But, our country will prosper now

When you were a child, (irrespective of what your age is today) you must have read this statement- “India is a developing nation.” When I was a child, I too had read the same; and a slap of sarcasm to our glorious nation is that children today are also reading the same sentence. In the course of these years as we grew up many things changed- new states emerged, foreign cultures walked into our mother land, women started initiating things, economies shuffled, sensex rose and fell, gold, silver, platinum and fossil fuels decreased and of course the rupee too painfully fell on its chin.

Recalling the past decade, what fills us in context of our nation, its problems and solutions is a big black spot. Considering the past two general elections when our nation’s common people, standing in the voters’ queue moved a feet ahead in every two minutes, inching closer to the ballot box, their ears reverberated with the words of promises made by their netas. Their lips curved with an optimistic smile of hope of the coming future and happily after exercising their franchise they returned back home suffering the bumps of the battered road- perhaps for the last time!

They waited for weeks after the government took its chair in the centre and painfully for the aam aadmi, also better termed as ‘The Mango Man’ (by the same government that they elected) they were forgotten to live in their same piteous state with their same persistent problems. The white-kurta-men had successfully sucked the pulp of their Mango-men and tossed away the remains. The promises made, strategies laid and development thought was annihilated in their brain itself. Something, ‘if’ ever carved on paper was served to termites and roaches in moist office files in a damp cabin.

They say, after a bad day comes a glad day. On a similar account, when the nation lost all hopes of development, welfare and services from the ruling government there emerged a savior whom the common man named ‘NaMo’. He was better known for his strategic planning, faithful serving and visionary approach. A wave of support erupted simultaneously for him from all parts of the nation and the Mango-man saw a better future coming. His rallies started happening all across the nation, and everywhere a plethora of the same frustrated-yet-hopeful Mango-men emerged for his glimpse.

He was the nation’s favorite, only until the recent cabinet elections in Delhi saw another young man and his party’s (Aam Aadmi Party) uplift with a broom to clean off the corruption. Now here at this cross-road, though a climax situation prevails amongst people about the upcoming government in Delhi, but on the contrary there are two parties struggling hard enough to prove their worth and stake to serve the nation after the 2014 Lok Sabha elections.

For the first time in all these years, it gives the common man a feeling that no matter who wins, A or B, the nation and it’s long sucked Mango-men will finally reap some benefits. Whether the nation will chant the NaMo mantra for the coming five years or take in hand the Aam Aadmi’s broom- definitely both will do enough good to change the statement in our textbooks to-“India is a developed nation.” No matter how sullen our past was, but, our country will prosper now.

Autobiography of a ten rupee note

Human life has many shade, so does an incarnated inhuman life. From joy to melancholy, from happiness to tragedy, from love to despair and even betrayal- all shades, white, blue and grey are witnessed in this significantly small but large life by every living and non-living matter. Some believe life is a journey full of experiences, some take it as a path of leisure and some as a means to pass it through to enter another phase of the life cycle, familiarly known as reincarnation.

My story is an account of freedom, of inbound and outbound locomotion; of a healthy trip transversely and longitudinally in a passive manner, of a tragic gait and a spell bounded viewpoint of the society, nation and globe with eyes those are unmarked. Eyes on my torso that the world cannot see, a heart with thumps that cannot be felt, feelings that not be judged, wrinkles that pass on to me with age that are rarely noticed, but apart all odds and evens I see, feel, judge and make judgments that remain buried with me within the two folds of my body. I am a ten rupee note- the one that is found in every wallet, closet, treasure and chest pocket of a human.

Unlike humans, I am not a standing sculpture of stunning height, rippling muscles and distinct looks, but a common currency note that has the same dimensions, shade and aspects. When I descend from the Currency Press in a pack of 100 siblings, I measure 5.4” x 2.45” with a unique serial number consisting eight numbers and an alphabet, in my case it is 01B 989076. This alone is my identification.

My journey: The joys

After I took birth from the Currency Note Press, Nasik, which is the oldest of the four presses from where my acquaintances originate and spread out in the entire nation. My commercial journey started form The State Bank of Nasik from where I was burrowed by a farmer who fancied buying a buffalo. With him I stayed for two days until he forwarded me along with other notes of higher denominations to a merchant. Life in the farmer’s hut was quiet mundane. He had two sons and a wife, all fragile and malnourished. There I lay in the depths of a tin canister wrapped up in saffron fabric under a pile of grains. My presence was too cautious for him, I was probably more dear to him than his children. He kept me hidden for two days until finally he handed over to this big fat merchant.

