The Way I See You.

I see you there

Tiptoeing your way through

So quite, so light 

That it might not even hurt the dew

And there is no print on the sand either

I wonder is there anything lighter?

As I see you there

Tiptoeing your way through

I see you there

Looking across the sea

Where the ship becomes a speckle 

And where the breeze blows a gusty flow

Do you also wish that it were a little bit slow?

Caressing the waves as the sun kissed them

Wrapped close and tight in a hem?

As I see you there

Tiptoeing your way through

And I see a diary half sneaking

Also the head of a pencil

Is that how you draw, is that your stencil?

But I'm sure there must be some colors as well

You look so more than just black white and grey

Then you must be a reader too

Would you read my scribbles?

I have got quite a few

As I see you there

Tiptoeing your way through

Newspapers.

People read newspapers for getting the latest news and updates. I read them for turning myself on. Not sexually, but as an intellectual stimulation. When it has been weeks that I touched my books or read anything substantial, I pick up the latest newspaper and read it. I come from a background where English has never been a mainstay, and it has been these newspapers which have improved my grip on the language. In an odd sense it gave me a sense of belonging to the larger, fairer community for which I was once an outsider. I never discard a newspaper until I have read it. Even if I do it after months, until I have skimmed through it I won't let anybody keep it in the attic. Back in college, I used to dress up in my finest sports outfit, put on my Dad's jacket and walk three kilometers to pick up the latest copy of The Hindu (I eventually switched to The Indian Express) from the near by vendor. It gave me such a sense of satisfaction, as if I had almost earned the right to read N. Ram and Shekhar Gupta talk about what is wrong with the our country.

Eventually the Vanmali library was opened next door. Vinay uncle, being a close acquaintance and a literary enthusiast himself, booked the newspapers for me. It did break my daily routine, but with everything coming up I had no real reason to complain. The vendor would deliver the newspaper and the security guard would deliver it to our place every morning, without fail.

Initially I had numerous run ins with the security guard. He was adamant on keeping us kids off the library premises and we were equally adamant to make sure he had a tough job doing that. Like all the old people I have seen or met in my life, I haven't seen him change him a single bit during all these years. He has had the same toothless smile, the same ragged uniform and the same comprehending looks all along. He stood on his territory and I always thought I made valid arguments. Whatever it was we argued about, the fresh copy of my newspaper would be delivered at my doorstep every morning by him. Day in and day out. It seems like an eternity since our morning tea has been accompanied by his hoarse voice. "paper".

But then times change. My run ins with him disappeared. While he stood taking care of the library and delivering my newspapers, I attended college and got a job. Now it is just in time as I am leaving for work, he comes with the paper. I greet him with a polite thank you, and he responds with a toothless grin. There are days when I don't even get a chance to open it, but I still keep it in my backpack, just for the old man's sake. 

There was a minor break in this routine a couple of weeks back. Nobody saw or heard from him, and with everything on my plate I had no real reason to be bothered. Yesterday just as I was about to leave, he came in and said, "paper". His face was ashen, and his head shaved bald. He did try to flash a smile, but his eyes said something completely different. I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to say. The pause, the silence was deafening. All I could muster was  a feeble sit down. He took to a spot on the ground.

"Baba saheb, my daughter passed away."

And he choked. I stood rooted to the spot. Somewhere in the background a clock was ticking, and Dad said I better hurry up. I couldn't have cared less.

I mumbled some consolation. He wiped away his tears. He looked worse than before.

"She had pneumonia. Her husband was away and she was all alone. By the time we got a wind, it was too late."

"I went to my maalik, the owner of our security agency. He kept me waiting for no less than three hours. All I asked him was for a couple of months of advance payment. When I told him why, he shooed me away, as I were a street mongrel. As I were filth, a vermin who just came out of a gutter. And then he asked another  guard like me to throw me out. How dare I pollute his office while the sootak  was still going on."

"Baba saheb, tell me one thing. Is a poor man's misery his own fault? I stand on my feet, days after days for him. I wear this ragged uniform and yet he shoos me away. But here I am again, standing for him, his agency wearing this uniform."

"Then how did you... " I trailed away.

"Some people from locality came up, his husband had some cash too. We managed it somehow."

"You read this newspapers. I have seen you reading all these years. One day you'll grow up to become a seth like my maalik. But don't you ever do something like this to a fellow human being. We too are made of the same flesh and bone." And in one swift motion he picked himself up and started walking away. 

"But then why didn't you come to us?"

"No baba saheb, I didn't want to take help from somebody whom I won't have been able to repay. And then if I borrowed anything from you, how could I come to you everyday empty handed, with just a newspaper."

