Love To Ash!

An old tale from our mythical tomes: worth repeating today! (The weather demands!)

There was an emperor, mighty, powerful, and just. A sage gifted him a fruit, “Eat this and you would be young for ever!”

The emperor simply adored his empress; so naturally, he wanted her to remain forever young. He gifted the fruit to her. She passed it to her love; her body guard, who in turn gifted it to the most beauteous courtesan of the city. Courtesans love money, so she went to sell the fruit to the emperor of the country. Who else, but he would want to remain forever young. He had everything to live for.

“Who gave it to you!” demanded the king. She named the bodyguard, who named the queen!

“Ash ! Ash is the result of love, love for a woman, wealth, children or body is all false. Curse be on it! Cursed are those who love!”

That very instant he left the empire and went into exile. He became one of the most revered saints of Hindus. Bhrighu..! A lot of our philosophy and even astrology comes to us via this great mind!

Salute India!

“Fire him!” thundered my brother, as he strode in my cabin, and threw a Newspaper on my table. “Who?” I asked, even as I glanced at the paper.

‘CHILD LABOUR BANNED’ informed the banner headline.

“That office boy of ours. He is just thirteen or fourteen. They are challaaning every office and shop in the city, which is employing under aged boys. Fire him, now! Find an older guy.”

Our regular office boy or peon had gone to his village and had left this boy, Rambabbu, his nephew, with us, as a stop gap arrangement; so that the job that paid Rupees Two Thousand five hundred per month, did not go to someone else.

I had employed him.Within days he had won our hearts (at least mine, my brother had chafed at such a young lad handling the ‘responsibilities’ of being the tea boy.) He brought a lively cheerfulness to our drab, mundane work place. His ready smile, made even me, a certified grouch, smile back, well at least sometimes.

A dreamy, reclusive, disposition, wrapped in a thin veneer of laziness, doth not a successful business man make; so very often the struggle of having to keep our clients, creditors, and bankers, hopeful, gets too much for me. Sometimes then, I would call him and we would chat, about his village his family, et el. We became friends, so to say, a much easier friendship for me to make, then with those of my age.

Once I saw him eat the leftovers of our lunch. After that I instructed my wife to pack a few extra chapattis and subzi in the afternoon Tiffin. I would quietly leave them for him, without making it a clause of his contract of employment, by mentioning it.

“Where would he go?” I wondered, aloud. “Not our problem yaar!” replied my brother.

Out he went, as briskly as he had walked in. He was in a hurry, as he was leaving for his annual holiday in the mountains, with his family. I was the boss for a week, so I moved to his cabin and sat down behind his desk.

In the boss’ chair, you automatically think like him. My brother was right, of course. It is important to keep at the right side of law for the Indians who belong to the middle classes, especially when there is no profit in trespassing it. Eager to get it over with at the earliest, I pressed the bell to summon our officiating office boy.

That day, however, it was the aggarbatti boy who beat him. Armed forces would not have stopped him, as he marched into the inner cabins of our small office, ignoring the extended arm of Rambabbu, who though a couple of years older than him, was not much bigger in build. Size does decide the amount of authourity you wield.

This boy comes to our office, every Saturday, to sell us scented sticks. My brother has a MOU with him to buy twenty rupees worth every week. He lights them to propitiate the pictures of an assorted congress of Gods. Canny business man that he is, he believes in playing it safe. Who knows which party is currently ruling up there?

“Don’t you know the sahib never stops me?” he came in, scolding the flustered peon who had followed him in. The newcomer however stopped short, as he found me sitting behind my brother’s desk.

“Where is Sahib?” He demanded, obviously disoriented by this unexpected turn of events. Though, we share the same office, both us brothers have separate, exclusive cabins. He had never seen me before, but I knew him.

I do not pray. (Explains, perhaps, why I work in a subordinate position to my own younger sibling. Not an easy thing to do. Ask any Indian.) So, when the boss was not in the saddle, I tried to renegotiate the terms with his aggarbatti supplier. “Well, he is out of station, can I help you?”

He recovered fast, the hall mark of a good salesman, “Every Saturday sir, I come to this office to sell agarbattis to uncle,….uh…. sahib, two packets for twenty rupees, sometimes four, if my sales are low. Sahib is very good and helpful.” “Sit,” I gestured him to a chair in front of me.

He did, simultaneously fishing inside a shoulder bag to come out with two, slim, long, rectangular boxes, full of the scented sticks, and placed them on my brother’s desk. It was easy to see why my brother had a soft spot for him.

He was a carbon copy of our respective sons (both were born in the same year); the same lean, scrawny looks, disheveled hair, and age. He also spoke our language, was obviously of our caste and the tone of his skin was similar to ours. Punjabi. Amritsari in fact. One of us!

He was looking at me. Hopefully? Fearfully? Doubtfully? Nervously? I could not decide. But he reminded me of myself, when ever I am forced to go and make a presentation before a recalcitrant client.

“You sell him aggarbattis?” I asked, making it sound as if he sold my brother the nuclear fuel. He nodded, gravely; it was actually more important than nuclear fuel to him. Did he ever smile?

“You go to school?” I detoured sharply, to my favourite question, as I rang a bell and summoned Rambabu, who had earlier left us alone, to bring two glasses of water.

I think I saw an impish glint flit across the visitor’s eyes and a hint, just, just, a hint of grin lighten his features, before it vanished.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So you work after school?” “Yes.”

“How many brothers and sisters are you?” “Three.”

He kept his answers to the point, not sure why the additional information was being sought.

“All of you work?” “Yes, except youngest sister. She is outside.”

“Why have you brought her along?” “Some times she comes, we play along the way.”

How much do you earn every day?”

“I do not know. Papa knows. I have to sell Hundred Rupees worth everyday, and then I can go home.”

I could not help but admire his aplomb and composure under the relentless interrogation, he was fielding each query of mine, as solemnly as any of the seasoned diplomats of the foreign office do, when they go to Washington, Geneva or wherever, to beg for aid.

“I do not need aggarbattis,” I finally declared, gesturing to the many unopened boxes that were stacked on the shelf below the multitude of pictures. His features darkened, as worry lines creased his face, at an impossibly young age. Well, they assail you the moment your parents fail you, whatever may be your biological age.

“Uncle buys twenty rupees worth every Saturday,” he informed me, determined to make it an undisputable, unarguable, nonnegotiable fact.

“He prays,” said I.

“You don’t?!!” he queried. I shook my head.

“Why not? You should, mom says, God gives us everything.”

“Do I need any further evidence to prove that there is no one to pray to? Anywhere.”

He rolled his eyes to register his protest at such a blasphemous statement. His patience and the subtle use of emotional blackmail to browbeat and shame me into agreeing the terms of his contract were amazing. The boy was a much better salesman than I would ever be, forced as he was by his destiny to be one, taught and trained as he was, at the premier-most management Institute in the world, The University of Life, and by its best professor, Ms Burning Need.

But I was not about to give in. For a few moments, we looked at each other. Direct. Eye ball to eye ball. His gaze was even, unflinching. He was reading my mind, sizing me up.

Another hallmark of a good salesman is to recognize when you have run into a wall, a dead end. They do not waste time and time was running out on this guy. He had a sales target to meet, “You don’t need?” He sought final confirmation.

“No.”

With great dignity, that did shame me to death, he got up.

“When will uncle be back?”

“Some days,” I informed him.

He was about to go out when I said, “Wait.”

Hope rushed back to his pale cheeks, colouring them. He was going to make a sale after all. I leaned back and picked the dozen odd boxes of aggarbattis, “You can take them back, free.” And I put a twenty rupee note on top of them.

“No, mother has told me never to accept charity. I am not begging, I am working!” He said matter of fact, without any dramatics. Out he went, without wasting another glance at me.

Occasionally, I have seen him, since and before, knocking at the glass windows of luxury sedans, late in the evening, as I go back home. My day at work usually gets over by seven, his does not, till his sales target is met. He has to do his homework too. A heavy task. Ask me, I know it for a fact, from the tantrums my son Achyut throws as he attempts his. Does he ever get to see any television?

It’s my nature to brood, so I brood as I drive on. I often wonder at how the tightly rolled up glass window between him and us, separate two worlds. The few thousands on the inside, are seated on the plush seats of a bright and shinning space ship, as it zooms into the stratosphere, on its way to become the next superpower of the world. Excited, they feel good, great in fact, as the Sensex zooms, the real estate booms and the IT sector vrooms. Things have never been so good.

The millions on the outside are hanging on, just about, for dear life, to the coat tails of the same ship. What ceaselessly amazes me, is the way, people on both sides of that glass window, coexist, absolutely unconcerned with each other. Calmly they keep out of each others way, like planets dutifully adhering to their respective orbits. Every now and then, they come close, within kissing distance, only to move away, once their business is done.

