by people like Khan. So he applied a bandage to conceal his identity. This part of the story is based on my grandfather's escape from Pakistan.

P.S.

This work of fiction has been adapted from a 66-Fiction, I wrote last year - The Journey of His Lifetime.
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Wish

2010-07-09T23:22:00.007+05:30

	This post was voted as the best from amongst the 70 entries for Blog-a-Ton 12 and won me the Gold Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka GOLD BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.
	This post got selected for BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Picks. Click here to see the BlogAdda page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 12; the twelfth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

“Oye Vijay bhai, Come fast. She’ll be in the verandah anytime now.”

Saying this customary line and banging my door hard, Arun, my neighbouring roomie rushed up through the staircase to join the other guys. As always, I rubbed my eyes, took a big yawn, got up slightly, scratched my pot belly, shedding some body hair in the process and suddenly realizing what the ruckus was all about, sprung up instantaneously. Ignoring the fact that I was in my underwear and was all sweaty due to the Delhi heat, which made sleeping at nights, a hellish experience; I too ran up to join all my fellow P.G.’s.

“Hey, you hirsute, how many times we’ve told you to cover yourself before you come,” yelled Abhinav as I barged into the roof.

“Shut up. I don’t have to mind myself in front of a bunch of gays,” I retorted, pushing him aside to take a strategic position along the railing.

“Weren’t you supposed to get a pair of binoculars from home,” I impulsively asked Rajesh who had just returned from Hyderabad.

“Yeah yeah, Narendra is repairing it and getting it in a while. Don’t get on my nerves,” snapped Rajesh, focusing his eyes towards her terrace in absence of the binoculars.

This was our daily routine, the first thing we did every morning. We, the future of India, the enlightened ones who had taken upon themselves to pull the jittery administrative system of the nation, we the aspiring civil servants, but in short, just a bunch of wannabes.

She used to come to her terrace every morning to do some yoga and aerobics. Her bungalow was a couple of lanes across. However, as both the places where we stayed were the tallest amongst the neighboring ones, we had an eagle’s eye view from our roof.

We all had gathered in the national capital from different parts of the country, some came from the plush plains of Punjab and others from the arid deserts of Rajasthan, some from the coconut coasts of Kerala and others from the mineral rich inlands of Chhattisgarh, some from the sugarcane fields of Maharashtra and others from the spicy land of Andhra Pradesh, all with the same dream in their eyes, to pursue the common ambition of joining the guild of extraordinary not-so-gentlemen.

In an otherwise hectic routine, bird watching was a great respite and since a couple of weeks, we had laid our eyes on this beautiful bird. Frankly, from this distance, it wasn’t easy to recognize her but her milky white complexion and petite physique could not be missed in the small and tight outfits she wore.

For a person like me who fell in love on every snap of the fingers, it took no time to fall in this pit once again. Yes, I loved her. In case you want to correct me and tell me sympathetically that ‘my boy, it was just lust’; let me assure you, in that case according to me, the hormonal attraction between the male and the female can be nothing but lust and the karmic connection of the hearts and the souls is all crap.

While not studying, I used to spend all the time just thinking about her. Her image that kept coming back and made me yearn for her was the one when on an evening, I had seen her grabbing some stuff from the terrace as it had started raining. It was pretty windy too and she struggled as her skirt fluttered, exposing much for a nerd like me to go out-of-control.

I wanted her badly. How I wished to clear my examination soon and barge into her house and ask her to marry me. I know, you must be thinking what a maniac I am. You must also be concerned at the sorry state of affairs that people like me can end up running the country. Well, don’t think that much. Even I knew that I am just fantasizing. But somehow deep within, I wanted at least some fantasies of mine to come true. After all, there was no harm in wishful thinking.

Many such days passed adoring her and the nights, beating the heat in her memories. With no access to television or internet, I had nothing better to do. Finally, the inevitable happened. Our preparatory course got over. Some of us decided to stay back while some like me had already planned to move back to our respective cities to prepare further. So with a heavy heart, for one final time, I woke up early to capture her in my eyes for eternity. The same afternoon, I took a bus destined for my city, Chandigarh.

Once back, I was engulfed in serious studies and by sheer hardwork, after just a couple of attempts, I cleared the examinations. I ranked decent enough to make it to the elitist services of the all – The Indian Administrative Services.

Suddenly there was a sea-change in the attitude of people around us. For some time, it was difficult to adapt to the change but soon, I started getting used to it.

As I shifted to Mussoorie for my training, my mother started hunting for brides. Already, I had crossed the average age at which most of my cousins had settled down. However, I was in no hurry.

As time progressed, we started receiving proposals for matrimonial alliance from unknown nooks and corners. The marriage market in India works on the simple economic principle of demand and supply. As the supply of the rare breed like me was low, the demand tended to be pretty high.

I had heard of a man who had topped civil services some years ago and went on to marry the then Union Finance Minister's grand daughter. In doing so he had dumped his girl friend who had been with him since college days, living with him in Delhi whole throughout his preparation and caring for him like a dedicated wife.

When I had heard this story from one of my fellow trainee at LBSNAA in Mussoorie, I had cursed that man. However, today I had started finding some logic in what he had done. Power corrupts, they say and it had definitely started corrupting me. Within two years, I had rejected 25 girls, that is on average more than one every month. Add to it, dozens of proposals that had been rejected at the first filtration level itself, which is by my mother, father or sister.

If not for my newly acquired elite status, these girls would have just spitted on my face on the mere prospect of spending an hour with me and their rich fathers would have hanged me in full public view on hearing about such preposterous proposal. But today, I was the one who was rejecting them and I surely liked it.

Every time I went to see a girl in some lavish 5-star hotel or a sprawling mansion, I could hear a song playing in the background – 'I've got the power'. The parameters on which I evaluated them weren’t their beauty or intelligence but the status of their fathers and their ability to pull the strings at the centre to help me in my deputations, transfers and promotions.

Initially, I had wondered how these groom hunting scavengers came to know about me, till Arun had made an unbelievable revelation.

“Don’t you remember, after your training got over at Mussoorie, all of you were given an information booklet containing your contact details?” he asked me.

“Yeah, so what?” I had answered, puzzled by the odd question.

“So my dear friend, you don’t know that while you guys were just around 100 or so, the booklets printed were nearly 5000. Now don’t ask me where the spare copies go,” he had revealed as I saw a halo appearing around his small head.

This was a rumor or a fact, I didn’t know but it definitely had some logic to it.

Arun, who got through the civil services in the very first attempt had joined the bride hunting game a year earlier than me. Given his modest upbringing and ordinary looks, any girl would have been a prize catch for him. But now with the IRS tag, his demand had gone up by leagues.

"Are you a virgin," he had asked one girl, daughter of a wealthy businessman.

"Yaar, she was just too unbelievingly hot, that I had to confirm," he had later told me embarrassingly.

"Are you?" was what the girl had replied with a mischievous smile on her face.

Poor Arun was neatly trapped by this question. Both the answers would have embarrassed him in front of her; a yes meant he was a big looser, which he definitely was, and a no meant, he was a big hypocrite, which again he was to some extent.

They ended up marrying and upon returning from the honeymoon, Arun proudly declared to me that she was teaching him all the moves.

It was a pleasant Delhi morning, a rare weather in the capital, when my mother declared that we have to go for yet another rendezvous with some prospective in-laws for me.

As most of the times, I enquired nothing about the girl but just her father. Though his credentials didn't sound so great, there was no harm in having a lavish lunch at his expense.

"Arre, this place must be pretty close to where you stayed while your preparation," my father exclaimed as we approached the area.

"Chalo, it's nice. I might give a courtesy call to Colonel Uncle," I said referring to the person at whose place I used to stay as a PG.

"It seems pretty close," my mother said as we passed the lane leading to Colonel Uncle's bungalow.

We took the next to next right and soon the driver honked in front of a massive gate.

"We've reached sahib," said the driver as I for a moment went blank.

As the gates to the mansion opened, I could just stare in amazement. For four months, I had loitered in front of these gates hoping to take a view inside. Finally, they were being opened for me, the gates to the abode where my dream girl resided.

I couldn't believe what was happening. The atheist in me suddenly seemed crumbling and I gave a sigh, 'Oh, Lord!'

We were welcomed by a horde of servants who led us to the door where the owner of the mansion was waiting for us.

“Hello, Mr. Arora. Welcome to my humble cottage,” he said extending his hands to greet my father, choosing that stale line from innumerable Bollywood movies but without any trace of humility to be found in it.

Soon we were seated in the drawing room which was big enough to accommodate my whole house back in Chandigarh.

I waited impatiently for what was next in store for me.

As I picked a glass of water, I heard a clatter of high heels and turned to my left to see a woman approaching through the lobby. I wore my spectacles to see clearly and was amazed at what I saw.

It was her, my dream girl approaching me with a huge smile on her face. I was seeing her after five long years and she definitely looked a little elder than what I had imagined her to be. Afterall, the distance between our homes had never allowed me to see her clearly and considerable time had elapsed in between.

However, she was undoubtedly angelic, someone from out of this world. Her long hair were left loose and I could smell their fragrance, sitting many yards away. Her body was toned just the way it used to be though she wore a little too much than what I was used to see her in.

“Here comes my dear wife,” announced my prospective father-in-law.

Suddenly, I felt floor slipping under my feet. I just could not imagine what I just heard. However, coming out of my dream and thinking logically, it all made sense. She by no means looked like a prospective bride.

I just kept staring at her as she came and greeted us and sat just across to me.

Soon, their daughter too joined us and my parents started talking to her, asking her about her likes and dislikes and everything possible under the sky.

“She is just 19 right. Isn’t she a little too young?” my mother asked my dream girl.

“Well, Mrs. Arora, when I got married, I was just 17. It’s a common thing in our families. The younger the bride, it’s easier for her to adapt to the new environment. Otherwise, my daughter has been good at studies. She’ll be completing her B.A. this year,” she replied with a charming smile on her face.

We sat there for about couple of hours, had lunch and had some discussions with her husband, the guy whom I envied the most today. Mere sitting in front of her was making me go crazy. I felt that same urge, I used to feel back in those days. Today sitting so close, I felt, as if I could just see her through. I could feel butterflies in my stomach on this very imagination. I wished everyone else just disappeared leaving two of us alone in this trance.

All this while, I was just lost in my own thoughts. I preferred not to have any tete-a-tete with the young girl who was also sitting there somehow uninterested, preparing herself to be slaughtered in this impersonal pact between a businessman and an administrative official.

Soon it was the time to leave and after exchanging some pleasantries, we were on our way back.

“So Beta, did you like the girl,” asked my father expectantly.

“Don’t you think she looks a bit too young for him,” commented my mother still not fully convinced.

“Maybe, I am a bit young for her,” I murmured, lost in my own thoughts.

“What?” asked my mother puzzled.

“Nothing. I mean yes, I liked the girl. I want her to be my bride,” I replied, deep inside wishing for an unthinkable as my parents gave a final sigh of relief.

***

Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction based on some ugly truths of our society. However, I have used the names of all the good friends I had made in New Delhi when I stayed there for half a year, preparing for civil services.

Off-the-topic Reflections
I got the idea for writing this short story while travelling back from New Delhi after attending the Blog-a-Ton Anniversary Celebrations Meet. As I could not dilute the idea, I decided to write the story before doing any other writing. Because of it, I missed writing about the Meet on my blog. I'll take this opportunity to thank Richa for making all the arrangements for the meet in such an organised manner. I must also thank Geetanjali and Himanshu for the roles they played in organising the event. And not to forget all the fellow bloggers who attended the meet; thanks a lot.
While we were enjoying in Delhi, Rashi and Siddhesh organised the meets in Mumbai and Pune. I must thank both of them and all those who attended the meet for making this day so special for me and all the blog-a-tonics. I must also mention and thank Venky who did an update on Pune Meet.
Long Live BAT!!!

Image Courtesy:
http://media.photobucket.com (original)

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A Little Bit Of This And A Little Bit Of That

2010-05-13T18:05:00.001+05:30

Today, driving back home a while back, I was immersed in my thoughts as usual. It’s wonderful, how the brain itself compartmentalises our different actions and as long as we do not delve into any particular one beyond a certain safe level, each action gets performed smoothly. So while a part of my brain was busy processing my thoughts, whatever those were, the other part was safely manoeuvring me towards my abode after yet another day at work.

It was at a roundabout, as I took my first turn in otherwise a straight road till now, that my thoughts broke for the first time. I looked at a young man in his late adolescence trying to make his way through the traffic on his bicycle. On the other side of the road,there was an auto-rickshaw carrying two passengers, a middle-aged woman wearing the typical bright Punjabi attire along with a child in red shorts. Nearby, on the pavement, an old man holding onto his stick was negotiating with a fruit seller. I saw all these people in just one glimpse as I drove further. But somehow, their images kept lingering on.

Suddenly, I had this urge to come out of my previous thoughts which anyway I was not able to recollect, and look at the people as I drove past them. They all were different, yet all were same. I would never recognise anyone of them if I were to drive past them just after an hour. The auto-rickshaw driver was just another migrant from Bihar or Uttar Pradesh with those same features which make them all look just the same. That middle-aged lady with her hair tied back into a long braid was just like any other woman of her age and similar taste or should I say, bad taste in fashion.

And then it struck to me, for all of those people, even I am just one of the millions of people that they drive, ride or walk past in their lives. We all have our own focal points, emanating from our self to our parents, siblings, spouses, children and moving beyond, encircling our friends and relatives and so on. Majority of these just brush past each other but some get intertwined and we get a new acquaintance. As time passes, many of them fade away while some remain intertwined for eternity.

My brain was not content with just processing this inevitability and it sprung up a new question. What must they be thinking right now?

As I saw a young charming woman ride past on a kinetic, I skipped a beat for a moment as happens to me every time like any normal human being. But then I moved to the same abnormal question trying to contemplate what all thoughts must be going through her mind right now. Was she thinking about the fight she had with her best friend or was she thinking about the excuse to make to her parents for going on a movie with her boyfriend.

How I wished, I was that guy.

But again pulling back myself from these fantasies, I saw around, a microcosm of humanity, all moving here and there with their own purposes and their own convictions.

I am just one of them, nothing great about me, I thought.

And this is the thought which sends a shiver down my spine. This is the one thought which has been recurring over and over again from past few weeks and this is the one thought that Kate Winslet puts succinctly in the movie Revolutionary Road when she says to her husband, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, “Look at us. We're just like everyone else. We've bought into the same, ridiculous delusion.”

This thought has become more profound since I’ve started working. Till now, somehow I was protected from these thoughts as a student. But entering the real world, I realised, there are so many like me who think, somehow they are special. As Kate puts it, “Our whole existence here is based on this great premise that we're special. That we're superior to the whole thing. But we're not.” Yes, we are not.

We are all different, yet we are all same.

The sooner you realise it, the better it is for you. However, I wanted to escape from this thought as soon as possible. So, my brain automatically sprung up another thought.

Just like I am philosophising about everything, was that young lad on his bicycle, also pondering over it. Moreover, what about that old man? How many times in his life, he must have thought about this. Or did he ever care?