I went numb. I half-wished to stop him, and half wished that I had something better to say. A wave of guilt swelled me, with that newspaper in my hand. By the time I gained my senses, he was already halfway back to the library. Yesterday I missed my bus. I hope someday I don't miss the bigger picture.

Amen.

Chutzpah.

Sunday morning, simmering tea and Haider. Then saw it again last night (Torrents FTW). And still playing it on my TV while writing this piece. I am still in complete awe and the last time a movie enthralled me this much was Black Friday. Not to forget, "chutzpah".

Watching a movie is a fairly complicated process for me. For starters, I can always visit Anshul Purswani's timeline and get a firsthand, Bhopali review of all the five movies screened for that week (a process which he describes "HECTIC") and move on. But in most cases it is not limited to that alone. I need to know the backdrop, I want to know whether it is a copied script, or a typical Allies vs Axis WW II flick, or a no holds barred gravity defying remake remake of a South Indian hit. I need to know which book it was adapted from, who wrote that book, then search that writer on Google and Goodreads. I check on the nominations it received, then look up the hash-tag on Twitter. Then if I am convinced, maybe I'll watch it. Simple process right.

Movies genres are the closest you come to the word assorted. You have movies like Haider which come once in a while, movies which shake you up and make you think beyond the actress's legs. Then there are literal no-brainers like Happy New Year which make you sad for SRK. As much as you want a cult classic like Haider Gangs Of Wasseypur, you need these lesser movies to make you realize their importance. Chutzpah all over again. You can't live with something, and you need the other to make the first one tick.

I'll tell what else is chutzpah: pseudo-intellectualism. Pretending that you understand what Nimmi, Dolly or Ghazala was up to in Maqbool, Omkara and Haider respectively. That you understand the tragedy in Miyan or Omkara's romance. The multiplex thing has damaged the movie culture as now the movie matters less than your check-in and your tags. I am no different, and having not read Shakespeare at all, had little idea about what was coming up next. Less chutzpah than you guys I dare say!

And before you forget it, it's the the 30th Anniversary of the Bhopal Gas Tragedy this year. Will be writing about it, some pointers are welcome. Till then ciao.

#ThankYouSachin

Star Sports has been running this ad campaign for the past three weeks now. The BCCI is trying its best to catapult its own advertising revenues. Twitter is flooded with the hash tag #ThankYouSachin. And do you know why is that so? Because we all owe him, big-time.

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar had eclipsed the status of a mere mortal long time back. The 16 year old boy who smashed the ball to every corner of the park right from the onset of his illustrious career has done and achieved everything that exists. I am sure there must be a record book which only tells us how many records belong to his name. But this post is not about me showering adulation on him. And even if I attempt to do so, I am sure there are some adjectives I will still miss out on. Tomorrow the man who represented the hopes and aspirations of a billion strong will take to the field for one last time. For one last time he will do his famous half squat to adjust his guard and we all hope that for one last time, he raises his bat in the air for us. Yes we all love him and everything but inherently we are all selfish, aren't we.

But again this post is not about all that. I am sure CricInfo has better written articles with accurate statistics to support them. Neither am I as good as someone like Harsha Bhogle to whip some magic instantaneously (the IPL final, "replays are for mortals like us"). This is all about an entire generation growing up with dreams of not becoming engineers or doctors or crickets. It is about an entire generation wanting to be the next Sachin Tendulkar. It is about trying to emulate his stance, his panache, his straight drives. It is about those quarrels for batting with a bat with a MRF sticker on it (they used to cost Rs. 10, also we used Brittania for our fondness for Rahul Dravid). It is about staying glued to our television sets when Sachin was in his 90s and then jumping with our siblings as he raised his bat and looked up in the sky. Its about a man who installed a belief in the Indian sporting community. Its about being humble and polite and not letting fame and money to turn your head around. Its about being criticized over and over again and then coming back with a not out score of  248* on the SCG (honestly I can quote about 30-40 such innings but this picture says it all).

It is about my childhood, my love for this game and my admiration for this man.

#ThankYouSachin

PS: Dear Darren Sammy, no disrespect for you or your team but this all about SRT. 

The Mango Tree

As I made my way back to home after another monotonous day, I saw her sitting under the shade of the mango tree. Officially I am giving another one of those "midterms", which have diminished in their importance with each passing semester. No they still carry the the same weight as they did before but the sincerity is long lost and seriousness has dissolved in the abundant distractions and apathy of time. Yet they are a part of the cycle which I have to oblige for another year or so.

