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!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 2, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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.”
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.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
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!
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!
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