We’ve got such a wonderful thing known as the brain. It is not just a storehouse of such large information but also helps in processing it as and when required. But how many of us actually use it beyond the desired motions of everyday life. I believe everyone does. It’s just that the proportion of these different usages differ. While, I am using it to philosophise right now, someone else in another corner of the world will be busy fantasising and day-dreaming. The latter is definitely a great escape from the blunt questions of life, I thought; as I again got immersed in the thoughts of that charming girl and gradually shifted to Kate Winslet's steamy scenes in The Reader or was I imagining that girl in place of Kate!

As all this was going through my mind, my car suddenly halted and I realised I was looking at the gate of my house. My brain had once again directed me well, bringing me home safely while I was busy contemplating a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

Image Courtesy:

http://www.cumberland.lib.nc.us

Escape - 2

2010-05-01T15:02:00.000+05:30

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

Sometimes in the duel of love, Heart gets overwhelmed by the Brain
It’s high time, it says, to move on; than wasting your time in vain
Better things are there in future; just don’t keep spoiling your chances
To keep intact a rotten tree; which has even shed its branches
Forget those smiles and the meanings, you used to make out of them
Someone never cared enough, you were alone steering that helm
Than sitting here and expecting that one last miracle will take place
To a new life, to a new dawn, you must get up and set your pace
Miss this one chance and you’ll end up sulking, over and over again
That gift of life that you possess, in this sorrow will just drain
Person to person it depends, how they get over this emotional fight
All one needs to do is, forget the past and set priorities right
The time has finally come to put to an end this Heart and Brain's strife
Time to ESCAPE from vortex of emotions to a new blissful life

As I escaped from becoming a Fool last time, I decided to compensate for it by Escaping twice this time. So here is my second entry for Blog-a-Ton 10. This is another ACROSTIC from my stable after my recent attempt, Religion. Though, this poem is pretty amateurish but was pretty difficult to write as here, rather than the first letter, the first words of each line form a message. So do not miss the message in red which is how I define Escape in this post. To know more about Acrostic and read my previous attempt, click here.
And yeah, if you haven't read my first entry for Blog-a-Ton 10 as yet, just click here. That's the real thing :)

Image Courtesy:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27635621@N06/ by Collegium Kelowna (edited)

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

Escape

2010-05-01T00:37:00.010+05:30

This post was voted as the best from amongst the 60 entries for Blog-a-Ton 10 and won me the Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

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

There was not a single speck of doubt in his mind. He looked sideways and then clutched his son, close to his heart. “It is the time to escape.”

“So you are Jayaprakash, haan?”

“Ji Sahib.”

“Listen carefully. You will get a daily wage of Rs. 165 throughout this project. You are required to work for a 10 hour shift. When there is more pressure, you may have to put in more hours. There will be no compensation for the same. I believe Mani Ram has told you about the commission and all.”

“Ji Sahib.”

“So you are alone or with your family.”

“Sahib, my wife and son are also accompanying me.”

“So what about your wife? Won’t she be working.”

“No, Sahib. She is not keeping well.”

“Ok. Ok. You can put up in one of the vacant kholi there. Any questions?”

“Sahib, is there any provision for education of our children.”

“Not yet but I believe some local NGO will soon start conducting some classes. Chalo now hurry up. Put your thumb impression here.”

“Sahib, can I have the pen. I’ll sign instead.”

“Oh, signature! Fine. Have it.”

Jayaprakash was just another migrant labourer from the state of Bihar toiling in the sun and mud of the Punjab plains. Born under the shadow of Emergency, he had been fondly named after the great socialist leader Jayaprakash Narayan who led a student’s movement in his home state. His father, a marginal farmer had always dreamt of his son becoming as famous as JP but their circumstances never allowed their dreams to get better of their fate.

The seeds of Green Revolution bore fruit in the states of Punjab and Haryana while their state remained in darkness. Lured by the prosperity in this region, Jayaprakash too emigrated with a bunch of his friends at a young age of 15. For some years he kept moving from one village to another working on the fields of others, earning enough for his own subsistence and managing to send some money back home for his ailing father, ageing mother and younger siblings.

Soon, Punjab also saw a boom in real estate with new housing societies and malls being set up. It promised more money and Jayaprakash decided to break his agrarian roots.

Meanwhile he got married to Vimala, a coy girl from his village. Having remained away from his family for too long, the very idea of having a family filled him with hope. God blessed them with a son in the fourth year of their marriage. He had planned it that way to accumulate enough resources for proper rearing of his child. They named him Rahul.

Working in the dust and sand, Vimala developed some serious allergies and had an attack of asthma. It wasn’t possible for her to work at construction sites. This added additional pressure on his resources. However, he was determined to provide his son what his father could not afford when he was young. This was only possible if he could dedicate all his resources to just Rahul and his ailing wife. So, he underwent vasectomy.

His son had now turned six and Jayaprakash was on a lookout for some work near the capital city which could ensure better medical and educational facilities for his family. It was around this time that he heard about a Metro project coming up in Chandigarh. Getting work at a government project always ensured mandated minimum wages and lesser exploitation.

However, Mani Ram, the middle man made it clear to him that he’ll have to part away with nearly 20% of his daily wage to enlist his name amongst the workers. Moreover, he had to work for more hours than the stipulated time of 8 hours as by doing this, the contractor could enrol fake workers while getting the extra work done by the existing ones. However, it was a good bargain and Jayaprakash along with his family, moved to the City Beautiful.

“Papa, this fountain is so beautiful.”

“You sit here and enjoy beta. I’ll get bhel puri for you.”

It was Saturday evening and Jayaprakash had brought his son to the Sector 17 Plaza, the heart of the city. Presently, he was working at the hub station of the Chandigarh Metro which was being constructed nearby. They had been in the city for over six months and by now Rahul had joined a make-shift school being run by a local NGO for the worker’s children. College-going students used to teach the children in evenings and weekends and by now Rahul was able to rattle A to Z in one go. Today Rahul had come first in his class test and as promised, his father had brought him to the Saturday Carnival in the Plaza.

“Hey, Rahul don’t lean over the railing that much. See what I have got for you.”

“Ice cream and popcorn! Wow, I love you papa.”

It had cost him nearly third of his daily wage but he wasn’t complaining. Afterall, even they had the right to enjoy the luxuries of the richest city of India.

“Vimala, I’ll get a little late today. We might have to work through the night because this is the busiest area of the city and work needs to be completed before the morning traffic starts.”

“Take care of yourself. Don’t over exert, haan.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care. You too take your medicines on time and make sure Rahul doesn’t loiter around with the neighbouring kids. He should study for his test.”

Vimala was recovering well. The Government Hospital was in close proximity and she was undergoing a regular treatment. Their decision to shift to the capital city was bearing fruits.

It was around two at night when Vimala heard some frantic knocks at the jittery door. She sprung up and hurried to open it.

“Vimala, there has been an accident at the construction site. The crane operator felt asleep and the chain snapped, throwing the heavy girder on the labourers working there.”

“Oh, my God. Where is Rahul’s father? He is safe na?”

“Come on. Hurry up. That’s why I’ve come here. Even he got injured in the accident. We have to go to the hospital.”

Leaving Rahul in custody of her neighbour, Vimala rushed to the hospital with his husband’s co-worker.

The accident proved fatal for five workers while Jayaprakash escaped the death. However, he could not escape misfortune as his leg got amputated. All of a sudden all his dreams came crashing down. From being the breadwinner of the family, he was reduced to a dependant. Vimala had to take up his role despite her own ailments.

Government had announced Rs. 1,00,000 for the gravely injured and Rs. 5,00,000 for the kins of those who expired. Without a leg and nagging pain in the back, even Jayaprakash felt like a corpse but he could only get a fifth of the amount. However, even that money was hard to come. The Metro Corporation told him to approach the Secretariat who in turn sent him back from where he had started. Despite his dozens of visits to both the departments, he could not get his compensation.

All his savings were dwindling fast. Even Vimala could not go to work daily due to her own health problems which had once again become acute. It was not even possible to move back to the village without getting the compensation. With the help of the local trade union, he was able to extract Rs. 20000 from the Metro Corporation after obliging some officials. Now atleast he could send Vimala and Rahul back to the village with this money, without any concern of his brothers or their wife’s treating them as a burden. He decided to stay back and wait for the pending amount.

But before he could arrange for their travel, Vimala had another asthma attack.

She couldn’t even breathe her last.

Jayaprakash was devasted. It felt as if someone had also severed his other limbs. He was left alone to care for their young son.

What could he do?

It was First of May and the first section of Metro was ready. It was being inaugurated by the Punjab Governor who also acted as city’s Chief Administrator. Various dignitaries were to travel in the first run of the train from Sector 17 Hub Station to the metro station located at Chandigarh Railway Station on the outskirts of the city. However, one compartment was to be occupied by some selected labourers who had made this day possible. Even Jayaprakash was selected for it.

He was confident that he could meet the Governer at the inauguration and tell him about his plight. He wanted to get his compensation as soon as possible and move back to his village where he could start some small business and ensure that Rahul doesn’t get into any bad company. He was still too young but keeping a tap on him was becoming difficult in the absence of Vimala.

“Today is a momentous day in the history of this city. The city of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s dreams, has added another feather to its cap. To keep this city cleaner and greener, we now have our own Metro Rail network which will definitely help in decreasing the carbon footprint of the city.”

Everyone applauded as the Chief Administrator continued with his inaugural speech.

“Today also happens to be the Labour Day. We are proud of hundreds of workers who assembled from various parts of this region and made it possible for the city to achieve this feat in record time. Some of them are here with us who will accompany us in the inaugural run of the Metro train. However, I am really sorry that I’ll have to take your leave due to some emergency.”

Jayaprakash wanted to meet the Governer earnestly. He saw it as his last chance to get his due. He limped through the crowd but was stopped midway by the security personnel.

“Please, let me go.”

“Arre are you mad or what? Don’t you see, he is leaving now. Go from here.”

Jayaprakash walked back dejected hanging on to his clutches. His son was waiting for him near the railing looking at the expanse of the underground station with amazed eyes. Soon, they were told to move towards the platform. They saw the escalator for the first time. Too afraid to step onto it, they proceeded towards the staircase. However, an official seeing Jayaprakash’s condition, told him to use the elevator.

As he along with his son, reached the platform, they were separated from their group. He looked at the beautiful interiors of the station and admired them for the first time since he had arrived. All this was the result of hardwork, the sweat and the blood of thousands of men like him. However, their fate was written; to build such marvels and then proceed to the next destination. They were not supposed to reside in the sprawling buildings they built or travel on the massive bridges they constructed. They were wanderers, moving from one place to another, selling their labour, getting exploited in return and accepting their fait accompli.

He wanted to escape from this vicious circle. He couldn’t allow his son to become slave to this fate.

He quickly hurried towards the end of the platform. Elevator, being present a little away from where all the hullaballoo was, no one noticed them. He descended onto the track along with Rahul.

“Papa, where are we going?”

“Beta, wait. I want to show you this tunnel. From within the train, we won’t be able to see it.”

He limped across the tunnel along with his son. Rahul was pleased that his father had planned this surprise detour for him. As they reached the other end of the tunnel from where the train was supposed to experience its first rays of sun, Jayaprakash moved off the track onto the narrow platform. There he waited anxiously. There was not a single speck of doubt in his mind. He knew what he was doing was best for him and his son.

He could hear the noise of the approaching train. He looked sideways and then into the innocent eyes of his son. He clutched him close to his heart, blocking his vision and getting the warmth of parenthood for one last time.

“Beta, it is the time to escape.”

***

Image Courtesy:
http://i.cnn.net

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

Religion

2010-04-11T01:49:00.007+05:30

Red Rivers of Blood have gushed since ages on this Earth,

Edging past the corpses of Men, who had a different Birth.

Land, Wealth or Women, never led to such Serious Fights,

Instigated none to such extent, to ignore the Human Rights.

Gates of Heaven, it Promises, will open for those who Abide,

In God’s Name they fight, with no remorse in their Red Eyes.

Opium of Masses it is, exclaim hapless learned now and then,

Nonetheless, it has its tight grip on millions of Mango Men.

As Roshmi commented in my previous post, the poet in me is resurfacing. Well here, I present to you an ACROSTIC after my raw attempts at Cinquain, Mirror Cinquain and Haiku, other peculiar forms of poetry.

Wikipedia defines it as,

An acrostic is a poem or other form of writing in which the first letter, syllable or word of each line, paragraph or other recurring feature in the text spells out a word or a message.

It is a pretty popular form of writing having been employed by great literary geniuses like Edgar Alan Poe and Lewis Carrol amongst others. I got introduced to it recently by a new Blog-a-Tonic, Nishali Chand.

I hope you liked it. However, more importantly, I'll not like to dilute the message in this poem with this literary gibberish.

Can any kind of violence be justified in the name of religion?

Image Coutesy:

http://theviewspaper.net (edited)

Random

2010-04-04T05:21:00.003+05:30

The Brain is such a tricky thing;

Best, kept occupied with random stuff.

Once it loses this virtual zing,

Pops up real questions pretty tough.

Image Courtesy:
http://www.brballard.com

Time Travel

2010-03-06T00:16:00.004+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 8; the eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

“Yes, I love you too,” she said finally.
We met for the first time, three years hence. Before I could realize, I was in love. We had so much in common afterall.
Then came the shocker. She was already committed.
However, I somehow knew, even she’s fond of me. Hence, I had to give it a try.
Like Alchemist’s Santiago, even I had to travel far, to get my treasure.
And I had to get it before anyone else could.
The difference was; I travelled back in time.

Now please don't accuse me of getting off by writing a mini-post in this Blog-a-Ton too. I had to keep it short because continuing with the set tradition on this blog, this is a 88-Fiction on the occasion of my 88th post.

Here are the predecessors - 55th, 66th and 77th.

And yeah, thanks for noticing, this is my first sci-fi romantic story. I hope it does better than Harman-Priyanka starrer Love Story 2050. Oh! You haven't even heard its name. I don't blame you friends.

Well, writing a disclaimer here will be stupid as it's just a science fiction. But maybe it is someone's fantacy. Keep guessing!

Image Cortesy:
http://cafepress.com

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

Everyone has a Cupid Tale to tell 3.0

2010-02-22T01:38:00.010+05:30

Click here to read the Part 2 before you proceed...

The last time I had been to Delhi, I had gone back with a resolution to shed all my inhibitions. And well, in my very next visit, I had literally returned to the city with my ladylove. I had certainly made some strides.

At the fest, her friend was a great help. She kept giving me tips whenever she got a chance.

“Vipul, the other day you told her that she is not beautiful, haan?” she asked me when my ladylove was busy talking with some old school friend of hers.

“No, I didn’t. For me, she is the most beautiful girl,” I replied defensively.

“Oh, didn’t you say that the guys only talk about beautiful girls?” she delved further.

Those words reminded me of that particular conversation. Since the day we had started talking, she kept asking me odd questions.

“What do the guys in the college say about us?” she had asked one day, referring to herself and couple of her friends.

“Not much, they are busy discussing the beautiful chicks,” I had replied nonchalantly.

Obviously by that I meant girls who believed more in revealing than concealing. Maybe, the choice of words was not right. But then she should have realised that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder and in the eyes of a nineteen year old male beholder, there can only be one meaning of beauty.

But now talking to her friend, I realised this had offended her and offended her badly.

“Well, but she should know, I like her so much. I never meant it that way,” I clarified to her friend.

“Yeah I know, but you should be careful. You can’t just say that to a girl,” she replied with a halo appearing on her head or maybe I just imagined that. After all, she was passing on some important gyan to me.