I tried avoiding catching her eye, once again. The mango tree- which has belonged to my family for about four decades and at which she holds an even stronger claim, was swaying gently in the cool spring breeze. I knew for sure that her eyes were fixed on me, I could feel that piercing gaze as I scrambled to park my bike and get inside. What transpired was not new, yet it leaves me with a strange, empty guilt each time.

Not long back she was the buzz of the locality, the "Narad Muni" in a more generalized sense. She had the agility and cunning of a fox. It was impossible to escape her eyes before leaving or entering the lane, let alone my own house. The agony aunt of all the domestic helps that fretted to and fro all day. The secret keeper of all the dodgy business in the 1 km radius. The live, walking and talking source of all new and old. She was Taijee. As I have grown up in a typical Indian setup where the neighbors have always had a more important say in the decision making process rather than the family members themselves, I called her Taijee ever since I learnt to speak. Taijee, which in Hindi means aunt. She had some command on me till I grew out of her reach, and practically everyone else's too. I always received this specially bought box of Gulabjamuns on my birthdays, which was occasionally peppered with a chocolate candy-bar. And picking up a ripe mango in front of her was a challenge in itself. The truth was that my Grandpa had planted the tree way back, and it was half in our's and half in her domain. Nevertheless, its origin and location made no difference to her, for all the mangoes that were on her side of the tree belonged to her. On countless occasions my Grandma, who herself is a tough cookie to crack, would go all guns blazing for all the mangoes belonged to "us". It never made any difference to her, and I guess it never will.

She has always been present. I rarely have any memory of her not being there.  I remember her calm and composed self when my mother went into labor with my younger brother and her compassionate smile, reassuring me that everything is fine. I remember her presence my Grandpa passed away, and the void that was created due to his untimely demise. I remember her happy face when I came home running to declare my impressive Board result. I remember her in all the small and big events that have happened in and around me. 

Then a few months back, Godly forces took toll of her health. As she came home after picking some fresh flowers for her morning rituals, a failed attempt to please the Gods as one would later conclude. What followed some nausea and vomiting was a severe brain hemorrhage. She ended up in the critical care unit, and subsequently paralysis. As a 21 years old male, I am supposed to take these things without any significant display of emotion, and so I did. Obviously, with such close family ties and her only son being out of station, my parents and our family was the only significant support they had. Her husband was mentally and physically exhausted, not to mention the immense financial strain this unforeseen situation had put him under. Even the doctors had given up and it was left for the Almighty to deal with.

Then as if it was a miracle, and her health began to improve, slowly yet steadily. After three weeks she was discharged and she made it back to home. Her health though receives continuous jolts and is subject to a lot of uncertainty. She cannot walk anymore, at least not without someone supporting her. Her faces is now nothing more than a lopsided accumulation of mass. Her voice has a very difficult accent now, mostly because of the paralysis. She needs support for even making it to the loo and every thing. She has ceased to be just a shadow of her former self.

But there is something that has changed somehow. Her gaze, her piercing gaze which makes me jump out of my skin now. Earlier it were these eyes which meant a lot more reassurance and brought a calmness to the state of affairs. But now they resemble something completely different- the plight of a woman who for her entire life has defied the odds, and stood against the tide of time for her own good. I cannot help but feel sorry about her, and her family. To be honest she has been family for us ever since, and it is going to stay so.

I tried avoiding catching her eye, once again. She must be thinking of me as an ungrateful brat, who does not even turn up to ask her well being- let alone any help. But I hope, that she understands my pain, which I feel each time I see her in this dilapidated condition. I hope she forgives me for my conduct, which is definitely not appropriate. I hope she gets well soon- well enough to give me a wry smile. Yes, even a wry one would suffice. It would be more than enough.

This year there are going to be no mangoes in the tree. It remains barren, though still in tact. The spring is here, the leaves have turned green once again. It is as if the tree has been put itself on hold, waiting for you Taijee. For you to come up to that boundary wall and stake your claim on your half. Frankly I won't even mind if you wish to extend your territory. It waits for you.

The Juvenile Nation

It's a date that has been etched in our memories forever. December 16 2012 will not be forgotten easily. For a country that has already surpassed the hundred and twenty five crore mark in terms of population, it had to be something out of the blue to shake a sleeping nation out of its slumber. Sadly enough it came at the expense of a young girl. Leaving behind yet another helpline number and another committee whose recommendations will be reviewed and re-reviewed. Yes, it happens only in India.