The Universe, vast though it is, is getting progressively crowded. There are other, newer, unruly, planets, zooming around, fighting for survival. How long, how long, before they crash? How long, before the tiny, islands of prosperity are swamped by the huge cesspools of poverty, denial, and inequity that surround them? How long before these cute tots, develop sharp teeth and become fearsome sharks (or God forbid, may even become policemen). They will, then, like their kin, circle the islands and patiently wait for an Achyut to merely dangle a leg out, before pulling him deep, into the dark, stinking waters.

But as on most occasions, I had worried unnecessarily; the mandarins sitting in the high, offices had already taken a huge step to redress a serious wrong. Like a dutiful citizen, I just had to implement the new Act and rest in peace. I rang that bell again.

In he came, in that typically jaunty gait of his. Our Rambabbu, this time alone, “Tea?” he asked expectantly.

He too got a cuppa , when he brewed one for me. Mine sugarless, his laced with two spoons of white crystals. “No, you are fired,” I said without preamble, avoiding looking at him direct, adding needlessly, “the Government does not allow me to employ boys of your age.”

I felt rather than saw, his eyes drop, “I am sorry!” I managed to mumble.

The sunny smile was, however, back in a trice, as he worked things out, “Don’t worry sahib ji, the Dhaabha Waalah, next door has been pestering me to join him. He will pay Rupees Eight hundred less but will give me three meals a day free, I will be fine.”

Salute, India, at sixty four. Take a bow!

Happy Birthday!

It was raining cats and dogs, outside the hospital, when you were handed to me, seventeen years ago. I looked at you. You were not happy at having to leave the cosy comfort of your mother’s womb. In fact ,you seemed to be mightily angry. You were bawling your lungs out.

I was too numb and dumb to feel anything. I was a father! Of this tiny, almost weightless bundle, with tightly closed fists, tighter eyes, and an even tighter frown. I handed you to you mom. She smiled, happily, as she cuddled you. I shuffled out of the room.

Congratulations began to pour in faster than the rain. I smiled at those present. I mumbled my thanks. I shook every hand; I touched every pair of feet. I was still too dumbfounded to feel anything!

Three nights, and three days, I stayed in the hospital with you and you mom. I slept on the floor next your cradle, morbidly afraid that you would harm yourself in your sleep. I would get up and peek at you every now and then. Every time I would also lift your legs to check if you had “done sussu or potty.” I would clean you up. I was too dazed to feel anything.

Duty took me to Delhi. I came back to take you there after about a month. On that journey I and your mother took turns to hold you. You were supposed to be a bundle of joy but I was too concerned, throughout the journey, about how to disembark the train at Delhi, with all ,that luggage without hurting you. I did not feel anything else.

That night in Delhi, your mother put you in a small, colourful cot and placed it next to her bed side. “She will sleep there?” I asked. She nodded. I looked at you. You looked at me. You seemed so lonely in that cradle. I picked you up and placed you in the middle of the bed between the two of us.

You smiled! I swear you did.

We slept. Something happened. Tendrils grew out of you. Tendrils grew out of my heart too. In the darkness they entwined. Forever! I woke up next morning a real father, almost a month after you were born. I was in love with you, my dearest daughter. I felt everything. Tenderness, affection, possession, submission, surrender, delight and absolute bliss at having a daughter such as you! ( I was yet to know the tantrums that you were going to throw later on in life!)

Have a long, healthy, happy and successful life! I love you!

Life!

Life!

I was speeding to work, and as usual, was engrossed in the early morning calls on the mobile, when I noticed it. It was clinging on for dear life, to the front windscreen of my Indica.

Actually it was right in front of me, almost at the eyeball level. That I missed it for the first couple of minuets of my drive, tells you how distracting it is to talk on a phone, even if you are using “hands free.” The phone engages the mind rather completely.

The wind hitting my car must have seemed like a raging hurricane to it. Try smashing the glass of your car’s windshield and then drive at around eighty km/ph. You would realize the force of the gale that hits you.

I forgot the phone, as I marveled at its tenacity, its ability to stay on the slippery surface.

I braked the car to a halt and peered at it through the see through barrier. It was frozen against the glass. It was tiny, just as big and thick, as my little finger, with a curved tail, that was almost twice its length. And it was petrified. A thin sheath of skin covered its small, protruding eyes, and its tiny jaw was frozen in determination, as it struggled to hang on. The almost non-existent claws of its feet were trying their best to dig into the hard, impenetrateble glass.

It was a newborn, common lizard, which inhabits our homes along with us. Just how did it choose to come along for a ride?

I am no lover of lizards. In fact they are downright eeky. Yet, I did not want it to die so soon after it was born. So I tapped at the glass trying to shoo it away. It did not move a muscle, except for a small, softly vibrating, twitch at its minuscule throat.

It was breathing. Other than that, it may well have been a small rubber stick-on toy that kids play with. As it chose to ignore my knocking, I wondered if I should get down and poke it with a piece of paper perhaps, to make it run away.

But instead, I started the car and moved on. This time, I eased my foot on the gas pedal. The wind pressure lessened. My tiny friend suddenly moved. It darted to my left, and in an instant disappeared down the hood.

There was a scalding hot engine there! If it survived that, it would encounter a host of pipes, not to mention a fan with wicked, ruthless blades!

Will it survive, I mused? I felt a kinship with the brave fellow, so far from home, so far away from his parents. Don’t we all cling on to something every day to live? To our work, relationships, status? Then I shook my head clear it of the defeatist thoughts. That is what life is all about.

That is the beauty of the life cycle. The moment you take birth you want to live, no matter how desperate the circumstance, how steep the odds against you. It is nature’s most deep-rooted principle. The survival instinct. The reason why the world is. Even that tiny being was not willing to give up on life without a fighting for it. All the way.

You may be a miniature, insignificant insect, doomed to perish the very night you are born. Yet for those few moments you celebrate. You zip around; you flirt with a flame or a skylight. You die, but before you die you live, Fully.

Published as a middle in The Hitavada,Nagpur dated 15.7.2009

Those Six Inches!

The cat was stiller than any statue carved out of stone. Her small, sleek, cylindrical body was crouched in an impossibly grotesque, frozen, pre-leap. Each muscle was taut, concentrated; leashed, till the moment presented itself. Mesmerised, I killed the engine of my car and followed her fiercely intent gaze.

Expectedly, just a few yards away, were the pigeons. They were blissfully pecking at whatever they had found on the floor of the car parking lot. Ironically enough, the lot itself was attached to the well known Hindu cremation grounds of the city.

I had just driven in, and had braked my car, when I saw the cat. The living, as always, were blissfully unaware, that their death lurked just a few feet away.

Death is in fact, always, just six inches away from anyone who breathes. That is about how far we let our exhaled breath travel, from our nostrils, before we greedily suck it back in.

Like an alert fielder patrolling the boundaries in a cricket match, it stalks, patiently. The moment it catches a mishit, it grabs the prize, and runs away, full of glee. What it leaves behind, is a suddenly still, mound of ambitions, desires, loves and hates. It is final. Absolutely. It brooks no arguments.

Up points its finger, and up you go.

I was already late for the rites (somebody else’s), but kept sitting where I was. What better place to ruminate about the end, than outside a cremation ground. Inside it, I knew, an angry ball of fire was already licking a dear friend to the basics. I should have gone in and shown my face to the other mourners to prove how I too was a responsible, caring, member of their society. They would then remember to attend my funeral. The immediate family was beyond caring.

They had lost him in an accident, the previous day, a day before Deepawali. All four of them, were driving together to distribute some gifts to friends, when he lost control over his car. The friend who called to inform me, had added, that the bereaved wife just kept repeating, to anybody who came to condole; that his last words were, “My God! The brakes have failed……….we are going to crash……….!!!” Three had survived, almost unhurt, physically.

The cat, meanwhile, had noticed me. It turned its head to glare at me, and tell me to get on with my business, and then it ran a few steps forward, to take a new position under a scooter. I was morbidly fascinated. Whom would it pick? How does death decide? The birds had continued enjoying their breakfast. Which one of them was just, just about to go? They were making strange grunting noises. What were they talking about? What was my friend saying, just moments before he realized that the brakes of his car had given up on him? Was he planning the Deepawali night party? The next big car he was about to buy? Was he telling his children about the gifts he had brought for them? Or was he telling his wife how he planned to expand the business after Deepawali? What?

My mind debated (just for that split second it takes us to ponder on life and death questions; when they face others), whether to vroom the car on and warn the birds. I decided not to play God. The cat had to eat too. Quietly, I shifted the gear, stepped on the gas peddle, and eased the car out of the parking lot.

