चादर

वो जो सिलवटें तुम छोड़ गई थीं
उस नरम चादर पे
वो मैंने वैसी सी ही रहने दी हैं
ये चादर अब मुझे समतल पसंद आती भी नहीं

और रात जब आती है
तो उसके अँधेरे में
मैं सिमट सा जाता हूँ
उन सिलवटों के पास ही

~ निशांत

Inheritance

The Desais had lived twenty yards across Abhilash's home for three generations now. Set in the corner of a sprawling locality, their house was the crown jewel of Sector 7, Lajpat Nagar. The Desais lived in a beautiful house. It had a vintage iron gate, resting on two strong pillars like the head of a wrestler resting on two strong shoulders. Inside was a lush lawn, speckled with rose bushes on its sides. The walls gleamed white, with vines ruffling your head as you moved in. A couple of shining cars completed the driveway. The mantelpieces looked archaic yet they had a a sense of longing about them; the type you want to photograph and make into a postcard. Red tiles adorned its top, much like a cherry garnishing a pudding. Kissed by sunlight at different places during the day and caressed by a breeze blowing through, it was a house that made you want to stay, to live, to breath. A house that you wanted to call home.

The Desai family had a booming business. They were a renowned family in the locality and the city, and each its generation was born as if only to add some weight to its name. Something a kid growing up would not want his neighbors to be like. Something Abhilash's family quoted often to give examples. The Desais had two sons, both a bit older than him. Both on their way to top American universities while he was a kid; and in them when he was a bit older. It was like a catching up game he played with a shadow which was already ahead of him. Everywhere he went, the Desais' sons, yes the ones who lived in that laal kothi were a mile ahead at best. It was as if everything associated with the laal kothi was quintessentially top notch, a benchmark that preceded almost everything in Sector 7, Lajpat Nagar.

Soon enough, life changed gears; wafting and breezing at a pace Abhilash had never witnessed. School was followed by college and then a job away from home. While it was a pain to be away, he was secretly relieved to be away from it, away from a living embodiment of him not being the top dog, not being constantly reminded of him being only a so and so. He got more engrossed than before, finding and making a name of his own. Things started turning upside in some time. He was no longer overshadowed by a a name or a house that didn't belong to him. But it was always a part of it when he thought of home. The intensity did wane but it the house next door was and always going to be a part of his home.

*****

Abhilash had not even properly stepped on the platform. Porters and rickshaw owners surrounded him with their typical hollering. He thought of boarding one from the stand but the luggage in his hand was heavy. He was coming home after almost five months. Three heavy bags softened his initial urge to bargain. So he asked the driver nearest to him to pick up the bags carefully. He didn't want the phone he bought for his dad or the savories to be damaged. The driver asked where to and like an old scar that reemerges on a cold winter day, he told him to take the first turn right off the Link Road to Sector 7, Lajpat Nagar. Opposite the water tank, besides the laal kothi.

Soon he was coasting, back into a plethora of memories. It was as if he wasn't just going back to his home, he was going back to everything that he had left behind when he moved out for his job some two years back. His old school, his old hangout places. The food joints. His college. The old fort gleaming in the morning sunlight. The football field. The roads.  Every single time he came back, the awe of getting back was still the same.

A little bit of moisture here and there, maybe the wind or maybe the emotions. The driver knew where to go; a location not unknown and a landmark recognized by most. A turn later he was standing was standing opposite the water tank, besides a pile of rubble and dust, broken bricks and yes, his own home.

It was a mix of emotions: yes he was home, his Dad was waiting for him at the gate, but there was no sign of a splendid house that used to be right next to his. All left of it were a few decimated walls, some hinges yet to be extracted and a uniform clad eating his beetle leaf, standing guard. He did move in, he did touch his father's feet but there was a look of complete bewilderment that occupied his face. A sense of betrayal maybe, when your bête noire decides to shut the shop down without even having the courtesy of telling you that it is over. 

Desperate for his answers, he looked at his father who sensing his quizzical looks first asked him to come inside. Soon he came to know the story: how the aging and ailing Desais had decided to sell off the business and their sons who were settled abroad took them along with. The house too was decided to be deposed. The house, the Desais house, the laal kothi was sold with a heavy heart. Four generations and a countless memories later, the laal kothi was finally disassociated from the Desais. The new owner decided to make amends and stamp his own mark; and tore down the house brick by brick. It was as if somebody had sucked the soul out of Sector 7, with everyone quietly lamenting the act in their dining rooms. Abhilash quietly came in his room and lied down. There was an uneasiness that gripped his heart. As if somebody had decided to go behind his back and had managed to undermine his own identity, and in a way his own home.

What he felt was exactly what makes a house a home. A house is made out of brick and mortar, has a defined boundary and has a location. A home is an emotion, it is a sense of belonging which encompasses imagination. It is recluse, it is hideout. It is a fortress. It is invincibility. It is stability. It is not just bricks and mortar; it is a living entity, which breathes and eats and sleeps. It has a soul, it has its parts. We are those parts, who complete it. And sometimes it is not just the people who live in it, it is even those who don't. It stands on a bigger piece of land than its papers say; it stands and commands and defines an entity bigger than its boundaries.

A home is not just a house, it is inheritance.

घर लगता है

तुम हो तो
यह घर लगता है
वरना इसमें
डर लगता है

वार नहीं करते हैं वंदन
और वही हवा अब
करती है साँय-साँय
सन्नाटा रहता पसरा
नहीं गाता अब कोई बिन बताए

तुम हो तो
यह घर लगता है

और जब ढ़लती है शाम
पास आते हैं साये
कोई नहीं लगाता दीपक
जो उन्हें दूर भगाए

तुम हो तो
यह घर लगता है

और स्वाद भी फ़ीका ही
लगता है रोटी का
पेट तो फ़िर भी भर ही जाता है
मन को कोइ कैसे समझाए

तुम हो तो
यह घर लगता है

और कभी थक कर
जल्दी आँख भी लग जाए
तो कोई नहीं
उठा कर बोलता थोड़े गुस्से से
कि तुम कैसे सो गए
मुझे बिन बताए

तुम हो तो
यह घर लगता है
वरना इसमें
डर लगता है

~ निशांत

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.