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!