I couldn’t be frank with my ladylove, I realised.

We spent the remaining day basking in the festivities and magic of the fest. I also got an opportunity to attend my first dance party with her. That had always been my dream as being in different branches, we never had a common party.

On this wonderful day, I even preferred to ignore the fact that she had introduced me to a couple of her friends as being her batch mate, rather than a friend.

What difference does it make, I had told myself.

As the night fell, she and her friend left for her aunt’s place. I wished she could stay through the night too but I was happy for whatever wishes the otherwise sadistic God had already fulfilled.

The next day, my group was returning back home while I had to visit my sister who had just returned from her training in Mumbai. She was staying at a cousin's place who had a birthday the same day. There was a family get-together planned for the evening and I was looking forward to meet all my relatives living around the city.

At night, I sent her a message, “Hey, I hope you reached home safely. Should I be there when you arrive tomorrow?”

I knew she would send a practical reply telling me not to wait for her. However, deep inside I wanted her to ask me to stay.

After half and hour or so, my cellphone beeped.

“Vipul, I had a great time today, thanks to you. I would really like if you could be there with us tomorrow too,” she had messaged back.

I was elated.

Next morning, I bid a farewell to my friends and called up my sister, “Hey, I won’t be able to make it till the evening.”

I had to stay behind for my ladylove.

The next three hours were spent waiting for her arrival. With nothing better to do I kept sitting at a corner reminiscing the previous day and fantasizing about the day ahead. Finally she arrived and I woke up from my day dreams.

However, as the time passed, she looked pretty disinterested in talking to me. As many times I tried to start any conversation, she preferred to deviate from it. She was more interested in what was going around and when we failed to get passes to an event she wanted to attend, she became pretty restless.

This was not what I had remained back for, waiting for hours for her arrival and delaying meeting my sister who I had not met for six months.

Finally, out of frustration, I pulled her aside and asked sternly, “Will you keep behaving like this.”

“Yes,” came a harried answer.

There was a limit to my patience and I wished a good bye and left hurriedly. Moving towards the hostel where I was staying, I kept cursing myself for the stupid dreams I had seen of a perfect day with my ladylove.

On my way, I got a couple of calls from her but I didn’t answer. Finally, I had to yield when her friend called me.

“Hey, Vipul. What happened? Where are you? Please come fast. She is so upset and crying here. What happened between you two?”

Crying?

Hearing that word, I suddenly forgot that I was annoyed and hurried back to the auditorium where I had left them. Walking back, I realised how far I had walked by then. I had already lost my heart in love but now it seemed, I’ll lose some pounds too.

I saw her sitting on the pavement and sobbing innocently. I felt like slapping myself for hurting her.

“I am sorry Vipul. I turn a bit agitated at times. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she apologised to me.

But, it was I who felt like apologising instead.

“No, I am sorry for behaving like this,” I replied and soon we were smiling again.

“You two are mad,” said her friend amusingly and we set out to further explore the dying fest.

As I had to leave for my cousin’s place to attend her birthday party, I prepared to leave after some time but they insisted me to stay. We made an arrangement that first we’ll go to a neighbouring mall and from there, her aunt’s driver will drop me off at a suitable place from where I can reach my destination quickly.

The next couple of hours flew by quickly. Soon, it was time to leave. I hurried to a card shop in the mall to buy one for my cousin. Her friend accompanied me.

“So, buying a card for her, haan?” asked her friend.

“No, actually, I am buying it for my didi. It is her birthday today.” I answered plainly.

“Oh! So you won’t give any gift to her?” she exclaimed.

“It never occurred to me yaar. Should I?” I inquired innocently.

“Ofcourse. Come I’ll help you,” she replied and we started searching for something worthwhile.

As we drove towards the spot from where I had to take an auto, I kept looking at her stealthily. She looked beautiful as the lights of the moving vehicles fell on her tender skin.

I loved this woman and I wanted her to be mine.

Soon the car halted and she too got out to bid me a farewell.

“Hey Vipul, thanks so much. I am really sorry if I hurt you unknowingly,” she said affectionaltely.

“It was my pleasure yaar. See, here I got something for you. Thanks for making these two days so special for me,” I replied handing over the wrapped gift to her.

As I was turning my back to negotiate with the auto richshaw driver, I could see her literally jumping in joy and showing the gift to her friend who was sitting in the car.

She had loved that gesture. Her friend had guided me well.

By the time I reached my cousin’s place, the party was over and everyone had left.

However, one such family gathering can be sacrificed for the sake of the future family that I desire to have one day, I told myself and soon fell asleep, tired from three consecutive days of fun.

I returned from Delhi in a couple of days. Just like the previous time, this time too, the city had a strange effect on me and I realised why it is known as Dil Walon ki Dilli. I made up my mind to propose her again. That smile and way she had reacted to my gift convinced me that finally, it was the right time.

However, as I reached the college next day, I had turned pretty indecisive. The excitement had slowly worn down as I started thinking about the repercussions. However, a close friend of mine convinced me to give it a try and also discussed about it with her friend.

It was decided that her friend will accompany her to a restaurant and I’ll meet them there.

So finally, I was sitting with her at the corner table of the restaurant and her friend had just left to attend to an imaginary phone call that she had just received.

“I need to tell you something,” I applied the first gear.

“Yeah?” she nodded suspiciously.

I could sense that she could sense that something sensitive was coming up next.

“See, you mean a lot to me,” I applied the second gear and proceeded to the third, “I have always cherished whatever time I have spent with you. Since, the childhood, I have been very fond of you and you mean a lot to me.”

Thereon, I applied the fourth gear and started expressing my love to her though I never used the word love explicitly even a single time. All the while she kept looking at me with her beautiful big eyes, sipping into her colddrink with a straw. She looked pretty cute doing that.

However, before I could proceed to the fifth gear, she suddenly interjected and applied the reverse gear.

“Vipul, even I like you a lot as a friend. However, I have never thought about you that way. Please don’t interpret it wrongly.”

Now she continued and I just kept nodding. I could see my dream castle crumbling down and I could just stare helplessly.

She had rejected me earlier but that was understandable and on phone, that too through messaging.

However, being rejected on face can get pretty embarrassing, I realised and that too when you try to justify yourself by questioning, “Then why were you so excited on getting that gift.”

“Well, we girls just love gifts,” she had replied plainly.

“Hey, you all right na,” she asked as we got up to leave.

“Yeah, yeah, I am fine yaar. As it is we are friends,” I replied sheepishly shifting to the neutral gear and we soon left for the college.

Though the proposal and the subsequent rejection happened in a very cordial manner, the next one year was full of crests and troughs. One day, we were on talking terms and the very next day, we even failed to acknowledge each others’ presence.

Soon, I realised that there is a thin line between ego and self respect. Sometimes to safeguard my so called self respect, I used to turn pretty egoistic and couldn’t help blurting out my frustration in the meanest possible words. Frustration was bound to creep in with chances of a breakthrough looking pretty slim.

Such outbursts were always followed by the ‘We don’t know each other’ phase.

Even she had her own mood swings. At times, she could get annoyed on simplest of excuses or not give heed to my number of phone calls while at other times, she used to be the one who took an initiative to end the troughs.

However, I started realising that she won’t ever accept my love. I wanted to chuck her out of my mind but all the efforts went in vain.

I kept myself busy in extracurricular activities, establishing and working in different college and city clubs. Well, academics were not my cup of tea, so keeping myself busy by programming JAVA applets was not on agenda. However, whatever I tried she always remained at the back of my mind.

During one of the troughs, I even made up my mind to search for some living distraction. And hence I landed up on a blind date and some stupid phone chats too. But that was not my cup of tea. I needed her badly just like a kid craves for Playstation 3 these days.

“Hey, she’s looking at you only,” said a friend of mine while we were sitting under the sun one fine afternoon.

I turned around to see but by the time I could meet her eyes, she had turned her gaze towards her friend sitting alongside.

This was something that happened too often. I had noticed her from side of my eyes watching me with her beautiful big eyes as I talked to any girl.

During such troughs, I knew she was keen to talk to me and so was I but the specific quarrel that had landed us there stopped both of us from approaching each other.

However, a simple sms or an email from the other person after gap of a month was enough to thaw the differences and we were back on talking terms.

The monsoons had ended and her birthday was just around the corner. Thankfully, the rains had washed away our differences and we were going through one of the highest crests of our odd relationship.

So I spent a whole week, preparing a mammoth card for her and choosing a suitable gift. And well, she just loved them.

It was on her birthday that we went for a movie for the first time and well, I drove her to the multiplex. It was for the first time that we were alone in a car. Yeah, yeah, without any of our dads/moms/sisters accompanying us.

Ofcourse, her friends were also joining us there though they came separately.

Every first is a special occasion when you are in love. At least I was in love.

However, how could the sadistic God see me spending some quality time with my ladylove!

So, the same day her sister was to leave for abroad and her parents were accompanying her till New Delhi. Even she wanted to go but they insisted her to stay back.

So, my ladylove spent most of the time outside the hall talking to her sister and parents and when we finally got out she was all gloomy. I felt like giving her a comforting hug, telling her that I want to wipe off all the gloominess from her life and cheer her up all the time. I wanted to tell her how much I love her but it was not an opportune moment, I knew.

Upon returning, I messaged her a number of times and even called up a couple of times to inquire if she was fine. However, she didn’t reply.

The next day in the college too, I could see her pretty disturbed and wanted to talk to her. However, whenever I tried to approach her, she never responded well.

As the day proceeded, I myself turned pretty gloomy thinking about my worthlessness in not being able to cheer up my ladylove. Things kept simmering up and I became pretty restless.

It was an ultimate recipe for disaster.

I approached her finally and took her aside to the parking lot. There looking into her eyes, I started blurting.

I told her how I could not see her sad, I told her how I wanted to be her pillar of strength, I told her how it pained when we didn’t talk for weeks together, I told her how I had tried to wipe her off my mind, I even told her about my blind date and other deviations and how they strengthened my belief in my love for her, I told her how I wanted her desperately by my side, I told her how I had made some important decisions like opting my college because of her, I told her how it was important for me to hear her decision as I had some tough career choices to make, I told her how I could not see a future without her, I told her how I had tried my best to restrain myself from saying all this, I told her whatever I could.

I kept on saying and she listened patiently.

Finally, when I was done, she just replied, “Vipul, you know my answer. I cannot commit anything about the future,” and she left.

I knew I had made a blunder. I knew that when I had proposed her for the first time through a message. I knew that when I proposed her for the second time after returning from Delhi. But despite that, I had done it for the third time. I was not ready to learn from my mistakes or maybe, I did not want to. I was not content with her friendship. I would have preferred to be a stranger than being a friend. However, being a stranger was not that easy. So, I could not give up the odd friendship we had.

Upon returning, I sent a long customary “I am sorry” message. I didn’t expect her to reply right then but to my surprise, my cellphone beeped soon.

“It’s alright Vipul. I am not mad at you,” was her reply. I was happy for the fact that atleast she understood my position, though I felt sorry for the whole affair.

It was Saturday the following day, so the college was off. I kept trying her number the whole day as I wanted to apologise in a more decent manner. However, she didn’t pick up the phone. That obviously made me anxious. Finally, it was at night that she replied to a message I sent her. Well, that reply, actually changed my life.

“Hey, what happened? You said, you are not mad at me, yesterday. Then why are you not talking now. I said yaar, I am sorry. I just fail to restrain myself.” I had written.

“Vipul, I said that because I did not want any discussion yesterday. Still, I am not fine and don't know if ever, I will be. I might want it or not but still I have to respond to you every time despite whatever you do because you always make such a scene out of everything,” was what she had replied politely.

I was shocked. My face went red. I could feel my cheeks burning. Droplets of sweat came down my forehead. I could feel the goose bumps. I was literally shivering.

Ten years that I had known her came flashing by all of a sudden.

That cute little girl with pony tail in front of whom I went dumb, that shy girl who couldn’t even say a hi at the tuitions, that bold avatar of her that gave me the “I’ll have to tell papa” threat, that comforting girl who told me how excited she was about me shifting to her branch, that sweet girl who concurred that she had been stupid not to talk to me all these years, that excited girl who literally jumped when I gave her a worthless gift, that beautiful eyed girl who stared at me when we weren’t on talking terms, that compromising girl who could approach herself to end those silent phases.

And suddenly I came to the present. I could just see a girl who could deny our very friendship that I thought somehow existed though odd in nature, and blame me for creating unappetising situations for her all the time.

At least, I couldn’t deny that friendship. So like a good friend, I replied her back.

“I am sorry for whatever I may have done knowingly or unknowingly. I promise you as a true friend that I will never disturb you again.”

I don’t know if she again tried to make up for it or not. Although she did approach me a couple of times like she used to do earlier during the troughs but I’ll prefer to think, even those were my illusions and she never wanted me in her life. I somehow spent the last one and a half year in the college seeing her everyday and dying from inside everyday.

But I had promises to keep.

***

Nearly three years have passed since then. Today in the morning, I finally saw what I had been expecting to see one day. News Feed on my Facebook homepage carried her numerous pictures. Everyone was busy commenting on them, congratulating her and wishing her well for this new phase of her life. Even I wish her well from the bottom of my heart though I preferred not to comment. We might be on each others’ Friends List but have never communicated since then.

She was the one who I had always dreamt, will be mine one day. And after so many years, finally here she was; tying the knot with someone else.

*****

All Cupid Tales do not have Happy Endings!

You may also like to read a related poem, I wrote some months back - The Sophomore Days!

Disclaimer :
This is a work of fiction loosely based on real incidents.

Images Courtesy:

http://www.soils.wisc.edu and http://imageshack.us

Everyone has a Cupid Tale to tell 2.0

2010-02-18T02:11:00.004+05:30

Click here to read the Part 1 before you proceed...

The competition exams came and went and we both scored enough to get through the college we aspired for. However, my ladylove had something else in her mind. She wanted to pursue Electronics and Communications Engineering while in this particular college, being the highest rated branch, she could not get through it. So she decided to go for the next college in line.

And well even I had to sacrifice my Civil Engineering seat at my dream college to trudge along, errr... behind her. However, I could not manage to get through her branch and had to suffice with Computer Science and Engineering.

So started the next phase of our relationship @ our useless ‘second-in-line’ college.

The initial months passed by dreaming - that somehow I might get through her branch in the remaining counsellings. The second one came and went and by God's ever-showering grace, ECE got filled just before my number.

Now, the third one was around the corner and I heard that a student was planning to shift from her branch to ours. It meant a vacancy and being on the top of the list, I knew, in a week or so, I’ll be there with her to recreate my lion’s territory. I met this girl and despite my inhibitions of talking to the opposite sex, convinced her to stick with her stand. The wait was killing me and finally the day arrived.

The mood was tense as the counselling started. There were many present there aspiring to somehow get a seat. I already had a seat, just wanted an upgradation. God won’t play games this time, I somehow knew. Soon the student who had opened the doors of heaven for me went up to the podium to sign the required documents. And with that, came up a single vacancy in ECE.

My name was called and I moved towards the podium with a feeling never felt before. In just few moments, I’ll be with her, in her class. As I took out my pen to sign the documents, I heard a faint sound.

“Waaaaaiiiiiiiittttttttt...”

I turned around to see a guy running towards the podium. He looked like an ugly male imitation of Kajol running behind the train in the climax of DDLJ. I was the badly bruised SRK clinging to the compartment’s door, the only difference being that I would have loved to push her, errr... him away rather than grabbing his hand.