Let them not attend my funeral, when my time comes.

I had to buy candles to light that night. Deliberately, I moved my mind away from the unseen scene of a young boy lighting his father’s pyre. Life has to go on, till death decides. It’s like Yudhistra told the Yakasha, “The strangest thing on earth is, that all of us frequently go and cremate out near and dear ones, but still we truly believe, in our hearts, that we would escape.” Truer words were perhaps, never spoken.

Published in The Hitavada as a middle Oct 7,2007

Father and Son

One last time, before mounting his horse, the young Alexander ran a check in his mind. Sword-Tick, Horse-Tick, Ambition-Tick, Determination-Tick. Yes! He was ready to take on the world and conquer it!

He put a foot in the stirrup and was about to swing the other leg over, when a plaintive cry froze him, “Alex!”

Father! His father was calling him. He turned.

The sight that greeted his amazed eyes was, indeed that; amazing. The once towering king had become an old, doddering shadow of his tall and proud self, deserted as he was, by his legion of friends, relatives and courtiers. Who ever has said that fruits of adversity are sweet had surely not met this erstwhile king.

“Would you be with me, I have no body left,” asked the parent. Alexander looked at his awaiting horse and hesitated, but just once. Quietly, he then opened the knot of his girdle and released the sword. Next, he patted the eager horse on its back and sent him on his way. The world would have to wait. Duty was calling.

It was imperative that he took his ailing father away from his lost kingdom. Presently their enemies were too many and too strong. Father and son went away, to a huge and faraway city. It engulfed them and hid them in its bosom. They became anonymous, thus they were saved of the jibes and the barbs that cut deeper than the edge of any blade made of the sharpest of steel.

The days were poor, the nights bare. Every night Alex would wake up several times and stand outside the door of his father, to check if he was snoring. He knew that the old man was dying, slowly, not of any disease, but due to the pain of his exile.

He devoted his life towards making his father feel some happiness. In the past the king had had little time for his son. He was too busy being a king. Now they became friends. For hours Alex would sit with the older man, hearing him plan his way back to glory.

Finally they did it. They won it back. The king became KING again! He sat beaming on his old throne. Once again

Finding him alone, Life came and spoke to Alexander.

“You are no longer a young man,” said Life, “look at you, do you think you still have it in you to conquer the world?
Alexander shook his head and smiled, “I know it is over for me,” he agreed.

“Why did you do it?” asked Life, “You could have been Alexander the Great and instead you have become Alexander the grated, an unknown soldier of a king! No body in history would know you!”

“Because, ” replied Alex, ever so softly, “ That is what sons are for.”

Life was unsparing. It persisted with its questions. “What will you do now?”

“Pave the way for my son to take on the world, in case he wants to,” answered Alexander.

“First father, now son?” Life was incredulous , “Now you would spend the rest of your life for your child. Why?”

“Because,” replied Alex, ever so softly, “That is what fathers are for.”

Anna Beware!

Anna followers, beware! History stands against you. It’s almost impossible to take a movement fuelled, entirely, by well meaning, simple minded, righteous angst, to its logical conclusion, more so if you are fighting against a duly elected democratic government. It is easier to win such battles if you are up against a dictator or a despot.

Democratic governments are huge monoliths with a clear and well defined hierarchical structure and line of command. It’s also a multi headed and many dimensional hydra with a legal mandate to rule. It is a superbly oiled machine run by people who are absolute pros in doing such things.

The reason why your movement stands to fail lies in its very conception

Yours is a loose confederation of idealists, each with his/her vision of what and where India should be. Amateurs without any real experience. Their only strength is their puritanical intent. Take it from me, that it’s an extremely daunting task to keep such a flock together for any length of time.

Already many factors are at work against you.

First on the list is the green brigade. It is also called jealousy in common English. It is assisted by two devastating helpers. One is named, ‘Why him?’ and the other is named ‘Why not me?’ Movements such as yours have no answers to these questions. In essence the are dependent on one or two people.

Number two: The limited attention span of people you lead. Please note that that the electronic media and its icons, the ‘celebrities’ were crucial to your agitation being so widely recognized. A lot of people were there, because faces known to them were there. It was the ‘in’ thing to do and be seen and post on twitter and facebook It had a feel good factor about it.

But then it’s also a populace which is weaned on the power of the remote. They are restless in the search of their next fix of ‘high.’ They need to feel constantly ‘on the go’ and euphoric. Inside, this population, is empty and bitter and are always ready to blame some one else for their woes. This was one of the reasons why the flocked out in such great numbers. It was a chance to hit out at someone and curse them. Ah catharsis!

These are not your usual villager followers. These are the Hi flyers. To keep your TRPs high enough and exciting enough for them to keep hooked to your show will be a major challenge. You know better than me, how many movements have died unsung at Jantar Mantar without them.

At number three, are the most harmful agents. They divide. They ask questions which raise doubts in the minds of all and sundry as to the effectiveness and utility of the movement itself. They are extremely ,extremely powerful and have many a button under their fingers. They use every means to divide movements like yours. Soon the followers are disillusioned and disheartened. And their means and resources are unlimited. Already Mr.Sibal and Co. are on it. Beware!

All the best! I sincerely hope you succeed.

Bumbi Days!

When ever I meet my cousins, these days, whether electronically or physically, the conversation invariably veers to our ‘Bumbi’ days, sooner or later, and more so if they are a few drinks down. The truth however is, that be it guys or dolls, all of them are hopelessly nostalgic about those days.

They post sepia tinged ‘Bumbi’ pictures on face book and get a lot of ‘wows’ from our kin, now spread all over the world. They love to take, an almost vicarious pleasure, as they recount, with a child like delight, countless stories about those days; much to the utter mystification of their kids and spouses. These relations came much after the ‘Bumbi’ days were over, so they wonder, with justification, “What the hell is this Bumbi?”

Any body who knows Punjabi language would tell you that a ‘Bumbi’ is a Punjabi name for a tube well. You would find one in every farm in rural Punjab, gushing out a thick stream of pristine, crystal clear, silvery water from its gaping mouth.

Our Bumbi was different!

Yes, it too was a tube well and yes, it too was located in a huge agricultural farm, but that is where the similarity ends.

Back in the 1970’s it was a heaven, a paradise on earth.

First, it gave its huge stream of fresh water not to the fields but into a good sized swimming pool, that was our very own! But it was even more than that. Much more.

Back then, it meant a place where more than a score cousins, uncles and aunts spent their summer holidays, together without any of the petty, selfish, jealousies that plague us today. They traveled from all over India to be there. Every year, they preferred Amritsar to any hill station or any other holiday destination.

From Nagpur , Delhi, Bombay (yes not Mumbai) Moradabad, Kanpur . As each group unboarded from their train, the buzz was always, “Man! I am going to the Bumbi tomorrow morning. And every day after, for the next month and a half!”

‘Bumbi’ was Joy with a capital J. Pure and unadulterated. It was unlimited fun without the aid of a single gizmo of today, be it a television or a mobile or an iPad or what ever. It was youth as youth should be, without a care in the world.

The school bags along with their burdens were thrust aside, forever, after the usual inquires “How did you fare?” “Well I flunked Marathi even after the exam paper was leaked to me!” “Shucks! Same here yaar, with me, for Math!” and that was the end of such boring conversations for the next six weeks or so at least.

During the early day time, Bumbi was the ultimate all males only club. Outsiders were also welcome to come and enjoy their mornings there. The family’s ladies were allowed only in the afternoons after the outsiders had left the place and the gates were closed.

For the boys, Bumbi meant getting up early in the morning and drinking piping, hot milk, from the udders of our own cows, duly supervised by a strict aunt who ensured that every one finished his tall, steel glass. A future doctor to bew, would however, usually hoodwink her, and surreptitiously pour his share into the glass of any cousin who was not looking.

The dirty dozen or so would then stuff themselves into an Ambassador and off they
would go, yelling and jostling and happy, all of them in one car , piled on top of each other. Talk about public transport!

Bumbi meant an effeminate ‘Gawala’ (Cowhand) and his grossly overweight wife who were care takers of the place. The kids would love to tease him and whoop in delight as he chased them.

Bumbi meant applying a lot of mustard oil to your bodies and wrestling in the mud ‘Akhara.’ It also meant Channi, a rather dimwitted sardar, who worked on his immensely muscular body all day, but never a minute on his brains. The rowdy crowd loved to rag him as he showed them his ‘body.’

Bumbi meant a “Dilruba Dilli Wali’ a male cousin, so fair of skin, that a mere touch would leave angry red marks on it. It also meant being treated to a cabaret dance by another cousin, full adorned in flowing skirts. I dare say he got more cat calls and wolf whistles then any ‘Munni’ or ‘Sheela.’