On his way back the merchant pulled me out of the bundle and traded me for a red pan. He along with the pan got a few coins back that he carelessly slipped into his trousers. On the wet counter, I lay amongst the pan leaves, tobacco and spuparis. Customers came and made their purchases frequently and he kept piling more notes on top of me. Finally, after half an hour he placed me in a small tin box. Another two days I spent there observing how mundane life was and eavesdropping on all his financial talks with his colleagues and traders. So far, I had only seen life to be dull and utterly money driven. I though was lighter in weight than any other belonging, but yet my presence was indispensable to everyone. This single thought gave me immense pleasure and haughtiness to proceed ahead.

The pains:

By now I had an assumption that I am a king amongst all materialistic things and assets. This belief would have more strengthened only if on that bright sunny day a big car would have not stopped at his shop for a taste of pan. With the pan the seller handed me to the man seated on the rear seat in white linens and a whole new journey began for me. From concern to neglect, from safe-keeping to careless-handling, I witnessed tortures in all form. The India of which I had an assumption that people care and adore money was shattered like a glass into a thousand pieces. I had entered the lives of the rich. On the first go he separated me from the stack of notes with higher denomination and kept me loose in his pocket. I was happy, thinking he would transact me for something soon, but ironically he completely forgot about me and threw me on a pile of dirty clothes with the jeans. For one entire month I stayed there, in complete ignorance and gloominess. I had lost hope of life and the world of commerce where I had repute. Accidentally, (I believe) he tossed me one day to the laundry and in I went into the washer. I twirled and twisted in the whirlpool of soapy foam choking and deforming of my looks with every passing second. With so tattered looks I lost all hope of ever being accepted again, but the spark in the eyes of the Dhobi on finding me passed some hope to me. He kept me in the open to dry with a stone on my chest to avoid my escape with the west winds. In less then ten minutes I dried under the scorching sun and he happily kept me in the folds of his diary.

From all the owners I had faced, he was the most influential, perhaps because he had the determination to trade me even in that withered condition. It was a pity even to my state that how, in just a span of less then quarter of an year I had become so weak and fragile, like the sons of the poor farmer who first owned me. I was rejected in two of the shops the dhobi tried trading me, but in the third attempt he covered me between two crisp notes and off I slipped into the cash box of the shopkeeper unobstructed. But, as he eyed my poor state and his slip of accepting me, he wailed in agony.

In no time I had become one that was nowhere wanted from the one that was once considered a treasure and was so safely placed in the depths of a tin canister hidden under the fresh harvest of the season. Imagine my fate being placed with the grains, handful of which was to be placed before the divines as thanksgiving.

The last breaths:

With each passing day my form deteriorated and chances of my acceptance at all counters kept growing thin. More gloom was added with the onset of monsoon and I shattered to pieces in a short period of time. On a day with heavy rain, I slipped off from the rear pocket of a teen. The mucky waves carried me with their current penetrating my remains with sticks, wrappers, cartons and plastic straws. For hours I flowed from north to south, trying my best to resist the flow and sail aside to the banks of the street-side-river, but to no avail. I finally rested on a clear ground where the waters led me. There I lay in an almost distorted form waiting for someone to come and pick me up, but only more water came and eventually I got buried in the warm mud.

There is no cremation here, no afterlife, no obituaries, no tomb of burial and no epitaphs; just pitch darkness and an unnoticed end. India of my origin will perhaps never notice my end, they’ll remain busy with their chores and here I am left to degrade in the soil. 

Hitting the bird’s eye

What I am now about to disclose is a bit controversial, a bit unconventional, somewhat unbelievable and somehow unknown. Perhaps we were not told, as the lullabies told us were of a different genre, of fairy tales and Gabbar’s torture.  What lies at my narration is the story of Karna, who was the mightiest archer of history. Yes, mightier than even Arjun.

Karna was the son of a charioteer and thus he was refused to be trained by Guru Dronacharya in his Military Academy. Nevertheless, he began his sessions all alone in the night, under the light of the moon and a lamp. However, as per the custom that every student should have a guru, so Karna choose none other than the mighty sun god as his guru. From dawn to noon he went to the ghats of Gang and remained smeared in the water, neck deep, paying his tributes to the sun god. Thereafter, in the remaining time he practiced that often stretched till the fall of dusk, sometimes even more.