He reached the counselling desk and presented his documents. He was from the Civil Engineering Department of my dream college and wanted to shift to ECE in my ‘second-in-line’ college.

What a nutcase; couldn’t he do that in the first counselling itself?

I wanted to be the SRK and reach out to my senorita but that useless chap flew away with my seat. My ship had sunk in a deep ocean and as I took those slow steps down the podium I felt like I was sinking too.

It must have been after a minute or so that I regained consciousness and saw a horde of people encircling me.

“Don’t worry beta, you at least have a seat. See, my son couldn’t manage that too,” said a sweet elderly woman in her attempt to console me.

Well, the poor lady didn’t knew, I least cared about the college or the branch. I had fainted in love.

As I reached the college, I was pretty depressed. Our first sessionals had started and I somehow sat through the test, just thinking about the games, The God plays with us, the mango men.

On coming out of the examination hall, I bumped into her in the parking lot. She approached me with a sweet smile.

“Hey, Vipul, I heard about the counselling. It’s so no right!” She said ruefully.

“Well, that’s how it is.” I answered matter-of-factly, putting up a bold face while being a little surprised by her reaction.

“I was so happy that finally some nice guy is coming to our class. All others are so useless here.” She declared.

Those words came as a shocker to me, a nice shock I mean. I knew she was sweet but… so sweet. Wow!

“Well, your bad luck, it seems,” I replied, trying to be over smart.

“Yeah, I feel like killing that stupid guy,” she concluded.

I couldn’t believe that she was saying all this. For the first time, she was talking about me in front of me and well, what a positive feedback I was getting. I was loving it.

However, that momentary happiness didn’t survive long and soon I was engulfed in the pain of being targeted by the God once again. I was sick of being the victim of his sadistic appetite. I preferred keeping to myself, not interacting much with the others. Soon, my classmates started calling me Devdas and indeed I had become one. Thankfully, I had not taken to drinking yet.

Some close friends helped me in coming out of this melancholic phase. During this period I also ended up making some female friends, though not due to an individual effort but thanks to a couple of friends who were good at demarcating the lion’s territory. So finally, our group consisted of four guys and six girls and I soon found that I was not that shy when it came to interacting with girls.

However, I was still finding it difficult to move beyond the hi’s with her. I normally preferred to rush through this routine, not even halting for a second while greeting her. My friends had a good time imitating me.

Meanwhile, seeing her talking and laughing with other guys used to add to my woes; not because I had any problems with that but because I cursed myself for not being one of them.

By the end of the first year, nothing much happened and it was around this time that one of my closest cousins shifted to our place while doing her industrial training in the city. It helped a lot to discuss my love issues with her and soon upon visiting Delhi, I even broke the news to my sister who had by now taken up a job there.

Sharing this secret with my closest siblings filled me with a strange confidence and upon returning from Delhi, I had made up my mind to do or die.

“Hi, what’s up? Vipul this side.” I said upon calling on her landline number, first thing in the morning.

This was followed by some small talk. While conversing, I came to know that she has recently bought a cellphone. I had been waiting for this day since I got a cell, the previous year. I always found it more convenient to chat with girls through messages than talking on phone. The former somehow concealed my inhibitions.

That night around half past ten I sent her some forwarded message and waited for her reply anxiously. Finally after few minutes she messaged me back a cute picture message saying “Good Night”.

Good night??? Oh my God! Was that too late to message her? Am I just going too fast? Should I slow down a bit?

All these questions cropped up in my mind while I cursed myself on this foolishness.

“Hey, Goodnight. Sorry for disturbing you that late.” I messaged her back.

Soon, my cell beeped again and on reading the message, my heart skipped a beep, errr... beat too.

“Hey, c'mon; I had sent that picture message just like that,” she clarified and with that started our longest chat till that day. Our cells kept beeping for the next couple of hours and wait for each beep was filled with a unique blend of joy and anxiety.

How stupid we had been till now, we concurred and laughed at our foolish inhibitions, of course, in hahahaha, hehehehe, lols and rofls.

The next few days were spent telling my close friends about the latest developments in my lovelife. Meanwhile, our sms chats continued unabated and finally, I could feel that that elusive geometric progression is taking place in our relationship. However, within a week, it turned out to be just a silly illusion.

Mustering up the courage to hit a six without even scoring a four yet, I decided to propose her. And what a fantastic stance I decided to go with. I messaged her. Yeah, yeah, I know it is like hitting a six with a defensive shot and such things only happen in older versions of PC games.

Times had changed but I was still a loser.

“No”, came the reply and I could just message back a “Sorry” and “Can we atleast be the best friends” crap.

“You really wrote that?” asked my friends the next day and had a good laugh. My cupid tale always kept them hooked and amused and it usually spanned half the time of our conversations.

After that rejection episode, I started getting a feeling that she is distancing from me. Maybe, it was I who was trying to get too close and she was not yet ready for such proximity.

Meanwhile, I realised it was important for me to concentrate on some other aspects of college life too. Ours being the very first batch, there were no existing avenues for extra-curricular activities. I decided to exploit this fact and start a college club.

At the back of my mind there was always the notion of proving my worth to my ladylove. Moreover, as the activities were to be conducted on weekends, I thought I’ll get the opportunity to spend time with her without much ado. Of course, I had convinced her to be a member of the club.

As the time progressed my restlessness too kept rising. Not getting a sms reply used to turn me gloomy. If she didn’t pick up my phone, my mind started calculating all the possible combinations and permutations of negative reasons. On whole, I turned into a wreck once again. My appetite was down, I was not talking much at home and I was no more the cheerful me.

It wasn’t that we were not talking but somehow, I kept getting the vibes that I had made a blunder by jumping the gun too soon. We used to have frequent phone chats but in the college, she mostly preferred to keep a distance. The club I started had been a hit but I found her totally disinterested in this achievement. She was turning into a puzzle for me.

This went on for a couple of months and meanwhile even my mother came to know the reason behind my despicable condition. Well, it was the same cousin who had to spill the beans on being cajoled by her.

One cannot hide anything from the mothers. Maybe, the bond that is created in the womb transcends much beyond the physical severing of the umbilical cord. However, she was a sport as even she was pretty fond of my ladylove. This gave me more strength and confidence.

It was in the month of September that year that my group packed the bags for the famous college fest at the Imperial College of Engineering. Well, if you read popular books and watch popular movies, you definitely know which college I am talking about. We had just arrived and were attending the fashion show in the grand amphitheatre when I got a call from her.

I was on roaming and the rates were pretty high back then but the frugal me could not resist picking up the phone.

“Hi, Vipul, you reached Delhi right?” she asked from the other side of the phone after the customary hellos.

There was a lot of noise, so I had to rush outside.

“Yeah, in the afternoon. The fun has just started here.” I shouted back, trying to rub salt on her wounds. With the help of one of my highly persuasive friend, I had tried my best to convince her to accompany us but even his persuasion powers had failed.

“Well, we have convinced our parents and we are planning to come over tomorrow. If we come, you’ll be able to arrange the passes right?” she asked, referring to herself and her close friend.

I was elated and after confirming with my friends if they had any issues about it, called her back after some minutes.

“Yeah, pack your bags. I’ll make the arrangements,” I said, already chalking out my plans for the next day. The remaining day and the next morning were spent waiting for her.

I had never dreamt in my life of being with her, miles away from our homes. She was being sent on the assurance that I would be responsible for her. Yeah, yeah, that meant even her parents were fond of me, I deduced.

I had to make the best use of these two days to woo my ladylove. It was a simple proposition of now or never.

It was around noon that she finally arrived along with her friend. As my friends were leaving the campus for Delhi Darshan, I had to stay behind. It was like prioritising between friends and love. Somehow from within I didn’t get a nice feeling about it.

Once they were gone after exchanging pleasantries with her, we set out to explore the campus. I had already been there since the previous day, so in layman terms, my job was to be their guide. We loitered around the campus stopping here and there to watch or participate in various activities that were being conducted in the fest.

It felt great walking with her hand in hand. Okay, okay, not hand in hand but at least we were walking together.

It was fun watching the expressions on the faces of her classmates who were also visiting the fest. As such, other than a couple of her friends, no one from her branch knew that we had known each other for so long or that I had a soft or should I say mushy corner for her. So obviously, it was a surprise for them to see us together.

Finally, I was creating the lion’s territory far away from home.

***

Yet to be concluded. Don't crib about the length; my love tends to be lengthy.

Click here to read the Part 3 ...

Image Courtesy:
http://z.about.com

Everyone has a Cupid Tale to tell 1.0

2010-02-14T00:01:00.010+05:30

This post got selected for BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Picks. Click here to see the BlogAdda page.

She looked just too beautiful, clad in that red bridal dress with those red and white bangles clinging to her forearm. I could see a concoction of shyness and cheerfulness in her eyes. Those eyes were indeed too intoxicating. The expensive and elaborate ornaments that she wore were although, too unworthy to add to her beauty. She was the one who I had always dreamt, will be mine one day. And after so many years, finally here she was...

***

“Hi Vipul, is Aunty there?”

I did not utter a single word. I could have said a simple ‘no’, rather I should have said a ‘hi’ first. But I said nothing. I kept standing there with no clue whatsoever. She was standing at my door, she was looking as beautiful as always and she knew my name. Wow, she knew my name!

She had moved to our society a couple of months back. And as they say – It was love at first sight. Of course, this was not for the first time that I had fallen in love with a girl at the very first sight but this was different. I knew it was different because she was different from all of them.

Those big cheerful eyes, that cute little nose, that pony tail which swish-swooshed when she ran; well, I loved just everything about her. Today, finally I also heard her intoxicating voice; up, front and close. It’s not difficult to get intoxicated when you are just 10 years old. Even a minor dose will do.

Yeah, I was 10 back then. She was 10 too and studied in the fifth standard just like me. However, she was in a different school, an all-girls convent while my parents had thrown me into a boys' one. Well, if Samuel Taylor Coleridge had seen my plight, his poem would have sounded something like this ‘Boys, boys everywhere, not any girl to seek’.

Thanks to this state-of-the-art schooling, I somehow went dumb when it came to conversing with the fairer sex. So there she was standing in front of me for close to a minute till my elder sister came out to my rescue.

“Hi... How are you; what brings you here?” said my sister, greeting her inside.

“Hi, Didi; I got these coupons from school for generating funds for community service. Please, will you buy one?”

Buy one? I could have bought all if I could; just to see a smile on her face. But of course, that was not to happen.

Those days, I used to cherish the hide and seek games where boys and girls used to play together on some evenings.

I had taken the refuge behind a broad tree while playing one evening. Suddenly, I felt that someone had stealthily run towards me and was now clinging to me from the back. Before, I could turn around, the person hopped on to the next tree. Wow, it was her; I realized straining my eyes in the dark. I was just trying to sink in the feeling of her being so close to me when suddenly I heard, “I spy Vipul.”

The game was over for me!

Another day while playing, I had a minor tussle with her younger brother who had misbehaved with me. I was just reproaching him when she approached us.

“Hey, don’t scold my bro!” she said, staring me with her beautiful big eyes.

And well, as always, I went dumb. I kept standing there till my sister who was standing nearby stepped in.

“Hey, don’t scold my bro!” she imitated her light-heartedly.

We all started laughing and then out of nowhere, my sister proposed that why don’t we both stand together to see who is taller. These girls and their stupid games.

It was a bit embarrassing when I found out that she was taller. The guy cannot be shorter in a relationship, I thought. But somehow, I gathered myself together knowing that one day, being a male; I’ll grow past her for sure. Of course, the time proved me right.

It was in the eight standard that my team got through to the final rounds of Maggi Quiz Contest, the most popular inter school quiz of our city. When I and my partner won the intra-school round, my friends demanded a treat but the frugal me somehow ignored them. Meanwhile, even she had reached the intra-school round and I was keenly waiting for her results. The following day when I reached home, my sister broke the good news that from their school, my ladylove and her partner had emerged the winners. My friends got a treat, the very next day.

Within a couple of weeks, we had the finals. I was pretty confident of sailing through as my partner was pretty smart, just short of being termed a child prodigy.

The day came and there she was, sitting across me. We didn’t even greet each other. It wasn’t the ugly competitiveness but stupid dumbness that restrained me. The quiz was going fine until the final moments came. Her team was already out of the fray but we were still counting our chances. Our questions had exhausted and the only way to victory could be a passed question. By answering it we could at least tie with those who were leading and then go for the kill in the tie-breaker.

“Who won the latest Dada Saheb Phalke Award?” asked the quizmaster to the team sitting before us.

I jumped on my seat. I knew the answer and just wished they didn’t. Soon, their time was up and the question came into our lap.

“Sivaji Ganesan,” I shot back with a wide grin on my face.

“A real tough name but sorry, it is the wrong answer, buddy,” the quizmaster remarked with an odd sneer.

I couldn’t believe it. I knew I was right. I told this to my partner but even he was clueless. Just as we were discussing it amongst ourselves, the winners got declared. We were second in line; in short, we had lost it.

Holding back my tears, I hurried towards my dad who was accompanying us and pulled my bag from his hands. I unzipped it and pulled out my GK book. There on the final page were the recent awards and it clearly read Sivaji Ganesan against this particular award. I was ready to run back and snatch my well-deserved award when my father said, “Vipul, well done. But how could you miss that last one. It was so much in news recently. It’s Pradeep, the lyricist.”

“What?” I said, aghast at this revelation. It was then that it dawned upon me, my book is outdated. I missed it by a year.

God liked playing games with me when she was involved and well friends as you will see, this was just the beginning.

Meanwhile, at school and in the society, every boy knew, I had a big crush on her. So in that sense, she was my ‘Girl Friend’. Yeah, within my friends circle, she was officially my ‘GF’; it didn’t matter that she had no clue about it whatsoever.

***

Finally, it was time to leave the school after completing my secondary education. Though, I had remained loyal to her for the last five years but could not help having crush on one or two teachers. Yeah, we guys just had that one option. Anyway, now I had the option to go for a co-ed school but I opted for a boys’ college as owing to its flexible rules, I could easily bunk classes. ‘How bad, bunking to loiter around’; you must be wondering. No, that was not an option for a Non-Medical student. The bunks were meant for spending more time studying and preparing for the Engineering entrance examinations and keeping pace with the tuitions. And these very tuitions brought me closer to her.

By God’s grace, we ended up at the same tuitions and by our parents’ grace, we started car-pooling. What a joyous moment it was when my father declared it for the first time.

Those few moments with her in the car were like heaven.

Wait, wait. Do you think we used to drive to the classes by ourselves? Well, at that age, we couldn’t. So it was either of the parents who used to drop and pick us up. Still it was a heaven. The customary tradition was that one parent will drive; the respective child will sit along. They’ll honk on reaching the other’s place. The other child will rush to the car, open the door, say namaste uncle/aunty/didi and sit at the back. Beyond that the conversations will be between the parent and the child or the parent and the other child. In net, not even a single hi yet. I sucked, I know!

Still, it was a heaven.

At the tuitions, it was important to let every guy know that she was the one made for me. So just like a lion creates his own territory in the jungle, I with the help of my close friends made it evident to everyone that thinking about her is out of question. However, this had its repercussions too. Soon, the other guys started finding pretexts to embarrass me in front of her. In most of the cases, this was done by linking our names and cracking jokes when she was around. Frankly, the loser inside me loved when our names were linked. Moreover, I had no other option but to enjoy it as I had dug my grave myself. No requests and no coercions made those guys budge from their antics.