For a nation which calls its holy land as "Mother" India, the social status of women, in spite of the numerous efforts and schemes, has been in a state of free fall over the decades. Even six decades after attaining independence, the streets are not safe. The "involuntary contacts" persist. We boast of arsenals of advanced ammunition  an excellent GDP, advancement in space science and technology, renewed diplomatic relations. We have icons in virtually every field, be it sports, politics, economics, literature; but each time a girl steps out of her house she is under a constant threat. The fact is that the rape incident which occurred on that unfortunate night was not the first which happened in our country. But it was the sheer brutality and savageness which prompted the nationwide demonstrations. From our primary classes we remember that man is a social animal, perhaps we are still animals who don't know a thing about a civilized society yet.

Rapes and eve teasing are given coverage in the media in such magnitudes because they are the tip of the iceberg. They are observed on a vivid scale as it is a phenomenon which is somewhat centralized with the urban population. If we widen our perspective, the plight of women in modern India is much more acute than it is actually perceived. Female infanticide, sex trafficking, domestic violence, dowry, abduction; these are just to name a few o fully functional mature society has imposed on the female kind. The laws have always been in place and so have been the loopholes. The culprits ditch the bars and roam around in the open, with the devil inside them unscathed.

And then comes in the question of being juvenile. How old one has to be to commit a hideous crime such as rape and murder? If there cannot be an "appropriate" age for them to descend to a nadir, then why can't we pursue the punishment the guilty likewise? If we can render a culprit who is 17 years and 364 days old as juvenile, then perhaps we must simply accept that ours is a juvenile nation- a nation which does not dare to look beyond the obvious. We create these escape routes and then battle our wits and reasoning on live video feeds. the heat from these discussions is used to cook political ambitions. If the rules have to be changed then they have to be- for what lies ahead of us is an abyss.

How many candle marches, protest rallies and demonstrations we conduct, it is simply not enough may well never be enough.. What we need in real is an educated society where respecting women doesn't come  as an option- it comes as something which is as natural as breathing. Where women don't suffer from social hiatus, where there is equal participation irrespective of the gender- both on paper and in practice. For these helplines numbers are not only of any use like today- but a society where they are not needed at all. that is what we aspire as a part of this generation- a modern India, true to its name.

An Exodus

Sunset@Tawa

The best things that happen in our life are indeed unplanned and unanticipated. What began as a regular off  topic chat with Srini resulted in an amazing and refreshing trip, the first in a very long time. We eventually realized that in all the humdrum surrounding us we fail to stop and just take a momentary exile from our day to day life. Appreciate the beauty of nature and live life the way it should be.

We went to Tawa Dam and then to Satpura National Park. Anybody, and I mean anybody, exhibit their natural behavior when we are with our friends. Their company brings a normalcy to the affairs. No pretending, no extrapolations. Just being what we are. Saying what comes to our mind and making the worst of all jokes. Because they have been there, and they have seen the best and the worst of us.

Well enough of all this. Should tell you about the trip now.

I don't know in which part of the country the Pradhan Mantri Gram Sadak Yojna is running, because its definitely not running here. Had a bumpy ride all the way up to the resort, and the '80s tracks made the journey even more pleasant (and I am lying, it was hellish, Kumar Shanu, I don't know who you are but I will find you and kill you). But as soon as you see the picturesque setting all was worth it. As if you are brought to an entirely different place. We went for a  ride on a cruze boat, occupying the hull. The scenes were simply astounding, though the ambiance was slightly disturbed by the item songs that were playing overboard. The water was as clean as it could be, and the breeze was pacifying. Standing on the railing, with my eyes closed, the smell of fresh water, the sunset, the splashing water, the isolated islands, like the ones you had in Life Of Pi. It was nature at its best, soothing my soul, rejuvenating me, transporting me to an entirely different realm. 

By the time we arrived at Madhai, it was already quite late. With no electricity, mobile network and internet we experienced the ground reality of basic amenities available in any Indian village. Come to think of it we are absolutely disabled if such a situation is enforced upon us. Remember that 5 texts per day ruling earlier this year. When our net is down we don't have a life. Mobiles and internet were supposed to make our life easy and comfortable, its so ironical that we actually are incapacitated when they are not available.

The night is always filled with surprises, and has the most powerful tool of all, darkness- which engulfs us and makes us wonder many strange things, bend the rules, change our destined path. But it also brings along with it an urgency to find light, an impending need to come out of it and a desire to move forward. 

The night was all stary, rustling of leaves, the heat of the camp fire, shimmering moon in the river, the old melodies playing on Lala's phone simply made it even better. 

Another conclusion I made was that I need to get a SUV asap to avoid the jolts that I had using the roadways.

Should wind up now, saving some for later.
Bye