Bumbi meant bathing all day in that lovely pool of cool water, shaded by huge trees. It meant planning to dunk the girls in it when they were allowed to join us and hear them shriek in fear. It meant laughter unlimited. It also meant an infinite number of mangoes and pakoras and rich Amritsari food in pure desi ghee, when the aunts too joined us. I am sure no one had heard of diabetes, BP and obesity back then.

It meant raiding the cupboard of our grand dad and finishing off all his eatables in one go, only to find it fully replenished the next days and never ever being ticked off for it. It meant being given hundred rupee notes to spend at the local cinemas and eateries almost everyday. It meant being told at a cinema booking window, that they could not sell two dozen tickets to a single buyer as he would ‘black’ them. It meant that the ticket vendor was shown all the two dozen lined up in their best finery, eagerly awaiting the show to start.

It meant crying at the railway platforms as each group went back, promising to come back next year. It meant awaiting all year for the summer holidays to bring them back. Do you still wonder, what the hell is “Bumbi ?”

Father and Son

One last time, before mounting his horse, the young Alexander ran a check in his mind. Sword-Tick, Horse-Tick, Ambition-Tick, Determination-Tick. Yes! He was ready to take on the world and conquer it!

He put a foot in the stirrup and was about to swing the other leg over, when a plaintive cry froze him, “Alex!”

Father! His father was calling him. He turned.

The sight that greeted his amazed eyes was, indeed that; amazing. The once towering king had become an old, doddering shadow of his tall and proud self, deserted as he was, by his legion of friends, relatives and courtiers. Who ever has said that fruits of adversity are sweet had surely not met this erstwhile king.

“Would you be with me, I have no body left,” asked the parent. Alexander looked at his awaiting horse and hesitated, but just once. Quietly, he then opened the knot of his girdle and released the sword. Next, he patted the eager horse on its back and sent him on his way. The world would have to wait. Duty was calling.

It was imperative that he took his ailing father away from his lost kingdom. Presently their enemies were too many and too strong. Father and son went away, to a huge and faraway city. It engulfed them and hid them in its bosom. They became anonymous, thus they were saved of the jibes and the barbs that cut deeper than the edge of any blade made of the sharpest of steel.

The days were poor, the nights bare. Every night Alex would wake up several times and stand outside the door of his father, to check if he was snoring. He knew that the old man was dying, slowly, not of any disease, but due to the pain of his exile.

He devoted his life towards making his father feel some happiness. In the past the king had had little time for his son. He was too busy being a king. Now they became friends. For hours Alex would sit with the older man, hearing him plan his way back to glory.

Finally they did it. They won it back. The king became KING again! He sat beaming on his old throne. Once again

Finding him alone, Life came and spoke to Alexander.

“You are no longer a young man,” said Life, “look at you, do you think you still have it in you to conquer the world?
Alexander shook his head and smiled, “I know it is over for me,” he agreed.

“Why did you do it?” asked Life, “You could have been Alexander the Great and instead you have become Alexander the grated, an unknown soldier of a king! No body in history would know you!”

“Because, ” replied Alex, ever so softly, “ That is what sons are for.”

Life was unsparing. It persisted with its questions. “What will you do now?”

“Pave the way for my son to take on the world, in case he wants to,” answered Alexander.

“First father, now son?” Life was incredulous , “Now you would spend the rest of your life for your child. Why?”

“Because,” replied Alex, ever so softly, “That is what fathers are for.”

The Golden Boot

The Golden Boot
Are we a nation of penny wise and (a trillion) pound-foolish people? We might well be. I mean look at the brouhaha raised on the issue of the salary hike to the MPs. The media in all its forms; print, electronic and net have cried themselves hoarse over it. It has taken an almost perverse delight in ridiculing the selfish politicos for wanting more, when the nation was already spending so much on their upkeep, security and other paraphernalia. Most of their intelligent followers have nodded their head in agreement.

Can we be more head in the sand than this?

Pay them more, much more, much, much, much… more! More than the top honchos in the corporate world. Why not? Till we make this a reality, politics would remain the last refuge of scoundrels, and/or of the scions to mammoth political and industrial inheritances, give or take an ex megastar or two. As things stand there is no way an honest person can make a living out of politics. And every one needs to make a living!

The young, the able, the upright, the incorruptible, the best of the best, and above all the thinkers and innovators, from lesser well off families, would not even look at it as a real career option

And make no mistake about it, we NEED them much more than they need us.

The rest of the world entices them with open arms and unlimited bank balances. They can go anywhere and be leaders in their chosen fields. We NEED them to be our political leaders, more than we need them to be engineers, doctors or MBAs.

We are wasting all that talent in making jingles and selling soap, while the lowest of the low ,rip us off with impunity! Think about it.

For it is the politician, and only the politician, who can create the ways and means of a system, in which we would all prosper, whatever our capabilities. A nation can only rise to the level to which its political mentors would let it.

A mere fifty crimson Gandhis a month is a pittance, whatever the attached perks. How about a Crore and half a year for an MP! Before you mock me, give a look at India’s annual budget and its annual expenditure, look at its GDP, look at the amount of loot in the name of hosting the ‘Games.’ What is a hundred crore more every month? A corrupt Chief Minister or Union Cabinet minister can stash away more than that every now and then.

Believe you me, it is the best way of getting rid of the present day scum that has risen to the top of us.

Maybe, just maybe, we may then slow down the restless feet of a few young ones on thier way to the USA or Europe. Maybe they would chuck their Armanis and agree to wear khadi. With that they may bring to our parliament, the vision, the drive, the hard work and the thinking required to show the ways of overcoming our problems. Maybe then thier number would grow, till one day, the whole or at least most of the parliament is filled with people such as them.

Having said all that, I agree that it is sheer avarice and sheerer stupidity that forces the Hon’ble Lallus and Mulayams to ask for pay hikes. What is a half a lakh of Rupees to them. A trifle! It’s like a schoolteacher who is chosen to take Ratan Tata’s place at Tata Sons; he still carries on giving his evening tuitions on the side, to make that extra pocket money!

But they have shown us the way to ultimately kick them, and their ilk, out of our system. Pay them more, much, much, much…more! Because if they see sense they would reduce their salaries and close the door to a messiah forever!

Someone Else's Wife!

One of most delectable and exciting loves is to love somebody else’s wife, as long as one is careful not to fall in love! If you let that happen, ecstasy turns to sheer torment. The tables turn quite emphatically. Now it is you who is being cuckolded and not the husband. It is your woman who is sleeping with some one else and not vice versa.

Otherwise the union, when and if it does happen, is unbeatable in the high it gives, maybe because it is forbidden, absolutely and explicitly. Essentially, the tryst has to be hidden, furtive, and quick; to be forgotten as soon as enjoyed.

This heady mixture of agony and ecstasy is also known to anybody who attains the right to hold power’s hand in a democracy.

He cannot wed her; she is betrothed to the voter. Rather he is expected to serve her like an ascetic servant, that too temporarily. The cruel lady has a propensity to change lovers and/or servants sooner than later. If you fall in love with her, you would soon have to bear the torture of seeing her in someone else’s arms.

Power is utterly self willed, unfaithful, promiscuous and in nobody’s power.

She is the ultimate seductress. She flirts outrageously and unashamedly with all her suitors, leading them on with her promises. She allures, teases, tantalizes, titillates, suggests and, arouses. She drives them to distraction. But when and if, one is voted to lie on her bed; she suddenly turns coy. If pleased, she would even disrobe herself for you, but to make love to her would be like loving somebody else’s wife.

It is forbidden, absolutely and explicitly.

But then politics, whether in a democracy or otherwise, is the art of camouflaging your personal ambition behind the façade of public good. The public gets to own , possess, and question, what is revealed to it, and that is barely the tip, of what is actually available in the mammoth hidden iceberg.

Being a politician of any standing, is like being a member of a closed, multi layered club. The outer most layer would comprise of people who proudly call themselves ‘workers.’ Then each inner layer loosely consists of councilors, legislators, MPs, ministers, chief ministers, party presidents. Each inner layer gets progressively smaller and tighter and more difficult to penetrate. However some times, some of these layers, do overlap.

Your ability to break into an inner circle depends on which circle your God father or mother belongs to. You will amount to nothing in politics till you have a powerful sugar dad, mom or lover, who really, really, really likes you. If they merely like you it won’t work. Because politicians ‘like’ anyone who can be useful to them.

I cannot tell you what makes them like you, because if I knew that I would have been busy being a minister somewhere, instead of typing this, but I can tell you that it would never depend on the ‘working’ you do for the party. Each of our ‘national’ or ‘regional’ parties comprises of thousands of faithful workers who spend a life time shouting its slogans, distributing its handbills and swelling its public meetings and who never get anything but the tinniest tidbit of the immense cake available. That too is thrown at them begrudgingly, much as you would throw a biscuit to a whining pet.