Meanwhile, at the studies front, a healthy competition was developing between us. I was working hard to beat her at tests as I thought the man should prove himself more able to woo the fairer sex. Overall, this love was driving me forward in a positive manner. She was definitely more intelligent at these subjects but I made it a point to throw in some surprises on an off.

It had been about a year and by now we had stopped pooling as she had shifted one of her batches, when she approached me.

“Vipul, we need to talk about something,” she said.

“Y..y..yes, about what?” I stammered back.

“This all should stop,” She replied mysteriously.

“W..w..what?” the stammering continued.

“The guys making fun of us,” she replied in a serious tone.

“Believe me, its.. its not my fault. They j..j..just don’t listen to me,” I replied. I couldn’t see myself of course, but knew that my colour had gone pale by now.

“I am not blaming you Vipul. But if this continues, then I’ll have to tell papa.” she retorted.

That last word came as a bombshell.

“No.. no.. don’t do that. I’ll talk to them,” I replied sheepishly.

On my way back home straddled on my red scooty, I felt such a heavy weight on my head. At that moment I could empathise with my scooty which had to carry my gargantuan weight every day.

Talking of weight, I had once also tried to get rid of it earlier in the year by cycling to the tuition. Maybe it is my weight that’s keeping her away, I wondered. The routine was going fine until the day when the tuition had to be cancelled due to a power cut. My teacher had to make arrangements for the girls to return safely. She had been dropped off by her father that day, so sir approached me.

“Vipul, you are on your scooty right; why don’t you drop her off. She’s your neighbour right?”

All guys looked at me, some pitiably, others sadistically as they knew my response.

“Sorry, sir. I come on cycle these days,” I replied.

“Tough Luck, boy,” came back his reply. Oh my god, even he didn’t budge from extracting sadistic pleasure out of my situation.

From that day onwards, it was ‘bicycle bye, bye’. But even the Electricity Department had decided to indulge in sadism. There was no other power cut after that one.

Since the ‘I’ll have to tell papa’ fiasco, there had not been much interaction between us. I had told the boys to keep off limits but those brats just made things worse. Now, when she was nearby, they started chanting “Daddy, cool, cool, cool” raag. Though alarmed at first, even I had to chuckle at their ingenuity.

I always tried to hide from her at the tuitions and we never acknowledged each others’ presence. During this period, I wrote many love letters to her but all of them finally landed up in the dust bin, shredded into pieces or at times to be extra careful, smothered into ash.

Finally, during the last months of our twelfth standard, I had an opportunity to again start the heavenly car pooling. Of course, I had planned it out. Till now, I had been consciously or unconsciously changing my batches and even tuitions to somehow end up with her. I ended up hiding from her is a different story altogether. Recently, a new competition batch had started and she was in the early morning one. If I could shift to it, then we could start car pooling as in early winter mornings of December-January, riding to the tuitions on our gearless bikes was out of question.

However, I had recently heard from someone that she had joked about me changing my batch soon. Though, I hoped this was a misunderstanding and she actually meant something else but I got the opportunity to give her a taste of her own medicine. It was the show time.

So after one of our afternoon classes, I approached her in the parking lot.

“Hi, do you think I keep changing my batches after you?” I shot the question at her without building any premises.

“W.. w.. what are you saying Vipul?” It was her turn to stammer.

“Didn’t you say so the other day?” I said sternly.

She was confused at first but soon realised what I meant.

“Oh, that.. that was not what I meant Vipul.” She replied innocently.

I knew my ladylove was not lying but I couldn’t let it go.

“Whatever it is, please do not think about me in these terms. I am sorry if I ever did anything wrong but please do not insult me like this.” I had thrown the bombshell this time.

She was definitely taken aback as till now, I had never said so many words at one go. She assured me that she was being honest and the episode ended there. The next day, I changed my batch and as had been planned meticulously, my dad called her dad.

Waking up early at dawn and that too on a cold winter morning had never been so much fun.

“Namaste Uncle... Hi…,” I said entering the back seat of her car.

“Hi,” she replied.

Yes, we had moved forward in our relationship, exchanging greetings finally after seven years of knowing each other. This was the part of evolutionary process and I hoped my further progress would be geometric in nature, just like the mankind and his inventions.

As our exams approached and tuitions got over, I started finding pretexts to somehow meet her. Board Exams are secondary for engineering aspirants, but I took them seriously and well, this also gave me the chance to visit her place in order to collect her pre-board papers and then revisit to discuss those questions which I couldn’t answer. Yeah, yeah, even if I could answer them all, there was no harm in lying in order to see her. Otherwise, those days were pretty uneventful and soon I got engulfed in the exams.

***

Have a lovely Valentine's Day and wait for the concluding part of this Cupid Tale!

Click here to read the Part 2 ...

Image Courtesy:
http://www.free-clipart-graphics.net

What if

2010-02-06T20:35:00.002+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 7; the seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

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

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Me, Myself and I :)

1..2..3..4

2010-01-28T23:26:00.003+05:30

Hey blogger buddies, just thought of updating my blog. It is literally craving for posts these days. Even Indiblogger guys gave me an ultimatum recently by dropping my IndiRank by 18 points.

Well, lets see what all is on agenda for today -

Exclusive pictures of my cutie pie from my recent New Delhi visit
Exclusive scenic pictures from my Jammu visit last month
Link to my blog interview
A teaser of my upcoming short story

That's Tinni for you. Those of you who have been there with me since last 3 and a half months or longer, know exactly who she is. Click here to see my first post dedicated to her.

That's Jammu for you or to be precise, Patni Top and the way to this hill station from Jammu.
Click on the collage to enlarge it.

These guys from some web designing portal, Webneetech who are on a strict diet of having at least one blogger every day decided to devour me too. So, even I got a chance to feel like a VIP (though I am already VIPul) and be interviewed. It got published recently, titled Blog Marathon with Blogger Vipul Grover. Click here to read it.

Well, its high time that you all get to know, I am NOT away from blogging. I have been busy writing a short, errr 'not so' short story and here I present to you the first looks.

She looked just too beautiful, clad in that red bridal dress with those red and white bangles clinging to her forearm. I could see a concoction of shyness and cheerfulness in her eyes. Those eyes were indeed too intoxicating. The expensive and elaborate ornaments that she wore were although, too unworthy to add to her beauty. She was the one who I had always dreamt, will be mine one day. And after so many years, finally here she was...

To arouse some more interest in you guys, this cupid tale is based on my own life. So stay tuned.

That's all for today. Now go and do some useful work!

Images Courtesy:

Me, Myself and I

The Destiny's Child - (Blog-a-Ton 6)

2010-01-09T00:01:00.016+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 6; the sixth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

As young Mohandas scrambled through his final law papers, the only thing he contemplated was a comfortable life back home. Little did he knew, his fate had already been written. He was to become the torchbearer of a struggle never seen before, an inspiration for millions to come and the father of a whole nation.

It was on this very day, January 9, back in 1915 that Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi set foot on the Indian soil after his extended stay in South Africa. This 55 Fiction is dedicated to this great day and the great struggle that followed.

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

All in a Day's Work

2009-12-05T00:00:00.184+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 5; the fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

December 4, 2009

09:00 am

The alarm on my cell phone just rang. And my instincts pressed the snooze button. Ofcourse, I’ll press it another 5 times at the fixed intervals of 5 minutes till all of them get exhausted. This cap of 5 snoozes with just 5 minutes interval is surely one of the shortcoming of otherwise spectacular Nokia E71. Hey dumbo, stop advertising and sleep! Enjoy the last 25 minutes of the slumber heaven.

09:25 am

No, no, this cannot be happening. I am too sleepy. Please, let me sleep. What about another alarm for say 10:00 am. No, not that long. 09:45 will do. Here I go. Zzzzzzzzzzz.

09:45 am

This wretched ‘Wake up Sid’ Alarm tone. Just shut up. I am Vipul, not Sid. Go find him at his Sid Café or what is it, Sid-o-Scope. Man, he, his blog name, his blog content and his blog templates, ever changing stuff! Hey, just shut up and get up. Do not misuse the flexi-timings of your office. Late to Office, Late back home. You are the loser ultimately, dumbo.

09:50 am

Lets switch on the TV to find if Sehwag scored his third triple century. Oh! He’s out. Did, he score it. Click Click no news, shit! Chuck it, lets go to bathroom first. Plop plop shit (this time the real one, not colloquial), Flushhhhhhhhhhhhh, swoosh swoosh brush, splash splash bath. Done finally. Hey, clothes on, I am ready. Lets grab a quick breakfast and the match too. Hey, even Dravid is gone. Click click. Who is this ULFA commander, these guys are talking about. Man, show some news about Sehwag. Chuck it again, will catch it in the office. Kick kick and my old red Pulsar relents finally.

11:00 am

Ping. My finger print not accepted. Retry. Here I go again. Ping. Again rejected. Ping. Accepted this time. So finally my Day at work starts.

'Hello sir, how are you'. 'Kya haal hai'. 'Hello', 'Hello', 'Hi'. Finally sitting on my seat. Hey mam, just click on that score link on your browser. This wretched net speed. Oh, poor Sehwag, missed it by 7 runs. So, my first task completed. Now what to do?

Well, I completed my first assignment yesterday after a hard labour of 25 days. Was it hard! Whatever, it was, it was done perfectly. I had the option to just sit and idle around and not tell the boss that the work is done. But by the evening, the Vipul Grover in me pushed me to his room and I finally came out with a mega-assignment clinging to my neck this time. I hope it doesn’t choke me. So should I start it now?

No, what about Blog-a-Ton! I still have to write my post. What should I write about. How about a story of a police constable, spanning a whole day. How he gets up early in the morning in his dilapidated house, travels on the local train, gets to work, not even getting basic amenities while working. How about including some police encounter too and other stuff. At the end of the day, with just 8 hours left to return to job, he boards the train for his home. He is tired but happy as tomorrow he’ll get his salary, 5000 bucks for the month with which he has to sustain his 5 members' family. With that the story will end.

Just shut up man. All your stories are becoming too similar, just giving out social messages. Chuck this idea.

But yeah, dear blogger buddies, with the stories and social messages, I remember, where have you all been? I am really disappointed. Once, you finish reading this post, go and read my previous one, Jihad. According to Blogadda and most of my readers, it is my best post till date. So do not miss it.

12:00 pm

Ha ha ha ha ha. Time to give some exercise to the muscles of my mouth. Stop thinking dirty, guys. I am just talking about laughing. The other exercise is off limits these days; the GF is not around you see! Yeah, yeah I had a GF, or should I say, I still have one or should I really address her that way. Its complicated, you see. Leave it.

Throwing some jokes, listening to some and the faculty is busy laughing. That's the work, they know and do best.

'They'?

I should now say 'We'!

For the ignorants, while I wait for my civil sevices results, I have started working at a popular coaching institute in Chandigarh. It has been under a month here but I have gelled in pretty well.

12:30 pm

Lets work finally. Yawn!

01:30 pm

Someone finally gave the lunch cry. I am not too hungry right now but it is better to have some company at lunch than having it alone, the way I did it in my initial days at office. Tap, tap walking, munch munch eating, tap tap walking back and I am back on my seat. Now, what to do? Last time, I said 'work', I ended up doing something else. So should I work finally? Maybe yes. Yawn!

04:00 pm

Ha ha ha ha ha. Yeah, again a laughing break. I did work for some time but it was too boring. Then helped other's with their work for some time. Yeah, I am the Jack of All Trades (and even the Master of some). So, helped a colleague with the content of her GK presentation, the other with the very basics of making a powerpoint presentation and still another with making diagrams on MS Word. I wonder, how the work was being carried out here when I was not amongst them. Amidst all this, I did something else too, rather spent most of the time doing it.

Everyone is discussing the CAT blunder here, time to time. It is the talk of the town and when you are sitting in an institute dedicated to the MBA coaching, this is bound to be on the top of the agenda. It is funny, how the management of the most esteemed management institutes of India created this blunder. Terrified students and their frantic calls are coming in non-stop since the begining of the exams, 6 days back.

Ha ha ha ha ha. Amidst these discussions, laughing continues.

04:30 pm

Wow! Just checked India's final score. Didn't care to see the score through the day. India declared at mammoth 726. Another victory around the corner, it seems.

As the time proceeds most of the faculty around is getting restless. Someone finally started playing songs on her cellphone. Oh my God, its 'Wake up Sid'! What the hell; I told you, I am not damn Sid. Let me sleep, I mean work. Yawn!

05:30 pm

Finally, did some more work in between the ha ha ha ha ha sessions. Lets go downstairs for some time. Another colleague, sitting on the adjoining seat decides to play the songs this time. Suspense and nervousness is in the air as his cellphone mostly dishes out oldies, worth a billion yawns. Just as I get ready to leave, the SRK-Rani starrer 'Chalte Chalte' title song starts playing. What a timing.Tap tap walking.

05:50 pm

A stroll around the buildings, a patty to satisfy the ever-empty stomach and a lemon drink (to accompany it) later, here I am back on my seat. The songs are still playing, this time 'Pal pal' from 'Munnabhai'. The song speaks our dilemma -With each passing moment, we are wondering, how shall we pass the remaining moments in this office. Is it a coincidence or with nothing better to do, I am trying to find a meaning out of every song! Anyway, Thank God, today, his cellphone is in a better mood.

Boss is also in the faculty room and behind his back, I am working. Yeah, working but upon something, I shouldn't be doing during office hours. Who cares!

06:30 pm

Boss is still in the room with a colleague, working upon the soon-to-be launched revamped website. Faculty has left, completing their 7 hours daily quota. But I am still stuck here, for another hour. With Boss around and no mood to work, I decided to read The Hindu, my staple diet. Being the GK and GD/PI faculty, this is one thing, I can do without any apprehensions in front of the Boss too. While reading, I generated some ideas for my real work and the other work too. So that is the reason, I am sitting in front of the PC now.

07:20 pm

It is the time to wrap up and call it a day, having nearly completed my 8¹/₂hours quota. It was a hectic day. Just had too many ha ha ha ha ha sessions, CAT blunder discussions, Boss sitting just behind the back and finally, the deadline to complete the work. Yes, I finally completed my work. The day well spent writing my post for Blog-a-Ton. Now time to schedule it for the midnight and once again wear the Marshal's cap. And you thought, I was all the time busy working upon that mega-assignment aka real work. Ha ha ha ha ha; work full throttle from tomorrow for sure.

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

Image Courtesy:
Personal Collection (edited)

Jihad

2009-11-26T00:00:00.007+05:30

This post got selected as BlogAdda's Spicy Saturday Picks. Click here to see the BlogAdda page.

Nov 26, 2009 – Early Hours

He had been trying to sleep unsuccessfully for many hours and just ended up turning from one side to another on his rotten charpai. It was not that he was accustomed to better comforts, having slept on this same bed since eternity. It was something else that was making him uncomfortable - those sounds that kept resonating in his head trying to tear it apart. One word that kept repeating itself in a constant loop behind this loud rattling of the local cleric, sent shivers down his spine – ‘Jihad’, he had said.