We all have heard or read the story of Arjun, when he aimed at the bird's eye. It was a competition organized in the arena of the military academy by Guru Dronacharya himself. Everyone was competing everyone. However, Karna was absent that day and the news reached him late. In the arena, one after the other Guru Dronacharya repeated the very same question, “What do you see?” And answers flowed in from a tree, to a mountain, clouds, trees, pastures, dogs, cows and riverbeds. These answers were themselves the elimination of all these contestants, bringing Arjun closer to the question. When Arjun was asked the same question he replied, “I see the bird’s eye.” Guru Drona patted his back and asked him to proceed. He aimed and down came the bird with the arrow still in its eye. Dronacharya was pleased as per his expectations from Arjun. He again patted his bat and declared him the greatest archer.

               As Ashwatthaman, Guru Drona’s son narrated this tale to Karna, he saw a spark in his eyes. He asked him promptly, “What would you have answered Karna?”

“I would have said, nothing. Yes, NOTHING. When Karna takes an aim, he can see nothing. His entire body itself becomes an arrow, and all that is seen is the tip of the arrow and a tiny dot, where it has to strike. Ashwatthaman, if I would have been there I would have pierced both the eyes of the bird in one shot.”

“I believe you Karna. I know you could have. There is no one in this land who can compete you in any field. Neither from the Pandavas, nor the Kauravas.”

That night Karna went to the academy with his brother Shona. He told Shona to place the bird at the highest possible place on the Ashoka tree. Shona did as instructed by his elder brother. He climbed high, placed the bird and lighted a lamp near it. From a distance, Karna looked at the bird and gripped his bow. He now could see nothing, nothing except the tip of his arrow and the point of aim. In his mind he planned, I will hit both the eyes of the bird in one shot. I need to release the second arrow after a short break, such that the first arrow when hits the bird turns it clockwise and then my other arrow pierces right through the other eye of the bird. He aimed, concentrated and with a hold of breath released the arrow. After a fraction of second he released the other arrow too. With two brief splutters and a thud the bird came down on the plinth.

Shona ran in excitement to see it and Karna followed patiently. The stuffed bird lay there, perfectly pierced with two arrows in each eye. Shoan looked at his brother with a gleaming face. Karna affectionately smiled back and took Shoan by his shoulder and moved back to their restroom.

“You are the greatest archer bhaiya.” Shoan said as he took Karna’s bow to lighten his weight. Karna smiled and they paced ahead.

From Seeing to Doing

The air we breathe and the water we drink are amongst a few things that in all parts of the world are colorless, tasteless and odorless; yet of utmost significance to live. As these basic essentials of life- air and water, turn worthless when diluted so does ‘those’.

What I call ‘those’ are not differentiated by color, neither by accent, nor by religion or trends. ‘They’ are simply presented in a natural manner. We observe ‘them’ happening and being repeated over times around us and across the globe; just like the water being drunk and the air being reported. Unlike water and air, ‘they’ are in different forms and flashes. ‘They’ are a few binding strands that though insignificant in count, yet significant enough to discipline, bound and unite an infinite mass of people. ‘Them’ is what we call ‘Culture’.

Culture, in different tongues is spoken differently, in different places practiced differently and in different holy books is scripted differently; but only in different words, actions and characters respectively. The basic functioning and ideology however remains constant. Culture in all forms means respect, discipline and protection.

Like the Muslim culture asks the women to wear a hijab, so in Hinduism the lady covers the head with a veil. In India and places abroad elders are offered seats in a crowded bus; similarly across the world women are offered the first step. The saying- ‘ladies first’ always strike us as we happen to climb a bus at a bus-stop with a lady beside us.

From the Bible to the Koran; from the Guru Granth Sahib to the Bhagwad Gita all religious scriptures convey the same meaning of brotherhood, equality and lovingness. Kindness is respected all around the globe, whether it is by helping an old lady cross a busy road or by donating a fraction of one’s first paycheck to an orphanage. On a similar context, stealing and cheating is despised worldwide irrespective of how small or big the act is.