But I can give you a hint. Politicians are inordinately in love with themselves. When you see any one donning the white kurta pajama in designer khadi, also see an extremely vain and lustful person. How much you can feed that vanity and lust would be directly related to the amount of likeness they have for you.

Little wonder that you find a Tharoor, a Ramesh, a Jayaparada or a Jaitely, not to mention a certain Amar Singh juxtaposed at the very top without having to break a single pair of slippers in the streets. I am not even mentioning the biological children or the official wives here. They are sacrosanct.

Those in the inner circle take care of their own. And once you are a member of that circle you take care not to tell the public anything of what is available in that heaven. Instead you quickly learn to mouth platitudes. You sleep in the hut of a poor mother, before you go back to the lap of your seven star luxury, you hire a high flying PR firm to tell the public how utterly hardworking and frugal you are. And how worried you are because China and Pakistan are hostile to us. Etc,etc.You do not tell them the amazing amount of millions that they spend on something as mundane as your security.

Because you are not allowed to openly enjoy the fruits of being a politician.

That is forbidden absolutely and explicitly.

Work is Worship!

Tailor, soldier, sailor, beggar man, thief, carpenter or a mere writer or a doctor or painter, what ever you are, ultimately what would matter is, your work. And how good you are at it. Nothing else.

Mind you, I said, WORK, and not money. Monetary accruements are mere appendages to one’s work. Essential, coveted even, but ultimately immaterial. I mean after you have made your hundredth crore, brought a house, a car, clothes, an IPL team, what? Money stops mattering after a while . Work never does. It makes you matter.

Your work gives you an indelible identity. You may have thousands of crorers in a bank account, but if you are not working any longer, you are a forgotten story, however if you are the best plumber in the city, your mobile never stops ringing.

After almost a life time spent in putting people and relationships, above my work , this is what I realise. Any relationship, any, no matter how deep, intense or pure or by any other adjective described, is destined to die on you. Finally.

Some simply peter out, others have other things to do. The excuses are many and multifold. But ultimately the result is the same. You are alone. Human beings have a way of moving on. If life does not take them away, death does the honours. You can’t depend on them.

Work never deserts you. It is a true ally and an all weather friend. What ever may be your business, be true to it. Focus on it, total. It would reciprocate, always.

But the moment you two time on it, it kicks you, hard. It is like riding a tiger, or running in front of a moving train. You have to keep doing it. All the time. Every day.

My grand pa had it right. He rose from a life of near poverty to be a rich man in all senses of the word. A palatial house, a sprawling farm, complete with a swimming pool, a great summer retreat in the hills, you name it, and he had it, by the time I grew up.

None of it was gifted to him. He inherited no property. He built himself everything out of his work. What’s more he enjoyed every bit of his prosperity and was ever willing to share it with his kin and friends. Truly a complete man.

As a teenager, I once asked him the secret of his success.

“Son,” he said, “you would not understand it as yet, but you would, when the time comes. When you grow up, you would fall in love with a woman, you may even marry her,” he had said with his eyes twinkling, continuing, “ you would find immense pleasure when you sleep with her, but when you find greater pleasure in your work, you would succeed. That is how intensely you must covet success in your work.”

I have never met a wiser man than you, grand pa. You given us a benchmark and a litmus test at the same time.

GOD!

Centuries ago; I take you so far back in history, that terms like Prime Minister and Democracy were not even coined, and being called a ‘King’ was not yet a matter of shame.

Kingdoms were won on the dint of the sharp edge of a sword and lost due to it. There was, in those days, no percentage, into manipulating a small section of the population, to press a particular button on inscrutable EVMS. That was the ultimate smart move, but it came later, much later.

Off course, even in those forgotten eras, some men were born smarter, and thus more ambitious then their brethren. Treachery, deviousness, and opportunism were valid currencies then, as today.

But what worried the ‘kings’ of those times, was their fate, once their sinews weakened. It was similar to that of the forsaken leader of a pack of wolves. No, you were not allowed to retire in peace, write your memoirs, and enjoy your loot.

They were simpler times, If and when you became the king life became a bed of soft bodies for you. The best of food, cloth, and women were yours for taking. Even the most superior of men bowed and scraped before you. But the route from the palace to the cremation ground was short and brutal .Your best buddies were ever ready to give a shoulder to your hearse.

The second-in-commands were forever spreading the seeds of mutiny amongst the ranks. The question asked was, “Why him? What’s so special about him?” No matter how much the king would distribute his goodies amongst these disgruntled lieutenants, they were never satisfied. They wanted more, they wanted all.

To desire your Boss’s chair, as well as his women, is an ancient desire of all men. You get one and you literally go one up on him.

Then one amongst the fraternity of kings chanced upon a God man. The man of God, was frailer of the body but glib with his tongue and a great actor, a thespian. He owned no sword. But still earned a rich living. He scared and bamboozled his followers into doing his bidding; else they would face the wrath of an all powerful, esoteric being. The best part was that the older he would grow the more followers he would garner.

His kingdom was must more permanent than the king’s.

Bingo! The two got together. The man with the muscles and the man with the scriptures. In return of a much more cushier life, to be spent in state sponsored temples, churches and monasteries, by what ever names called, the so called priests were told to coach the population about the reason of the king being the king .

God had willed it so!

Theories were coined and preprated. Cometh the populace cometh the theory. The king had the divine right to rule. It was his ‘karma’ from earlier births, when he had led the life of austerity and goodness. His progeny also had the same right. In return of ‘ governance’ he was entitled to take what he wanted, who he wanted. To rebel against the king was to rebel against the ALMIGHTY.

The God men worked like the modern day marketing and advertising Gurus, who take an arm and a leg as their fee, and in return give zilch as a real product .But they know how to sell your product. Thus they created a marketing strategy called religion and sold GOD! Forever.

Wings!

This one has been selected by “Women Era” group for publication. Have Received Rs.600.00.for it. See how profitable being a writer is. In the past few years I must have earned total sum of Ten thousand Rupees for writing.Princely.

Wings!
Five A.M. tiptoed in and gently shook me awake. Bleary eyed and groggy, I sat up on a much used, worn out, mat. That, valiant if threadbare, piece of cloth, had tried all night, to cushion my aching body from the unforgiving embrace of a dusty, ruthlessly hard, concrete floor.

I looked around and tried my best to recall where I was. I could not.

I could see, that I was in a huge hall. It was illuminated by single, naked, electric bulb. If anything, it served to increase the eeriness of the place, as it peeked down at us from the roof. Us? I was not alone. A little distance from me, a lot of bodies were asleep, in small huddles. Each was enveloped by a sleep so thick, that only deep exhaustion could have induced it.

The place was also infested with cockroaches and similarly eeky, slithery beings. I felt one wriggle up my leg, under my pajamas. My hand came down on it, hard; ending its journey on this planet. It’s, crushed, lifeless, body tumbled down to the floor.

Where I was, came to me in a trice!

I stood up and began tiptoeing amongst the sleeping lot, careful not to wake them up. I was looking the reason of me being where I was.

I found him. He was sleeping a little distance away, with his friends. I tiptoed back to my place.

If, even as early as a week ago, any body had told me, that I would have to leave the Five Star (wife, running water, television, cars, air-conditioning etc) lifestyle available to an average, middle class Indian male (none of these, except wives in plenty, was available even to monarchs such as Akbar The Great) and find myself, in this dilapidated place, more than sixteen hundred miles from home, I would have laughed at his face.

If he had still persisted and predicted that all this would happen due to the younger of my two children, I would have called him a fantastically fertile soothsayer. Simply, because, the boy in question was still a few months shy of his tenth birthday; too young, to drive me either bankrupt or to involve me in a crime scam.

Yet, he would have been absolutely right!.

At the present moment, however, there were some urgent things to attend to, like, answering the call of nature. Quietly, so as not to wake up any body else, I picked up my toiletries and clothes, and negotiated a path through a spate of bodies lying on the floor. I had to beat them to the toilets. Last night I had counted. There were only four such cubicles and my inmates easily numbered a few over sixty.

Once they got up, the queue would be a mile long.

After relieving my self on an ‘Indian style’ lavatory (a very uncomfortable posture for one not used to using it), I moved to the adjoining bathroom. Along with the door, its light bulb too was missing.

But there was no one around to admire my body beautiful, so I stripped myself and groped in the dark for the taps. Thankfully, the water, when it hit me, was refreshingly cool. I sat down under the steady stream, to enjoy, what seemed at that moment, like a major luxury. My eyelids sheathed my eyes, allowing my mind to hark back to the recent past.