His eyes were wide open as he watched the old fan, hanging on the worn off ceiling, turn ceremoniously, pretending to send down cool gushes of air though the only thing it produced was a deafening clutter. But tonight that clutter failed to reach his ears, rather mind, as it was already preoccupied with the words he had heard last evening.

‘We have kept quiet for so long that they think we will take all their rubbish without uttering a word. When I see a young baby at the circumcision ceremony, I feel ashamed of myself. How is this personal hygiene of any use to him when the whole environment around him is so unclean? What future are we giving him?

‘We, cowards who have born each insult and each wound inflicted upon us like good for nothing bastards. We have to give our children a future where they are not afraid of the tyrants. We have to make them proud of us. If in children we see the Almighty; then for these children, in His name, we need Jihad.’

That last word that Maulvi Sahab had said so forcefully in that small dingy room kept echoing in his mind since then. Three men were assembled there as Maulvi gave them further instructions.

Just as his eyes closed and he felt his mind getting a bit lighter, the alarm rang. He got up in a flash. But realising that he is too tired because of a sleepless night, he reclined back against the wall which felt moist due to the constant seepage.

He was half awake and half asleep when he heard the cantor calling through the loudspeaker of the nearby mosque – “Allah hu Akbar.....”

“Shit,” he said and sprung up instantaneously. There was no time to take a bath, so he quickly washed his hands, mouth, nose, arms, face, ears, forehead, hair and feet, thrice in the prescribed order and jumped onto the mat, facing west. While he performed the holy ritual, he remembered how his Abbu used to say that namaz should be rendered in a clean environment. Standing in this dilapidated room, he asked Allah for forgiveness.

‘We are still awaiting justice in Gujarat while their Chief Minister, the man behind all this, is winning elections and making merry. One year ago, our brothers from Pakistan took upon themselves to avenge the insult we have been facing all these years. We have to show that even we can stand up against the injustice and oppression inflicted upon us.

‘We have planned this meticulously and finally it is the time to execute it. This will be our first anniversary gift for our enemies. Let them see that for each mujahedeen we lose in this war, ten more will take birth to avenge his death.’

It had been one year since the dreaded terrorist attack in Mumbai. He remembered what hue and cry it had created. No one cared when countless Indians died here and there but this time those who died were either special Indians or firangis. Even the Union Home Minister who had successfully clung to his chair despite the number of bomb blasts that had occurred last year across the length and the breadth of the country, had to finally yield. Such was the power of these special Indians and their firangi guests.

Maulvi had chosen this day to execute a sinister plot. Now, even he had a role to play.

“Should I? Shouldn’t I?” the ambivalence was killing him.

As his table clock ticked its way towards the destined time, he remembered the words of his Abbu, ‘Jihad is a struggle to improve one's self and society. It is as much about fighting injustice and oppression as about spreading or defending Islam.’

He knew he had to do it.

Nov 26, 2009 – 0700 hours

Time was running out, so he decided not to prepare the breakfast and instead, grab a vada pav on his way. As he moved down the rickety staircase of his chawl, he saw some children idling around. ‘They should be getting ready for their school at this hour,’ he thought. But then reminded himself sceptically, ‘What talim could those four walls of a sarkari school provide them, without any teacher!’

He continued moving along the dirty lanes, cautious not to step onto any heap of garbage. As he reached the barricades, he looked back at his abode; a ghetto was what people called it. Located on the suburbs of the city, this was one place where most of the people like him landed up after leaving their hometowns. He had come from the Azamgarh district of Uttar Pradesh, made infamous in the recent past by the arrests, encounters and killings of many alleged mujahedeen who hailed from there.

Today the barricades were not blocking the way as was the usual case. In any other housing society of the city, a beautiful arch would have adorned the entrance but here the local police had been kind enough to save the money of the dwellers by putting up barricades and a police post instead. It wasn’t clear whether these protected the homogeneous insiders against any violent excursions of the outsiders or to keep a tap on the movement of the insiders themselves.

In financial terms, he could have managed a better accommodation at a better place but in this city, there were also some other unspoken yet clearly audible factors which decided who could live where.

‘We are made to live like dogs on our own land. The glorious days of Delhi Sultanate and Mughal Empire are gone. These infidels think that they can stomp us at their will. They have the support of our own disoriented brothers like the DGP of Maharashtra Police, who wag their tails in front of them.

‘It’s the time to make them aware that the dogs also bite. With the blessings of the Almighty behind us, tomorrow is the day when we will finally initiate our jihad.’

Nov 26, 2009 – 0900 hours

Immersed in his thoughts and the words of the cleric, he didn’t realise, when the local train reached the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, one of the busiest station of Mumbai as well as India. He hardly had 30 seconds to unboard the train. Somehow, struggling his way through the microcosm of humanity, he just managed to jump off, as the train trudged further. ‘How can I behave so irresponsibly at such a time,’ he cursed himself.

As he stepped on to the platform, the images from the past year flashed in front his eyes. It had been one of the eight places that came under attack that night. Around 50 of the total 170 casualties or so were reported from here. But no one cared to give airtime to the Indians who died here except flashing the shots of Ajmal Kasab and his accomplice entering it.

They were busier reporting about Taj, Oberoi and Nariman House where the special Indians and firangis resided. He remembered the blood spilled floor of the passenger hall, images of which were made available by a local lensman who hid himself in a stationary train compartment.

‘Soon there will be similar blood and silence of death not far away from here if everything goes according to the plans of Maulvi Sahab,’ he thought.

He left the station hurriedly for his destination, about 2 kilometres away. He headed south, swiftly along the Dadabhai Naoroji Road and then got off it, moving along variously named streets and margs until he reached the Shahid Bhagat Singh Road. ‘Next, will you even start naming public toilets when nothing else is left to commemorate your leaders,’ he sighed.

He had just started tiring a bit due to the sleepless night, empty stomach and a brisk walk to top it all, when he saw a sprawling building on his left. It was one of the surviving remnants of the British Raj, like many other buildings and edifices around here including CST which he had left just twenty minutes ago. That station used to be Victoria Terminus until 1996 when some Hindu zealots forced a name change. ‘The bloody name game,’ he cursed.

Now he faced this heritage building, a beautiful specimen of the Indian Gothic style of Architecture, looking at the beautiful sculpture of Neptune that adorned the pediment at its top. The blue basalt used in the facing with differently coloured natural stones detailing it, imparted an incredible polychromatic effect.

This building, originally conceived to commemorate the visit of Duke of Edinburgh in 1870 was finally inaugurated six years hence as the residence for Royal Alfred Sailors. Later in 1928, it was acquired by the British Government and became the seat of the Bombay Legislative Council in late 1930’s. However, since quarter of a decade, it was housing something else after the Legislative Assembly moved to the new Council Hall in 1982.

He stood there acknowledging its beauty as he had done every time, he passed by. But today, he was not just going to pass by but enter this building. Finally, the time had come. So with thumping heart, he took some indecisive steps towards the entrance of Maharashtra State Police Headquarters.

Nov 26, 2009 – 1600 hours

There was hustle and bustle in the hall as the media persons tried to grab a strategic position. The conference table lying on the raised platform was being decorated with colourful mikes from all the possible English, Hindi and other regional news channels. Even some foreign correspondents were present. After all, this was the first media briefing since the major event that had happened earlier in the day.

As all seemed set, the Police Commissioner stepped in amongst flashing cameras and the buzzing noise of the media persons. It had been a busy day for him but he looked as fresh as ever. He was one man who never allowed the city and its (mis) happenings take a toll on him. As he sat on the central chair of the conference table with his subordinates flanking him on the sides, he motioned everyone to maintain silence.

“In the morning as I reached my office in Dadar West, I got a call from the Maharashtra State Police Headquarters. I urgently rushed there. A person had arrived, claiming to have information about a planned bomb blast to take place at Regal Cinema nearby, later in the day. Upon arriving, I took the charge. He claimed that he had heard a cleric having the final discussions with some men in one of the kholis of his chawl.

“We moved swiftly on the basis of the lead given by him and within a couple of hours had arrested all of them without spilling any blood in the process. Luckily for us, they were amateurish in their approach, not having any links with the organised terrorist groups as per our initial investigations. Nonetheless, if they had succeeded in their plans, it could have led to major loss of life and property.”

“Where is this informer?” demanded the reporters in a cacophonic chorus.

“He is with us right now.” and with that Police Commissioner gestured towards a subordinate standing at the back entrance of the hall. Soon a man with his face clad in a black mask entered the hall. He looked around and took some wavering steps towards the vacant seat of the conference table.

He had just moved some paces when the hall got filled with reverberations of hundreds of hands clapping together, hailing the hero who had just arrived. His remaining steps were beaming with confidence.

“What gave you the courage to do this?” asked the Reuters correspondent, as he took his chair.

He paused and looked around nervously through the small parting in his mask. He suddenly felt the comforting hand of the Police Commissioner on his left arm and then a pat on his back.

“Well, when the bullets flow out of a terrorist’s barrel or splinters blast off from the bomb, they don’t know whether they’ll be piercing a Hindu’s or a Muslim’s flesh. The blood that flows is that of a human being and with each such wound inflicted, my country cries further.

“My Abbu used to say that Jihad is a struggle to improve one’s self and society. Today, our society is rotting due to this unwanted hatred and we are losing our self to an unholy war. It’s time we wake up and realise that an eye for an eye is not the solution. We all are in this together and have to sit down to sort out any differences which exist. What I did today was what any responsible citizen would have done.”

As he stood up and got ready to leave securely as motioned by the Police Commissioner, he added calmly looking around at the gaping media persons, “For my Allah and for my Country, this is my Jihad.”

***

Note:

The definition of Jihad (as given by the protagonist's father) is a non-verbatim adaptation of the definition given by the scholar John Esposito.
Pro Deo et Patria is the Latin phrase translated to ‘For God and Country’ in English. It is the motto of my beloved school – St. John’s High, an Irish Christian Missionary school.

Disclaimer:

This work of fiction is not intended to malign any individual or community. The readers are requested to extract the positive message out of it rather than searching for any negativity within the words and expressions used.

Image Courtesy:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com (edited)

Coming Up Next!

2009-11-22T00:26:00.002+05:30

"We have kept quiet for so long that they think we will take all their rubbish without uttering a word... One year ago, our brothers from Pakistan took upon themselves to avenge the insult we have been facing all these years. We have to show that even we can stand up against the injustice and oppression inflicted upon us... This will be our first anniversary gift to our enemies... With the blessings of the Almighty behind us, November 26 is the day when we will finally initiate our jihad."

Come this November 26, Will Mumbai bleed again?

Stay tuned to find it out as the mystery unfolds here!

Disclaimer:

I am an innocent blogger with no connection whatsoever with any terrorist organisation or fundamentalist group, other than the fact that I voted for a BJP candidate in the last General Elections. I sinned, I know!

The above passage is a part of an upcoming post. So in case you are from any Indian intelligence services who happened to hop onto my blog due to some freaky keyword matches (I doubt RAW, NIA or IB are that advanced), then please do not get alarmed and go back to your slumber.

And in case, you happen to be from the FBI (I don’t mind fantasising about my blog’s popularity across the Oceans), then say my hello to Mr. President and tell him not to worry and live in peace (pun intended).

And in case, you are from the ISI, then please don’t start salivating. I am a proud Indian and as I said, I am just a blogger whose latest obsession happens to be storytelling and hence I won’t become one of your stooges. (Just kidding fellas, if there’s any nice proposal for a prospective franchisee in and around the Chandigarh tricity area, contact me at ISI_is_behind_all_the_terrorist_attacks_in_India@TalliHoGaye.pk)

A Sensible Disclaimer:

Usage of certain potentially controversial words in this post are not intended to malign any individual or community. That is the last thing, you should expect on this blog.

By adding humour with the gory pictures of the Mumbai Siege, last year, I by no means intend to show disrespect to the departed souls and their grieving families. We all are grieving with them!

For my readers:

It was the Mumbai Siege that inspired me to return to blogging last year and since then I've become a regular. There were two immediate posts, I published then on this incident. I’ll appreciate if you can take out some time to read them.

Well friends, I know I am just over-hyping my upcoming post by this publicity stunt. But then, these days competition is so high that one has to use such strategic (read, stupid) ploys.

Ok, just cut the crap. I just intended to boost my ever falling posting rate. Period.

P.S.
Technically, after writing 'Period', I must bring this post to an end. But who cares! Well, there is a reason behind my dwindling posting rate, rather two. First, as you all know I had my exams which finally ended on Nov 3. Second, is my job. Yup, I joined the faculty of a MBA coaching institute and have to burn my arse, sitting there 8.5 hours daily. So please bear with me.
Yeah, yeah, I know you all are snickering right now as nothing's as relaxing as a blogger buddy on a break!

Errata
Please excuse the grammatical mistake in the picture caption. It should read 'A Year since Mumbai bled!' rather than 'An Year..'. I am too lazy to edit the image. Period!

Image Courtesy:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com (edited)

If I were a baby again

2009-11-07T00:00:00.007+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 4; the fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Yesterday, we had a great time. Some students from a nearby college came to our place with lots of sweets and goodies. They played with us, sang with us, danced with us and for those few moments, lost in this invisible force of communion, we all forgot our realities and got lifted to some other world.

They also made us write an essay on a very peculiar topic – ‘If I were a baby again’. Well, we had half an hour at our disposal and I thought and thought while others scribbled through their sheet of paper. Then finally with time running out, I gave words to that one thought that has lingered in my mind since the time I’ve started realising my existence in this vast ocean of humanity.

Oh! In the zeal to draw the premises for telling you that I won the first prize in this competition, I just forgot to introduce myself.

Hi, I am Kabir. As the great saint from whom I borrow my name, I have no religion. Well, how can I have one when I don’t even know who my parents are. I live in an orphanage with dozens of children just like me. We are one large family having no consanguineal bond joining us. The only bond that joins us is of similar circumstances and fate.

I am 11 years old, sort of the mean age between the new borns who join us every six months or so and the 20 to 21 years old bhaiyas and didis who leave this sanctuary to perch into the real world. But teacher ma often says that I am too mature and my brain too sharp for my age. That’s how I got my name when I was 5.

Well, if God takes away something, he is kind enough to compensate it in one form or the other, I’ve heard. I am lame; I mean crippled. Oh sorry, I am being politically incorrect, right! Thank God I got a sanctuary in this orphanage or out in the streets, people would have indeed called me a lame in the best condescending manner possible. Well, with time my ailment has got transformed from being a physical handicap to a physical disability to a physical challenge and lately I have heard people like me being addressed as differently-abled.

Whatever you call me, my fate remains the same.

Just like the group of students who visited us yesterday to celebrate the upcoming Children’s Day, there are many people who drop by to spend time with us. At times, it feels nice but then it turns too monotonous, especially around the festive seasons when just every second person in the town wants to get rid of his or her sins by doing some community service. What better way than spending some time with the unfortunate kids living in the orphanage around the corner.

So in comes one group of visitors after the other. The ones we detest the most are the Mantriji kinds who visited us during Diwali. I don’t even remember if he held any toddler or talked to us unless there was a photographer from the local newspaper around.

Even when the students from nearby colleges come, there are always those aloof kinds within them who prefer to remain on the periphery. I recently learnt that these poor chaps have to visit us to get some extra-curricular certificates that act as brownie points for their further admissions. Well, it’s good if we can be of any help to such thankless lot.