In the Indian culture- that I am somewhat more acquainted with, and take immense pride in- are a list of festivals that are celebrated with great zeal and infinite unity. Like ‘Holi’, the festival of colors splashes vibrant shades on all religions. Similar is ‘Deepawali’, the joyous celebrations at the end of Lord Rama’s exile is marked by countless lights glowing and numerous firecrackers cracking across the nation. Then comes ‘Eid’ and the auspicious Kheer travels from the Muslim kitchens to the Hindu dining-tables creamed by three affectionate hugs of prosperity and brotherhood. On the occasion of Lohri, one can witness everyone tapping their feet to the beats of Punjabi music and eating peanuts.

One of the greatest strengths of Indian culture can also be seen from festivals like Ganesha Chaturthi and Durga Puja. Lakhs of idols are made by the hands of Muslim craftsmen and then worshipped by Hindu devotees. These celebrations, each of which holds a tale behind, are esteemed occasions that carry in itself a sense of pride and unity in diversity.

The youth that at times is also referred to as the coming change of the nation, can make the most by inculcating values of these cultures and traditions. These celebrations and happenings teach us the principles of sharing and loving, of kindness and respect. It in a way embraces us with the thought of being philanthropic and more responsible towards the society.

Though these celebrations are over in hours of commencement, yet the message is immortal. Only that we need to take a leap ahead and DO something. SEEING pleasant things brings a smile to our face, but only DOING pleasant things can light up others’ faces. So, to create a better future we possibly don’t need to make another century of inventions; these handful of cultures are powerful enough to craft a better world. All we need is to shift our paradigm from- SEEING TO DOING!

Those memories of the past

Let’s get into a lovely flashback,
Day one when we first entered the gate,
In different shoes with aims and dreams,
Needless to say we all met by fate
In a single unit plan of his so great.

It was here we made the biggest discoveries,
To name a few- LAL-QUILA, D.C & PROXIES.
Meaning to life changed up
As we gave our college life a start up.

We spotted things great and a few beautiful too
Don’t get me wrong as I name a few.
I hope we remember ‘Bagh’
The ‘Laxmi Dhaba’ and the ‘Mama Bhanja’
Something furious was the ‘Examination Controller’s Bark’
And you’ll definitely miss the deer-park.

It was here again that we learnt
Padai sometimes needed a break;
A cheers to the lovely mass bunks,
The Shiv Mandir chai and the Mussoorie flunks.

Now proceeding to the real core,
Our department was the most blamed
What left by us all-
Was graced by the juniors so ignited and flamed,
Civil is uncontrollable, It’s unbearable, they’re intolerable, were some reported talks.
Never to worry, as the freshers’ will always say- “Civil Rocks!”

Now the Engineering part [Some secrets must be timely revealed],
With so much of this hectic schedule,
And around the year construction tab,
The architect I believe must have slipped
To design the civil engineering lab.

Nevertheless, we are engineers now,
Disastrous though from head to tail,
Perhaps it is true when said-
“Your experiments might not always fail.”

Now to those beautiful Wednesdays and Saturdays,
Though dressing up in the grey shades was more of an irony,
Yet we haughtily redressed if it was a Wednesday.
I must say we’ve had a remarkable memory,
As we never wrongly dressed on a casual day.

It was all like a filmi scene,
Amidst roller-coaster of life, things ended clean.
Attendance was really a pain in the neck,
At last we succeeded in ending the heck.

It’s sad that we are now free,
For what seemed the life’s test
Was in fact the longest vacation.
We leave ahead with dreams and admirations,
And things not achieved passed to these fellow masons.

*Dedicated to my batch of engineering clique.... these are 'memories forever

In India, every place is a toilet

The story starts with a full bladder and obviously the discomforts associated with it. Though it is not a new thing to happen, and, of course, everyone has undergone this grave painful and piteous state. Ranging from a boring classroom to a bumpy ride, during a meeting or perhaps amidst a matinee show- nature's call comes anywhere, anytime, unwarned and unnoticed. 

To start with the journey of a common man, (popularly known as aam admi), he suffers a lot with this. Not because he is diabetic or a urinal psychopath but simply for the fact that there are abundance of these common men in the nation. So, with a plethora of alike broods also comes a gush of wind. That lifts us up to the second level of the conversation, the talks about discharge. Just because every inflow brings with it an outflow, every lock carries with it a key similarly a common man's intake is sure to bounce back with an outflow tract. 