It all did start some seven-eight-nine days ago. I was a bit a late that evening, and the three people in my life were awaiting me on the dinner table. One could cut it with a knife, so thick was the buzz around them. Naturally I panicked.

I rushed to only refuge available to a married father in his home; the washroom. I needed time to think. As I splashed some water on my face, I also started ticking off the list of things which the house hold did not need. Naturally, they were on their “must buy” list.

I cursed the television and the ad agencies.

I could not, however, stay in the bathroom all night. I had to look up at myself in the mirror. What was I worried about? Wasn’t I the MAN, the lord and the master of this house? I was. I mean at least on paper, I was. But that is where the problem lay. Being the man of the house is no longer an advantageous portfolio to hold.

But I am a fighter. Yes sir, I am. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I practiced the foulest looking frown that my visage could support and stepped out.

It had the desired effect. They went deadpan as soon as I joined them; that is, if you call smiling from ear to ear being deadpan. And I had them worried, as worried as a tigress and her cubs would be, as they saw dinner approaching them.

I decided to grab the feminine bull by her horns. Laconically I pulled a chair out and sat down. Leaning back on it, I raised my left eyebrow, stylish like, like I have seen the Big Bee do in countless flicks, and in my gravest and deepest baritone, asked, “Well?”

It plunged my daughter into spasms of giggles. “Well…?!” I repeated, this time a trifle sheepishly, even a bit plaintively.

“Limbdiiii!” whooped, Achyut, my younger one, fairly knocking his chair back, as he jumped to his feet and threw his small arms in the air.

A week later, soaked to skin in that small, door less washroom, I could not help smiling, as I recalled his obvious joy.

Limbdi! No it is neither a war cry nor a new expletive; actually it’s a small town, situated bang on N.H 8A.It is midway between Ahmdabad and Rajkot. We, my son, his team of sixty odd, and I, were on our way to this tiny blip on the cluttered geographical map of Gujarat.

All of us had reached Ahmdabad last evening, after a thirty-six hour journey from our home town. The chosen mode of transport had been a second-class bogey of an Indian Railways’ train.I wanted AC two tier at least if not a flight. Was overruled. Son dearest had insisted on, ‘traveling with the team.’

The ‘team’ would compete in various age groups (of both genders) in a national tournament of that new, in-fashion four-letter word of English language, ‘Yoga’.

However, seven days ago, I had not capitulated easily on the dinner table. No Sir! “How can we send you alone?” I had wondered. “Come on Papa…I am nine…!!” “Yes you are nine, sweetheart…nine! And I do not even know where of all the places is this godforsaken Limbdi?”

I had looked at the wife for support, she just looked back, wordless, So I said,” I did not know they held tournaments for… for…for yoga? That too Nationals?? And so far off …”

Thankfully, I bit my tongue off before I blurted, “How…Why did they pick you?!” Instead, I looked down at the itinerary Achyut had handed me, “Return…return after… ten.. TEN ! days!!” I glanced at the wife again. She simply rolled her eyes. I paused. There had to be something more.

What?

An invisible signal passed between son and mom, and Achyut leaned towards me, to put the gold medal he had been hiding under the table, around my unsuspecting neck. Amazed, I looked down at it and then at the certificate that his elder sister pressed into my hand.

It informed me that Achyut Mehra had won the first place in our state’s interschool yoga tournament!

I was floored.

But was still too scared to let him go. He did not even have an inkling that a life other than the Seven Star (add two parents and a doting elder sister, to my Five) one, he knew, existed. No, I could not send him. Did he know he would have to carry his own bags? And he was so fussy about the food he ate.

He went off to his bed, in tears. His equally distraught sister followed. Alone, the wife too admitted that she was torn between letting him go and the insecurity of sending him, so far away, with unknown people. No one from his school was accompanying him. We sat on the table, staring at the food. There was no appetite left.

Later, I tiptoed to their room and peeked, he was sleeping, snuggled against his sister. Gently, I ruffled his hair. He sighed. Secure in his little insulated world.

Back in my room, I sat down on my desk and began making a list. “What are you doing?” asked his mother.

“You know something? I never stood first in anything, anything, in life. Never!”

Wife was silent. She was not prepared for what followed, “My son is going,” I declared.” But not alone! I am making a list of people to call tomorrow, to cancel my appointments….things to postpone….”

“You cannot do that..” she gasped… “Your work.. You cannot afford it…ten days? Unplanned…! How will you spend time with these kids…? Let it be. I will talk to him. He will manage, let him learn. He will be fine.”

I was on that train, with my son a week later. The ‘yoga coach’ accompanying us had assured us that the ‘Ashram’ holding the tournament would have a welcome party ready to receive us at Ahmdabad station.
There was none.

Leaving me at the platform with the kids, the coach ran off with his assistant. An hour later he came back with the happy news that a nearby place of worship had agreed to let us rest our weary heads in its community hall.

I suggested a hotel room to Achyut. Overruled.

Nearby, meant almost two kilometers. And we had to walk the distance. Silently, I cursed his mother, for packing such a lot of clothes, and knick knacks for her darling. She and he had simply brushed aside my protests.

The other kids had much smaller bags. Obviously, as none else, had a dad around to pick the luggage. I had to lug his luggage as well as mine.

As I groaned under the weight , I looked at Achyut, walking ahead, happily chatting with his friends, even as the party trudged to their evening abode. When one of his newfound pals staggered, my little boy simply looked up at his dad with big, admiring eyes. I happily freed the friend of his load.

My son beamed. That is why I was there. To see him smile, laugh and enjoy. My own father never had the chance to do that for me. Life did not permit him. He was simply too busy and then he was gone. I smiled back. Happy as he was. Spontaneously without any bidding, he hugged me, enriching me. Father and son had found, hitherto unknown, kinship in the past two days.

I was actually doing nothing out of ordinary. I was simply repaying a debt, that too in part. Each generation teaches its next to fly, to survive on its own. I was there to look after mine, as he took his first faltering steps, tested his wings. For a while, I would fly alongside and let him soar. He would be diffident at first, but I would be there, always ready to put my wings under his, in case he needed to rest .

One day, I know he will take off and leave me behind, too weak and tired to keep up with him. Misty eyed, my duty done, I will smile.

A Blessing In Disguise

She does not want her school friends to read it. But she wants your comments on it before she submits it for the school mag. So she has asked me to post it on my page. Plz comment.

A blessing in disguise
You own everything. You are on the top of the world. But your life still misses something. You feel lonesome, you are alive and happy in the lovely world of God, but your heart still cries.

So it was with the small child. It was missing someone. Being a small child it did not know how to spell out its emotions to its parents. It would sit with legs crossed and hands joined and with small pearls like drops over its pink, rosy cheeks. It would pray, every day. It needed something to make its life complete. It prayed to God to complete its life by giving it the blessing that will bring solace in its life.

The child cried and prayed for two long years.

Then a day came, when the child felt the world change. It received its wish. It was so overwhelmed that it was not able to pay attention to God’s voice when He said, “My child this is a most precious gift. Not every one gets it. Be careful!”

Now for all these years, the devil too had been observing the small child. He noticed that that the child had paid no heed to the divine warning.

The devil saw his chance. He followed the child to its beautiful home where it lived with its parents. He knew that the small child was too young to take care of such a precious gift on its own.

You all must be wondering what the precious gift was. Just read on.

The child and the precious gift grew up together. The child became a teenager. It was now time for the devil. His entry into the scene was now imminent

The teenager cared about its precious gift and used to advice it about the good and the bad. But the devil wanted to prove the teenager wrong and the devil used every method to separate the teenager and the precious gift. The precious gift started to keep away from the teenager and spent its time with the devil. The teenager could no longer hold on to it. The precious gift was now giving it tears of sadness instead of tears of tears joy. The devil won the heart of the child and poisoned the heart of the precious jewel towards the teenager was only sympathizing with the child.

It is said that by love one can obtain anything that one wants but here the devil’s glib tongue had overthrown love.

The teenager was actually an elder sister who as a little child had prayed fervently to the almighty to give her a gift of a younger brother, a precious gift indeed.

This is an appeal to all the brothers to understand their sisters’ love and emotions. They care really for you and have a very soft corner for you. They live for you. They want to protect you, even though they may seem too firm and straight forward you.

Actually it’s those who sympathize with you and encourage your bad habits who are your sour enemies.

Sisters are “Blessing in Disguise.”

An Attached Bathroom!

Usually, ten plus two years is so short a period in the story of a nation, that you could liken them to maybe a couple of months of human life. They flit across, almost unnoticed by history. Not much changes in that much time.

Not the last dozen Indian years.

Hark back to 1997.

How many males then would have sent a ‘mail’ to their females? That too a new one every day!