Sometimes, it feels as if we are the exhibits at a museum or even worse, inmates of a zoo. While in a museum people gasp in wonder and appreciate the exhibits, the zoo inmates often get mocked at. We lie somewhere in between.

Well, there are also some very kind visitors like Toffee wale Babaji who always treats us with nice candies on weekends, Doctor Uncle who never misses his monthly visit for our free health checkup including medicines and treatments and then these college students who came yesterday and made us feel like their younger siblings.

World is full of such duality, the good and the bad but I feel the whole mankind lies somewhere in between.

We all share the similar joys and apprehensions here. We are a one big family as I said but sometimes we long for our own little family where we might be the focal point of everyone's attention. Some are lucky enough to realise this wish as there are many childless parents who are not averse to adopt a child of an unknown lineage.

However, I recently read about test tube babies on the internet. Well, a local socialite was kind enough to donate two computers with internet connection amidst flashing camera lights the other day. I realise biological science and its advancements are being unfair to us. Why play with God's power to create a new life when there are so many of us, living in these overcrowded sanctuaries longing for a new life ourselves.

Whenever, there’s some prospective adopter around, we try to behave our best, hoping to be the lucky one; though we won't ever admit it. Frankly, we all live in a dilemma.

Will we ever be happy after leaving all our brothers and sisters?

For that matter, are we really happy here?

There are some who just try too hard, transforming from their naughty self to diabetes-inducing sweet innocence. We call them seducers. I doubt if other than a handful of us, any kid knows its actual meaning. But none of us ever miss a chance to use it to abuse each other after yet another failed attempt at seduction. I believe some bhaiya invented this abuse long ago and it just kept passing on since then.

Well, even I used to try my luck earlier but soon realised, no one wants to adopt a liability.

Oh! See, how I started babbling once again. Enough about me and my life!

You must be wondering, what did I write in that essay that bagged me the first prize, right? Well, I am surprised I won it at the first place as I thought I stood no chance. While others wrote long fairy tale like passages, I just wrote a single line; as I told you earlier, giving words to the thought which has and will linger in my mind always.

If I were a baby again, I wish my parents won’t abandon me this time!

Image Courtesy:
http://www.thecolor.com (edited)

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

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A New Life

2009-10-15T18:00:00.009+05:30

You have heard of Guantanamo, you have heard of Abu Ghraib. I’ll share with you, my experience more sinister than these.
Incarcerated in a shaking dark chamber, where one could barely wriggle; I was made to survive for months on just fluids.
A tube was thrust inside my body and they gave me, what they wanted, just through it. I kicked, I punched and then I just waited helplessly.
Finally, today I got free; I got born.

Continuing with the set tradition on this blog, this is a 77-Fiction on the occasion of my 77^th post. No prizes for guessing, what possibly it can be dedicated to!

Presenting to you my lovely niece Nirbhita, who joined us today at 1538 hours.

I was the first amongst the impatiently waiting people to hear her first cries as she got free from her Guantanamo.
And the best part is that, today happens to be my sister aka her mother's birthday too.
So, Happy birthday Neha and Nirbhita :)

Click here to see her other pictures.

Image Courtesy:

Photographed by her proud Father about one hour after her birth (edited)

The Last Number Dialled

2009-10-08T04:38:00.045+05:30

This post got selected as BlogAdda's Spicy Saturday Picks. Click here to see the BlogAdda page.

This post remained as the all-time most popular blogpost on Indivine for the record time. Click here to see the Indivine page.

It was their first marriage anniversary and in the year gone by, they already had witnessed all the strengthenings and the weakenings of a lifelong nuptial bond. Life had not been all that rosy as they had imagined in those carefree days of their college life. Love was the only thing that mattered then. Once married, they realised that there are even other ingredients to make things work. Love can lubricate the friction to some extent but cannot be the substitute to every necessity of a married life.

Till yesterday, what he found cute about her now seemed irritating to him. Was that a reality or just her figment of imagination was difficult to tell. Self doubts started creeping in as both of them had a stark realisation - their immature decision to get married before giving shape to their professional life was now disfiguring their individual as well as married life. Their parents had warned them of such possible consequences but listening to them was the last thing on their priority list, once they had decided to step into their new world.

Other than the first month, the remaining eleven months had been tough in this world of theirs. Most of her time was spent waiting for him after returning from a neighbourhood school, which was the only source of their steady income. He had no such steady source. Since their marriage, he had changed four jobs. He was made for something big, he exclaimed. Had this marriage closed all doors for him was again a thought which lingered into his mind when there was nothing else to occupy it.

He had his reasons to be agitated. He had promised her the best life possible. Seeing himself helpless in fulfilling it, he could only curse. Earlier, he used to curse himself. She gave him an embrace and the warmth of their physical closeness used to soothe their mental agony. However, when he was done cursing himself, he moved to their marriage and this was the time when he ended up agitating her too.

Life was not easy for her after all. She was not used to all this, coming from a rich established family. She could not even complain. It was her own decision after all. She tried her best to keep her apprehensions from him. However, even she ended up cursing this situation at times.

This was not what they had imagined; a year full of curses. They wanted to pluck the roses together but ended up plucking the thorns. It’s not that they never tried, but somehow they were becoming distant. Some kind of inhibition had crept in. They wanted that to end but kept expecting the other to take an initiative. There used to be a time when they fought, they never waited for the other to reconcile but now such waits became too often and prolonged.

‘It’s enough of it,’ he said to himself and picked up his cell phone to call back home.

“Hi! Happy Marriage Anniversary!”

“So, you got the time to wish me?”

“I was really busy at work yesterday. Just dozed off on returning to my Hotel room. I saw your missed call in the morning but had to rush back to work.”

“It’s ok. Same to you. And how is your work going. Still a couple of days left to return right?”

“No. I’ll wrap up all the work soon to leave back for the city as soon as possible. We’ll spend the whole evening together.”

“Now that is your yet another promise. I don’t remember when you kept a promise last time.”

“No, I mean it this time. It is 1 o’ clock right now. I have the presentation in 15 minutes. I’ll take the bus around 3 and will be back home by 6 in the evening. Believe me.”

“Ok, let’s see. Take care of yourself. No need to rush. I hope you impress the clients. All the best for your presentation.”

“Thanks dear. See you soon.”

‘Dear?’ she said to herself and gave a smile. He had called her like that after such a long time, after ages it seemed.

It was 6 in the evening. She had baked the cake and his favourite cookies. However, she was expecting that call from him. She was prepared for it; yet another excuse for not making it on time or maybe staying over for another day. She thought, whatever happens, she won’t sound annoyed.

‘Why should I let him know about my weakness? If he doesn’t care, even I’ll act carefree,’ she told herself.

Suddenly, the bell rang. But it was not the phone; it was the door. Her heart started beating faster as she approached the door. She wanted him to be there. She could not take those unkept promises anymore. She wanted those promises to be fulfilled; she wanted him.

As she opened the door with the anxiety of a newly wedded bride, she saw him, standing there with some confused expressions on his face and the bouquet of her favourite flowers in his hands. Both stood there for a moment not knowing how to greet one another. Finally, she stepped forward, opened her arms and hugged him, getting that eternal warmth, she had waited for so long.

They looked at each other with moist eyes and then hugged again tightly, hoping to remain in this trance forever. With not a single word spoken, they both had conveyed to each other that it is the time to forget the past and make a new beginning.

The next two hours flew by quickly. They didn’t speak much, fearing that the words could break this dream. It was around 8 that the phone rang in the other room.

He was not ready to leave her hand as she pushed him gently giving her mesmerising smile.

“It must be mom; I’ll just be back baby.”

As she left the room, he gave her a smile and waved his hands gently.

“Hello, who’s there?”

“Mam, I am calling from the police station.”

“Police station? Why what happened?”

“See mam, we found your landline number as the last dialled one in the cell phone of an accident victim.”

“Oh, my God? Which cell number?”

“Mam, it’s 9876432211.”

“What nonsense! It is my husband’s number and he is with me right now.”

“Oh, are you sure?”

“What do you mean, sure!”

“Mam, you were called around 1 o’ clock. Later on, this person got crushed under a bus destined for your city, while trying to board it in a hurry around 3.”

“What? Just wait, I’ll get my husband on the phone.”

She hurriedly ran to his room. But he was not there. She called out but didn’t get a reply. She was confused. Her heart was beating fast.

‘He was just here. Everything seemed fine. We were making a new start. We had the two hours of our life.’

All kinds of thoughts started flooding her mind. She had no courage to return to the phone.

‘What will I say?’

‘What will I do?’

‘What is happening?’

She had no idea. She kept sitting there like that, the different stories flashing through her mind. She had heard those stories, seen those movies where the soul of the dead returned to complete the unfinished business.

It had happened to her. She had to understand that. All those myths were nothing but reality. With tears rolling down her eyes, she gave a faint smile, ‘He indeed, kept his promise at last.’

Suddenly, she heard the sound of toilet flush in the adjoining bathroom and the door opened.

“Hey, I forgot to tell you dear, my cell got stolen at the bus stand,” he said, removing the ear plugs of her cell phone from his ears.

***

AUTHOR’S REFLECTION: Life might give you the second chance or it might not. But you definitely can give yourself that second chance. When it comes to relationships, don’t make hurried decisions and if you make them, make those decisions work. Dial that last number before it’s too late. And yeah, do not expect that paranormal crap on my blog!

P.S. This was my first attempt at pure fiction and hence, inadvertently has many flaws. Still, thanks to the love and support of readers, it was promoted as the most popular post on Indivine before dropping down to the second position. You may click here to promote it further and bring it back to the top if you liked it too.

Click here to view all my other attempts at fiction writing which have been applauded at other blogging communities like Blogadda and Blog-a-Ton too. If I have to suggest my favourites and the popular ones amongst these short stories, they would be Jihad, Wish and of course my three-part semi-autobiographical novelette Everyone Has A Cupid Tale To Tell.

Image Courtesy:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/coveringsmagazine (edited)

The Indian Dream

2009-10-03T00:00:00.007+05:30

This is the Platinum Jubilee (75^th) Post on this Blog. It is a tribute to our Father of the Nation, M.K. Gandhi whose 140th Birth Anniversary was celebrated yesterday.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 3; the third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

You can be what you want on that land of paradise
So they said and left to chase the American Dream
Some fell on the way while others managed to rise
But they missed to realise a possible Indian Dream
Here can be no dream but nightmares they nagged
Hurriedly packing their bags for the foreign shore
What has India given to me they demandingly asked
Not bothering to mention what had they given to her

A possible Indian Dream?

Yes, to dream in India is possible and to realise it, staying here is also possible.

However, I am not an idealist. Hence, I am not against anyone leaving the country for the greener pastures. Moreover, in this global village where each economy is dependent upon each other, free flow of human resources is as important as goods and services. India is the largest receiver of remittances from its overseas citizens, something that fuels our forex reserves and makes us competitive on global front.

In short an Indian Dream can also be realised while staying away. However, for that to happen, you will have to see your dream and the Indian dream complementing each other. You may stay away physically but emotionally you will have to stay close enough.

What is the Indian dream?

It is the dream that all the people, irrespective of their socio-economic standing, will get the opportunities to realise their potential within the country.

In this sense my Indian dream and your Indian dream are the same, i.e. to succeed in life and definitely we will prefer to realise it staying closer to our roots. Ofcourse there are some exceptions who are just adamant to move away to foreign lands irrespective of the fact that back home, the opportunities exist or not. For them, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Not including such exceptions in this discussion; we must realise first of all that the onus lies upon us to make our country resilient enough. Before demanding anything, we have to be ever ready to supply her with the nourishment she requires.

For example, on short term basis, the money we receive from non-residents may boost our economy but for the long term development of the nation, we also need their true commitment. It’s something like taking care of the ailing parents who need personal attention rather than monetary help.

As for those who opt to stay back because of their dignity or the lack of opportunity, must learn to accept the fact that we have many problems on our way which must be dealt by us, ourselves.

Dream
Indian, Fancy
Rising, Shining, Roaring
Would leave everyone behind
Delusion
Vision
Many problems impeding speed
Trying, Solving, Succeeding
Pragmatic, Indian
Dream

Yes, we cannot live in any delusion and have to find our way through. We cannot put all the responsibility on the government but have to shoulder it too. Poverty, overpopulation, unemployment, illiteracy, corruption, environmental degradation, communalism, casteism, terrorism, regionalism and disparities are just some of the causes that are impeding our growth and not allowing us to have a promising Indian dream. And these problems cannot be solved by escaping from them but by facing them with courage and determination.

To make it possible, it is not necessary to be in any specific power position. We as the citizens have to perform our vocations, whatever they maybe, diligently. We have to act responsibly and empathically in our social interactions. We have to develop sensitivity towards the economic disparities that exist and help the government in plugging them. We have to perform our role as a good citizen before demanding good governance.

Our forefathers also had an Indian dream!

They saw an India where the people will be free from all the clutches and will rule themselves.

They gave us the freedom and gave us the vision but somehow we wavered off the path. However, the situation is not all that glum. Last decade or two have seen India taking the right trajectory once again and the conditions seem ripe to realise our Indian Dream. However, it should be ensured that the fruits of development are distributed among all the citizens and are not limited to any particular section.

What about our future generations' Indian Dream?

If everyone takes upon himself/herself to be a part of this Indian dream, and make our personal dreams a part of it too, then we can give a sweet Indian dream to our future generations.

Let us just not wait
For the Change to happen but
Be the Change ourselves.

Moreover, this Indian Dream should not be seen in relative terms but in absolute terms. We have to compete with ourselves and not with anyone else. This is true for us individually and India as a whole. There is a thin line between optimism and wishful thinking. We must not transgress it.

Now, it is upto you to decide, this Indian dream of mine is a delusion or a vision.

Off-the-topic Relevant Reflections :

The first poem is a simple two-versed composition with the most common rhyming pattern of a-b-a-b.
The last two lines of this poem are inspired by the U.S. President J.F. Kennedy's famous quote, "Don't ask what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country."
The second poem is a Mirror Cinquain, an extended form of the cinquain, a form of poetry that I have introduced earlier on this blog. Moreover, this cinquain is much closer to the original form than my previous attempt. Here line 1 has 1 noun, line 2 has 2 adjectives explaining the noun, line 3 has 3 action verbs (-ing ending verbs), line 4 has a 4 words phrase and line 5 has 1 word explaining the noun in line 1. The Mirror cinquain is formed by a cinquain and a reverse cinquian. Original cinquains have a 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 syllables pattern which got gradually transformed into a 1, 2, 3, 4, 1 words pattern.
The third poem is my crude first attempt at a Haiku. It is a very popular form of short poetry, an unrhyming verse genre, conveying an image or feeling in two parts spread over 3 lines with 5, 7, 5 syllables pattern. Traditional Japanese Haiku is written with a seasonal reference unlike this one.
This Haiku is inspired by Mahatma Gandhi's famous quote, "Be the change you want to see in the world." It is a tribute to the great man whose 140^th Birth Anniversary was celebrated yesterday.
Talking of Indian Dream and poems, you might like to read my childhood poem on this subject. It is in Hindi and have been posted earlier. Click here to read it.

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

Image Courtesy:
http://img.fropper.com (edited)

Wither Hindi? Part-II

2009-09-17T00:05:00.026+05:30

This series of posts got selected for BlogAdda's Spicy Saturday Picks. Click here to read a mini-review of this series by the BlogAdda team.