What did terms like ‘net’ and ‘network’ mean?

Actually, a whole new dictionary needs to be written for new meanings that have been given to words we once learnt in school, as also for the arcane, newer terms. For instance, the word processor sill draws a zagged, red line under ‘texting.’ Can any one of us survive without the service?

Today, the Nokias, the Samsungs and etceteras have taken over the world. Effortlessly, they have become the ubiquitous companions of all men. Even more so of women. So much that many of the fairer sex keep them snuggled in such soft, intimate places, that the small hand- sets have become targets of envy of both the males and the Sun. Both manage even a peek into those valleys only if they get extremely lucky, and that is not everyday.

No male or his female goes to bed without their respective mobiles. They may do so without each other.

The biggest change however is in the attitude of women; young, old, and middle aged, towards life in general and herself in particular, especially, in the smaller towns of what is known as the urban(e) India.

SHE has changed in all senses of the word, sexually, sartorially, socially, sensually and spiritually. The change has been systemic and successful. It has also been determined and irrevocable.

Observe, for example, how casually, very middle of middle class parents, from very conservative, small town ‘mohallas’, have started sending their uninitiated, unmarried, nubile daughters, to work in cities, to which they themselves have never been to. Once there, the girl fends for herself, armed only with her degree and her new found independence. Far away from the scrutiny of the near and dear ones, she blooms!

Even as near as mid Nineteen Nineties, such events were unheard of. They happened only to the ‘forward’ and ‘modern’ girls of Delhi and B’bay. There too it was against the norm rather than the rule. A suitable boy was the only target for every parent of a pretty lass. No more.

The newfound economic independence has also liberated the girl’s father. Questions about dowry etc are now out of question. It is not uncommon for him to grill a prospective groom to determine whether he would be suitable for his daughter’s career plans.

On most occasions the daughters free their parents of even that much trouble. They find their own partners.

Along with HER, her HIM too has changed, more nilly than willy. In 2009,the condition of the male belonging to 40-50 age group, is the worst. The poor guy has been hit by a steamroller and has been swept aside. About fifteen years or so into his marriage, he has found that he is no longer living with the female he had once married. From being the lord and master of all he once beheld, like his father and uncles, he has had to do a quick makeover and has stepped back to being a mere co-pilot, companion and suitor.

‘An attached bathroom,’ quipped a much-married, fifty plus, lady, while describing her doting husband. Essential, comfortable, indispensable even, but entirely forgettable after use.

The best part is, that she whispered this to the mother of the girl, to whom her son was getting married, at that very moment!

The Jungle Belle

It was ,My first and thus far, solitary visit to a real Jungle. It is In Madhaya Pardesh, a few hours drive from Nagpur. My kids were with me and we loved the trip……….I met her there….read about it in her own words….
Published: women era oct2008 first issue
The Jungle Belle

Far, far above me, the sky was breaking out of the night’s passionate embrace. With every passing heartbeat, it was shedding a layer of its inky cloak. In almost perfect synchronization, the sky’s new bride, a shining, somewhat crimson faced, dawn, was moving in, shyly but surely.

My own chosen mate too had not waited for a moment too long; his task done, he had dismounted and disappeared in the thick foliage, without as much as another glance at me. But before leaving, my paramour had had proved to be exceptionally strong and virile, surpassing all my expectations, quenching my thirst, fully.

Just a few, deliciously torrid minuets ago, our brief courtship had culminated in an explosive climax. And to admit the truth, I had demanded nothing less. For days at end, my urge to procreate had been driving me berserk.

I wished my lover had stayed. But there can be no hoarders in the jungle. Life itself is ruthlessly transitory here. One learns to celebrate each moment, as it comes…. if it comes. I was satiated. I was thankful. I was full; my belly with his seed and the earlier shared dinner; my heart with his love and hope. I was going to be a mother soon, I was sure. Even the usually sultry pre-monsoon, Central-India, daybreak felt pleasantly cool to me. I sucked in a lungful of its vibrant, spanking clean air. It promised rain, but not just as yet.

Thus sated, I turned and fairly pranced towards my favourite grove.

It is a large, fresh water pond, skirted on all sides by huge trees that always stand so proudly erect, that they remind one of alert sentinels guarding a palace. Which it actually was, my very own. It was the perfect place to lie down and snooze for a while, and give his sperms time to fertilize my eggs. That is if they had not done their job already. Actually I was being plain lazy.

All around me the jungle was waking up, but so noiselessly that one could be forgiven if one thought that there was no one else around, except the hungry birds. Their intermittent, shrill twittering seemed even more strident due to the all-pervading quiet. A lot of them were gliding over the water, looking for any fish that may have woken up too early; flying so close to the surface that occasionally their eager, outstretched claws, would tickle its calm visage, and set off a series of smiles. The fluid, widening ripples, in turn, let out loud gurgling sounds, which were hauntingly musical to my ears.

I stretched by the lake, enjoying the tranquil solitude. A cool, invigorating breeze had begun flirting with the innumerable leaves of the trees, rustling them, and teasing them into an ungainly yet soothing rhythm. In order to welcome me, they shooed the wind on to me. It caressed and tickled me, playing with my hair, making me feel even better.

My eyelids began to droop. Above me, the sky and dawn had mated too and their newborn, the as yet mellow, amber ball of fire had emerged to play, from the gates of heavens. I blinked, as it peeked bashfully at me, from behind the top-most branches of the trees. I made up my mind to luxuriate in a long bath, later in the day, when the same baby orb would grow young, hot and fierce, like my lover had been. A sigh of contentment escaped me as I closed my heavy eyes. All was well with my little world!

But ecstasy cannot last for long, not when humans have something to do with it. In just a short while, their Gypsy was there. On their part, they had taken care to drive in as quietly as possible, yet the rancid fumes belched by their vehicle, the low guttural growl of its engine, and the whimpering screech of its tyers on the gravel, were enough to wake the dead. Slowly I lifted my head, just a wee bit, hoping that they would miss me. But they had already sighted me. The binoculars were out.

There was at least two hundred yards of water between us. But I felt invaded. Oh! Was I bugged! I wanted to kick my self for lying down in the open. It really took an effort to restrain myself from rushing at them and giving them a piece of my mind. Instead, I just glared at them, my eyes flashing. They stared insolently back, gaping at my beauty. Gawd! Where does a lady go if she wants to hide for a while from the world?

I gave up, resigned to the fact of them being there. I knew they would have continued their shameless, voyeuristic vigil endlessly. All my plans towards a lazy afternoon were dashed. Instead, I decided to go home.

My mood, however, was still intoxicated by the delectable recent tryst. I decided to give them a blast, a view they would never forget. Yawing, I got up and stretched, letting them have a look at my wares. Even from the distance I could sense the current of excitement that ran through them. You would think that it was the first time that the poor sods had ever seen a female. It may well have been the truth; well at least, I am sure, that they had not seen one as beautiful as I am. My kind is getting increasingly rare. I may not have much of a bust, but an enchanting ass I do possess, and I may be a jungle belle but none of their so-called supermodels can ever hope to match my sexy catwalk. After all, my body is svelte, long and lithe and there is not an ounce of excess fat anywhere on me, despite my strictly non-vegetarian diet.

Languorously, ever so casually, pretending I had not seen them, I started moving towards them, deliberately taking a long, circuitous route. I was fully aware of effect I was having on them, as I swayed and swerved. I knew without seeing, that their jaws had dropped and their breathing had sharpened as they watched me close in.

It was only when I was almost within
eyeball-to-eyeball distance that I turned my majestic head to look at them. They were gawking at me, transfixed. Our eyes met, and I easily held their collective gaze. They were mesmerized. My mood swung again. What riled me the most was that there was a female amongst them. At least she should have been more sensitive to another of her sex! Blood rushed to my head, as I made up my mind to teach them a lesson. Slowly, ever so deliberately, I took a couple of steps towards them. Already, I could smell the odour of their nervous sweat, as it broke allover their excited, trembling bodies. I stopped, coiling my self, enjoying their fear, and was about to pounce, when a small child, nestling next to the quivering bosom of his mother, began to wail.

Here I was longing for a baby myself! I could not attack one, even though its parents may well have interfered in creation of my own. Slowly, I turned and moved on, into grass that was tall enough to immediately hide me. But not before I half squatted on my haunches and defecated in front of their Gypsy, to tell them exactly what I thought of them. I then swished my long tail to brush away the flies. Let no one say that the tigresses of Pench, Karamajheri Reserve, in Madhya Pradesh are heartless like their so-called keepers!

As I walked, I could hear them, now chattering away like excited monkeys. Looking up at the sky I mooned for the rains. At least for some months the gates of the Reserve will be closed and we will be rid of these pesky, nosey, interfering humans who had no business to be there, in my jungle. At least these had come armed only with cameras, unlike some of their brethren, who smuggle in snares, guns and what not. In a few years all of us magnificent beasts would be gone from this planet due to them. But do they care? They would easily recreate us on their computers and make movies about us.

Sardar Kushwant Singh had sent a letter to me praising this story. It is hand written on his own letter head. I treasure it. The story is one of my favourites and is inspired by a real life incident. I hope you like it

When I first saw her, Pooja was standing outside the court of the Chief Judicial Magistrate of our city. A wave of TV cameras and mikes was threatening to engulf her, as they arched over her tiny form and converged before her taller parents.

The cameras drew my attention to her.

A thick crowd had formed an unwanted, jostling ring around the trio and their interrogators. I do not know whether it is the desire to see the news in the making, or a vicarious, voyeuristic, pleasure at knowing somebody else’s business, or simply the thrill of transmitting your bewitching visage across the nation, or what; but its is true, that the moment someone flashes a TV camera and a mike, they attract a horde of people, much like a skylight draws moths.

I was one of the moths. But I was looking at Pooja and not the cameras.

A mere wisp of a girl, it was easy to miss her, trying as she was, to disappear behind the folds of her mother’s sari. With some effort, I was able to catch her eye. For a moment, just for a moment, her defiant, smouldering, charcoal dark, pair looked into mine. Then she lowered hers.

That she was lost was obvious. Why she was so, was easy to understand, if you knew her story.

I knew it. Every body else present there did too. It had been all over the television. Let me tell you.

Ten years ago, she was born to parents, who had awaited a child for many years after their marriage. The long wait, ensured that there was only a mild disappointment at her gender, or her swarthy complexion, which contrasted sharply with her parents’ fair skins. Truly, only a parched throat knows the value of a sip of water.

Her parents were simple, reasonably well off folks. For the first nine out of ten years, life for Pooja had been fun, laughter, tantrums, toys, and school; till a fateful day, more than a year ago.

The day had dawned as usual, everyday like, in a flurry of early morning activities. Pooja never realized that it was a fateful day. No one did.

But then, fateful days are sly. Deliberately, they dawn like ordinary ones, so that they can catch us unaware. They go about their business quietly, hiding destiny in their wicked wombs.

That day, after putting Pooja on the school bus, her mother had picked the morning paper, handed it to her husband and had gone on to the kitchen to brew the morning cuppa,. It was daily routine.

She came back to him, with the steaming cups balanced neatly on a tray, and found him staring fixedly, at the paper. His face was drained of all colour.

Wordlessly, he handed the folded sheet to his wife. She too blanched visibly, as she recognized the shame faced woman, in the picture accompanying the news story.

The small item was printed on the inside pages of the city edition and on a more hurried day Pooja’s father could have easily missed it, but did not. On such tenuous, unexpected twists of cruel luck, are the lives of the mice and men dependent.

Later, that afternoon, Pooja did not find her mother home after school. She was not unduly concerned, being an only child she was used to taking care of herself. A neighbourhood aunt had let her in. But by the time it was late evening; the tiny tot had worked up a mighty tantrum to greet her parents.

A look, however, at their grim faces, warned her not to unleash her little storm. And from the way her mother pushed her away from herself, albeit gently, when she rushed to her, she sensed something was amiss, terribly.

Mother did not cook that night. Later, some relatives and friends dropped in. They all sat huddled together and spoke in hushed whispers, which would die altogether, whenever she came within earshot. That night, for the first time ever, the worried girl went to bed alone. She prayed, for her parents’ wellbeing. She thought that they were in some kind of trouble.

In his adjoining room, her father picked up the paper, again, and re read the headline for the umpteenth time, “Mid Wife Arrested For Exchanging Babies.”

The news item had alerted Pooja’s parents; their daughter’s colour was testimony enough. They too had gone to the police station, where the midwife was being held. The woman had nothing more to loose and admitted, readily enough, that their real son was living with another family in the same city.

She had sold him for a few thousand rupees. His adoptive parents had not wanted their child to know that he was not their very own. After all they were buying a real son with real money. The nurse had admitted during her interrogation, that it was her regular business. She was doing it to put her own children through costly public schools.

However in their case, the woman had not swapped the children. Pooja, she had got for free, from somewhere, and thus could not recall from where. Not that any one cared. The important thing was to get the boy back.

It was easier said then done. The boy’s incumbent ‘parents’ were not going to give up on their investment so easily.

It took a long court battle for the DNA test to be allowed.

The news was first published in a local paper. Later it had caught the imagination of the nationwide electronic media which is always desperate for new, slightly bizarre stories. It is a slave to a 24X7 devil, whom it has to feed constantly.

That day, after a year of judicial scrutiny, the CJM had pronounced the obvious verdict. Standing outside his court room, Pooja’s ‘mother’ was victoriously holding her son up in her arms.

Standing next to her, holding on desperately to her mother’s sari, the poor girl was facing the strongest, most potent, four letter word in English, ‘Mine!’ As in, me, my, ours …..MINE. It is the fulcrum on which our personal worlds revolve. Every emotion, be it, the much touted, ‘love,’ or its darker kin ‘hate’ (four letter ones again) is merely, its progeny. “Mine” comes before anything else.

A pretty young thing, from a national channel, asked her mother, “Madame, what will you now do with this girl?” Cheerfully, the lady in the limelight announced, “I will bring her up too. She is also like my daughter.” There were wide smiles of appreciation all around. Good people.

Distraught, Pooja looked up at her mother, who was too busy and happy to look down.

It had been an immense fall from the self-assured, peak of ‘my daughter,’ to an insecure, unsure, valley of ‘also like my daughter.’ On the way down, she had lost all that was hers. Everything, that she could once pick casually, without thinking, was now an obligation, a charity.

Later that day, her parents and her spanking new, fair skinned, brother visited almost every place of worship in the city, for obeisance before the munificent lord. “Bend, child, bend,” her mother would whisper fervently. Every time she would find her daughter staring accusingly at the Gods, and would urge, “Bend, for the almighty has blessed us!”

The Theory of Relativity

These days, I play a ‘three bucket trick’ on myself. I use three buckets full of water to take my evening bath. Water conservationists, please excuse, but the weather is swelteringly hot, and my work entails that I stand in the Sun, for at least a couple of hours, everyday.

I use a submersible pump to suck the water up; from a bore well that reaches the deep innards of mother earth.

The first bucket full is almost warm, maybe due to the heated pipes that it uses to travel. The next two are progressively cooler. The third one being coldest of the lot but is still not ‘COLD’ by any standards set by the centigrade scale.

I use bucket number two first. It is refreshing. It washes the sweat and the grime off. Next I pull up the bucket number one. After number two, it feels ‘WARM,’ but still it is H TWO OH! An increasingly rare commodity on this planet. I use a larger water jug to run through it as quickly as possible.

Then comes the treat of the evening.

Bucket number three feels icy cold! I pour it over myself slowly, jug by jug, enjoying each drop as it carouses down my body. It tingles, it invigorates, it cools my scalp, and sends the body temperature plunging. The trick makes the water feel much colder than it actually is!
I
t enables me to wash the day off. I feel like a new man.

Theory Of Relativity: Rule One: Our feeling of discomfiture or pleasure are relative to the immediately previous experience that we have had rather than the real and actual parameters of the incident.

Let me give you another scenario. Imagine that you walk from a non air conditioned environment, into a room which had an air conditioner running in it, till a few minuets ago.

Your immediate reaction would be “Wow! Thank God! Its so cool, mmmmm…!” However, the people who had been there in the room, for some time, when the AC was running full blast, would be sweating bullets and cursing the utility company for shutting off power!

Relativity!

The theory does not end here.

Rule Two: We constantly compare ourselves with our relatives (the term includes, parents, siblings, cousins, uncles, friends, nieghbours, colleagues et el, but excludes our children). We feel happy or otherwise in accordance with the conclusions that we draw from such comparisons and set our targets accordingly. All our lives we compete with them and only them, whether consciously or unconsciously. In their misfortunes we take a vicarious if camouflaged pleasure, in their successes lie our insecurities and jealousies.

You do not agree? Answer the following questions:

If you buy a new car, whether a Nano or a Merc, whom do you want to show it to? Mr.Tata?

If you go on a holiday to Goa, Lonavala ,Shimla or Bangkok, do you put the pictures on the local newspaper or on Face book and Orkut? Why?

If you dream your dream house, do you plan its layout, landscape, height, interiors etc according to the houses of your ‘friends’? Or to a certain Mr. Mallaya?

If a son is not doing so well in school, whom do we think of? Mr D.B. Ambani; or a distant uncle, who made his millions despite having no college education?

Need I say more?