This is the second part of a two part series. The first part was published on the occasion of the Hindi Diwas three days ago. Click here to read it before proceeding.

Before, I take up the main theme of this post, I must share an important piece of information that I inadvertently missed in the previous one. Talking of Constitutional or legal categories of Indian languages, beyond the Official and the Scheduled languages, The Government of India declared a new category - Classical Languages - in 2004. Since then, Tamil(2004), Sanskrit(2005), Telugu and Kannada(2008) have joined the elite group.

The eligibility criteria pertains to the antiquity and originality of the language and a rich body of ancient texts, amongst others. However, inclusion of Telugu and Kannada in 2008 started a new political row epicentred in Kerala, upon Malayalam's exclusion. In short, such irrational categorisation has done nothing good for the languages but only given a chance to political parties to rake up the sentiments of the general public, reminding us the Anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960's.

Such problems stem from the fact that despite initial rejection by the Dhar Commission (1948) and JVP Committee (Nehru, Patel and Sitaramayya, 1949); Government of India was forced to follow the linguistic reorganisation of states after the popular agitation and the death of Potti Sriramulu, for carving out Andhra Pradesh out of Tamil Nadu in 1953. Following this development, States Reorganisation Commission was appointed which upheld the language as the basis of reorganisation of states in 1955. Rest is history.

Hence, somehow other socio-economic or political grievances of the states also get mixed up with the language as well as ethnicity issues, creating an unhealthy concoction for the appetite of the Indian federal structure.

Recently, Union Human Resources and Development Minister, Mr. Kapil Sibal started a new debate by calling for compulsory teaching of Hindi in all the Indian schools and hence, create it as the link language between the different linguistic regions of the country.

As such there is nothing new about it as it is in consonance with the provisions under Article 351 of the Indian Constitution discussed in the previous post. You may recall that according to this article, it is the duty of the Union Government to develop Hindi as the medium of expression for all the elements of the composite culture of India, i.e. develop it as a pan-Indian language or a link language in other words.

Moreover, Hindi has been an integral part of the Three language formula evolved by the Union Government in consultations with the states and enunciated in the National Policy Resolution of 1968 and National Policy on Education of 1986, though implemented variedly by the state governments.

According to Mr. Sibal,

Now the lingua franca is English for professionals. When we become producers of knowledge then we can set our language as the lingua franca.

Mr. Sibal is the alumni (infact, belonged to the very first batch) of my school, a prestigious Christian missionary school of this region. He studied in that school when my father used to attend a government school. So, in short, he is generationally one step ahead of my family. It is not difficult to guess what kind of education he must have provided to his children and how proficient they must be in the language that Mr. Sibal desires to make the link language. I might be totally wrong in my assertion about the proficiency of his children but the question I am asking here is, why such hypocrisy?

Secondly, why do we want Hindi to be the link language at the first place? Moreover, will it be fruitful to make such a try?

According to Mr. Sibal,

We should ensure greater emphasis on Hindi. All children are not fluent in Hindi as they are in their mother tongues. Hindi is necessary for students to integrate with the rest of the country. The same students integrate with the rest of world through English.

Well, today I find myself highly integrated with the people around the country. My blog survives thanks to the visitors from places like Madras, Calcutta, Bangalore and Bombay (sorry, Chennai, Kolkatta, Bengaluru and Mumbai, it should read!) and I am sure many of them do not understand Hindi properly. It is English that is binding us. So why should we reserve English for only global integration? Why cannot it be a source of national integration as well?

What is the point in denying our history? British ruled us and gave us English. We cannot deny that it is this English which has made us globally competitive.

English is accused of being elitist. Yes, it is. Who is stopping the Government to make it reach all the sections of Indian society. Mr. Sibal plans to teach Hindi in every school. Is it feasible? Efforts required for making a good Hindi teacher available in a primary school of rural Tamil Nadu or Kerala will be more tedious than making a good English teacher available there. Kindly correct me if I am wrong in this assertion.

Further, talking of the integration with the different regions of the country, the specific region which is having the maximum need for it is the North East. States like Nagaland, Meghalaya and Arunachal Pradesh have stuck to English as their only official language. So why not promote English as the medium for both official and cultural exchanges with such regions?

English education will have the added advantage of making the students more competitive in this era of globalisation. In this respect, idea of English as a pan-Indian language though revolutionary, holds more logic than Hindi.

But is this suggestion really revolutionary? On the ground level, it is English that is being used for communication between a Hindi and a non-Hindi speaking population during cultural exchanges. This is not just limited to the so-called educated elites like us but even to the non-English as well as lesser educated sections who use simple broken English when it comes to crossing the language barrier in a foreign state. Why not promote and improve the standards of English in the Indian schools of all hues and colours rather than aspiring to do the same with Hindi?

Moreover, constitutionally too, English is the official medium of communication between the Union (or Hindi speaking states) and the non-Hindi speaking states under the provisions of the Article 346. English is also the language used in the Supreme Courts, High Courts and for Acts and Bills under the provisions of the Article 348. So why should we emphasise on Hindi as the link language when it comes to the Article 351?

For that matter, coming back to a question raised earlier, that what is the logic behind developing Hindi as the pan-Indian language? As has been elaborated in the previous post, such an idea has failed miserably all these years thanks to the disinterest (rather protest) shown by the various linguistic regions and the importance of English as the global language.

Does Hindi qualify to be the link language because it is spoken by the majority of Indian population (41% according to the 2001 census)? As already elaborated, the actual pure form of Hindi is only spoken in certain areas of the Hindi belt. Infact, the official Hindi used by the Government and taught in the schools, better known as Khari boli (or Khari dialect) is limited to the Western Uttar Pradesh region, originally a rural language, developed only after 18^th century.

Within UP itself, there are various dialects of Hindi other than Khariboli which include Brajbhasa, Awadhi, Bhojpuri, Bahgeli and Bundeli. Infact, a person like me cannot understand Bhojpuri or other dialects which are part of Hindi as per the 41% figure mentioned above.

When, there is so much variation within just one state, you may figure out the variations in the complete Hindi Belt including regions like Rajasthan, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu, Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Chhatisgarh, Bihar, Uttarakhand, Chandigarh and New Delhi. This will also open the eyes of those non-Hindi speaking Indians who see the complete Hindi belt as a single unit bounded by a single language.

Moreover, asserting a majority language (Hindi) upon others is against the basic tenets of democracy. Some may call it as the false pride of the minorities but then that doesn't change the ground reality that there is resentment against it (valid in some cases, politically motivated in others) and hence, problems in its acceptance.

Such resentment is not just limited to the overt manifestations like the Anti-Hindi agitations in Tamil Nadu, back in 1950-60's which actually played an important role in bringing DMK to power; but also in the recent times can be seen in the form of Maharashtra Governments decision to extend Marathi as a compulsory subject in all the schools of the state, including the ones affiliated to ICSE and CBSE from 2007-08, basically expressing disapproval to the imposition of Hindi on its natives.

However, as shown above, the official Hindi (khariboli) is infact a minority language like all the other languages and dialects; so the resentment is bound to increase.

However, there is no denying the fact that we do need a pan-Indian language. As already elaborated above, English seems a better option for the same. There is no need for making any official pronouncement for the same as it is infact developing as a link language on its own. Yes, officially the stand on Hindi can be given up and in fact it should be allowed to get 'adulterated' in the different regions.

There is no point in making Mumbai out of Bombay or Kolkatta out of Calcutta as you may try to run away from the British legacy but it will keep haunting you. Its better to accept the truth and in this particular case of languages, the truth comes with the added advantage that

it will have higher acceptance by the various linguistic groups, and
it will make us globally more competitive.

Lastly, Mr. Kapil Sibal should concentrate on some concrete educational reforms at the basic primary level rather than taking the easier route of superficial reforms in the form of doing away with the Board exams (read Mou's brilliant post with regards to it) or proposing Hindi as the link language just like the Reservation policy (read my take on Reservations) of his predecessor.

The Right to Education though getting the status of a fundamental right under Aricle 21A, back in 2002 by the 86th Constitutional Amendment Act and finally, after intense debate and opposition, its provisions (for free and compulsory education to all the children of the age of 6 to 14 years) being passed by the Parliament and getting the Presidential assent a couple of weeks back on Sep 3, 2009; will face a lot of hurdles when it comes to the implementation stage. The energies of Union HRD Ministry should be concentrated here. Moreover, talking of higher education, even the proposed Bill for the opening of our frontiers for the Foreign Universities, may look promising but has a lot of scope for going wrong. Let us keep all these issues for some other day.

P.S.
This is to clarify my stand on a particular aspect about which I have received a couple of comments - I have no where claimed that English should be our National Language. Infact, I have specifically mentioned - There is no need for making any official pronouncement. There is difference between pan-Indian language and National language; former is by the virtue of its feasibility and convenience while latter is by virtue of its declaration by the Government. India should have no National language.

This was the concluding part of the series 'Wither Hindi?'. I must thank Pra, Roshmi and others whose comments to my previous post helped me in developing this post further. Leave your honest opinions on the same in the comments section.

Off-the-topic Reflections
Do not miss my latest movie review and recommendation of Resurrecting the Champ on the adjoining side bar under The recent Movie I Liked upon Reflecting widget
Also, I must thank my blog buddies Shankar, Shruti, Vineeta and Bharathi for the recent Blogging awards. I have displayed them neatly on the adjoining sidebar under the Fellow Bloggers' Affection Reflected widget.
You can now star-rate my posts by the new rating widget that is visible at the end of each post.

Image Courtesy:
http://thumbs.dreamstime.com (edited)

Wither Hindi? Part-I

2009-09-14T20:55:00.007+05:30

This series of posts got selected for BlogAdda's Spicy Saturday Picks. Click here to read a mini-review of this series by the BlogAdda team.

This is the first part of a two part series on the occasion of Hindi Diwas.

Today is Hindi Diwas (Hindi Day). 60 years ago on 14th September, 1949, Hindi was accepted and adopted as the official language of the Union. Recently, while filling an application form for an examination, I was required to mention my mother language. Ofcourse, I mentioned Hindi. However, just a couple of days before that, I had also appeared for a Hindi exam as a part of some other civil services exam. As expected, I was miserable in it.

That raises the question, is Hindi really my mother language?

First of all, I'll delineate my brand of Hindi. In everyday life, I use Hindi as the medium of verbal communication. However, is it really Hindi? The base might be that of Hindi but inadvertently so many words from English, Punjabi and Urdu creep in that if I sit down to decipher a sentence just spoken, I'll realise that it is no where close to the 'pure' Hindi. That raises the question that is the 'pure' Hindi really desirable?

Ofcourse it is, I realised while giving that exam. I found that my vocabulary in Hindi is so weak that I should be ashamed of myself. However, if I had given the same exam during my school days, I would have definitely done a lot better. Infact, my Hindi was so fluent back then that I was called Shastriji (Learned of Shastras) by my school friends. 8 years of just English education has indeed adulterated me.

But am I really adulterated? What is the desirability of the purity beyond that exam?

Recently, an Indiblogger started a discussion in the forums. He asserts that,

We are here to promote Hindi as language and want more use of it at Blogs. Some of the Hindi News Blogs and portals do not write Hindi but Hinglish which hurt us. It is our National Language and everyone must respect it.

If a person wants to promote any language, he has the fundamental right to do so under Article 29 and 30 of the Indian Constitution meant for the linguistic (and other) minorities.

So what about Hindi as it is not a minority language? Well, there are special provisions for development of Hindi as an official language of the Union Government under Article 344 and as medium of expression for all the elements of the composite culture of India, i.e. a pan-Indian language under Article 351.

In this context, first of all let me clarify that India has no National language (Rashtra Bhasha) as asserted above by the initiator of the debate on Indiblogger. Constitutionally there are two types of languages - Official languages and Scheduled languages. According to Article 343, India has two official languages (Rajya Bhasha) - Hindi (in Devanagari script) and English. The States can declare their own official languages apart from English.

Talking of Scheduled languages, we have 22 of them under the Schedule 8 of the Indian Constitution. Originally there were 14 - Assamese, Bengali, Gujarati, Hindi, Kannada, Kashmiri, Malyalam, Marathi, Oriya, Punjabi, Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu and Urdu. Sindhi (21st Constitutional Amendment Act, 1967), Konkani, Manipuri, Nepali (71st, 1992), Bodo, Dogri, Maithili and Santhili (91st, 2003) were added later. If you might have noticed, 15 0f them are visible on the Indian paper currency while others which were added later still do not find the place there. Entry into this scheduled list has become more of a political affair, a way of appeasing particular minority linguistic sections.

Hence, to claim Hindi as the national language is a big misconception of not only this gentleman but many Indians. Moreover, though it was envisaged as a pan-Indian language by the framers of constitution, Hindi could never rise to that level because,

It was not easy for states like Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh or Bengal having rich traditional linguistic culture to accept any such language forced from above, and
It was necessary for the Central Government to see beyond pan-Indian to global communication. In that respect Hindi could never surpass English.

Hence, Hindi has not been accepted as an official medium by the non-Hindi speaking states and English though actually envisaged to be an official language only till 1965 under the Article 343, still carries on with that status thanks to the Official Language Act of 1963 and hence will remain there till eternity.

In this context, in the above mentioned debate on Indiblogger, the initiator further asserts,

If you speak French or German mixing with English, I am sure its not going to be liked, then why make Hindi the scapegoat. Its not only my mother tongue, its a very developed language, why not use it properly.

Well, comparing Hindi with French or German is sort of a faulty analogy. For that matter, Hindi is also one of the least developed language of India if you compare it with the rich linguistic heritage of Tamil, Telugu or Bengali. As long as a person wants to use Hindi properly, he/she is most welcome to do so. Requesting (and not demanding) the others to do so is also his right. However, to give wrong assertions like Hindi is the National language or illogical assertions that Hindi is very developed language, so use it properly; totally fails his/her wider assertions.

Article 351, mentioned earlier with regards to development of Hindi as a pan-Indian language, also clarifies that it is the duty of the Union Government to secure its enrichment by assimilating without interfering with its genius, the forms, style and expressions used in Hindustani and in the other languages of India specified in the Eighth Schedule.

In short, Hindi has been developed as a medium for pan-Indian communication. In that sense, it is very important that rather than claiming its purity, it intermixes with other languages. English has actually enriched itself by adopting vocabulary from other European languages like French and German and even Asian languages like Arabic and Hindi for that matter.

Hence rather than purifying Hindi, there should be an effort to make it easier to understand. In this context, Article 351 should move beyond just the Eighth Schedule and include English within its ambit too. Rather than creating new words for common English terms, those terms should be assimilated as has been done all these years.

Why should I call Hindi as my mother language if I am not able to understand the official Hindi documents which use the rarest possible vocabulary. In this context, the Committee of Parliament on Official Language, 1957; constituted under the Constitutional provision (Article 344) under the chairmanship of the then Union Home Minister Govind Vallabh Pant also recommended that proper encouragement should be given for usage of meaningful and simple Hindi words.

Hindi was developed as the language for the common man just as Pali (Buddhist literature) and Prakrit (Jain literature) were developed centuries ago when Sanskrit was regarded elitist and was confined to the Brahminical learning. So why should we emphasize on purifying or in other words complicating Hindi?

In the next part, I'll touch upon the need for a pan-Indian language and the language that should qualify for being the one. Click here to read it.

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http://thumbs.dreamstime.com (edited)