The first tale is of a high stature entrepreneur who got struck in this difficulty of transaction of body fluids way back on a first date. Oops! What a calamity. Let's know the story with sympathy and tolerance. So here he was, on table number three-o-one of a Chinese restaurant, dining with a new girl all set in black Raymonds. Impressive and pounding was he and the girl pulled in on him. They dined and marched out hand- in- hand. The chauffer brought the car and he escorted the girl in, popping behind her in anticipation. Half an hour later on the highway, barely five minutes from the girl's stop, he felt an unbearable urge to loosen himself, and with no options at hand, he asked the chauffer to pull up at the side. Off he went and drained himself out till the last drop and returned back to find an empty rear seat. Hard luck, Mr. Entrepreneur! 

In another similar account of hardship, an MLA got loo-struck during his wait for the rally's speech. Finding it difficult to withstand, he took off for the arroyo behind the stage. He was in the middle of his transition when his name was called upon on stage and in discombobulation and anxiety, he wetted his white linens. Hiding the stains he went on stage, wiping his fingers on the bumps. With an unhygienic wet feel inside the pajama, he started with his first words and as he signed off a few minutes later, the committee organizers stuffed his unwashed hands with ladoos and jalebis. Oh! poor MLA ji, you couldn't refuse the wet hands. The sweets, did they taste different? 

Now, let's proceed to a real encounter that I recently faced. I was at a friend's office, discussing a new business venture and laying out strategies to make profit and bag money in the coming months, when I felt nature's secret buzz. The biological call came exactly at the verge of contributing an idea to the discussion. Unwillingly and awkwardly, I had to excuse myself from the room. I descended the staircase and reached a tea stall on the road, asked a thin, fragile man the whereabouts of a toilet. He was busy smoking and hardly gave a response. Only I knew the state of pettiness and vulnerability. Again I mocked him politely from outside, but raging in the boiling water from within. "There," he signaled with his chin, tilting his head a little, "go behind that parked bus." 

"There?" I asked in aversion. "Isn't there a toilet around?" 

And this is what he replied, "In India, every man is a counselor, every direction is right and every place is a toilet."

*Read this blog on the webpage of TOI:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/In-India-every-place-is-a-toilet/articleshow/25324556.cms

On the roadside they sell cucumbers, not goodwill

I was upset with the hilly route. My stomach was whirling, intestines colliding against the walls of the abdomen and my chest cavity nauseated by the absorption of the emitting diesel smoke from the silencer just below my window pane. It was a tough time subduing the upheaval within me.

On the contrary, the cold moist wind was blowing against my face carrying tufts of hair in different turns with the bends. The far stretched mountains and the deep green valleys along the banks of the Ganga was something that I had not really seen much in the past many years. Indeed I was not just seeing it, rather also enjoying it. But had I been a bit less upset with the route, I would have absorbed more tranquility and solitude of the hills.

I was on my way to take a Personality Development program (PDP) in a government engineering college set amidst the hills of Gharwal, Uttarakhand; to be more precise I was heading to Pauri. My commute started at six in the morning for which I woke up at five and boarded the bus with an empty stomach, and that added more troubles to the journey. In the course of the travel I made my blames towards various departments and MLAs of my nation for the deteriorated road conditions and non AC terminals for this route.

It was at the exact verge of tolerance and discomfort that the bus halted for refreshment at the roadside dhabas. I felt relieved and the cyclone within me started settling. I lay semi-unconscious with my head back on the chair for a few minutes coping with the disorders coming to a halt. With the situation under control, I stepped down and looked sideways to fix my gaze back to normal. The streets were silent and the only possible heard noises were of the draining water streams from the rocks and the chattering crickets.

Along the roadside were small shops made in the cavity of the hills, sheltered under tarpaulins and old discarded advertisement hoardings. Old, feeble men and undernourished teens mounted there uncomfortably on their calves behind piles of cucumbers and lemonade glasses. Their anticipated gazes looked down at me and an old man understanding my piteous state offered me a cucumber. I went to his shop, splashed some fresh cold water of the rocks on my face and rinsed my mouth with the same. Thereafter, I accepted the fruit and with the first bite into the soft mush flavored with the salt of grinded spice and coriander leaves my anxiety of the route disappeared. Finishing it I asked for more, there was certainly immense improvement with it.

As I gathered myself back to normal, a group of bikers, foreigners, halted together near the vendors. Then in English mixed with heavy gestures and the local dialect they tried talking to them. From the best of my observance all I made out was an interrogation about a left back cell-phone and a camera. They moved from one counter to another speaking only words ‘WHITE’, ‘CAMERA’, ‘PHONE’ and other similar synonyms. Then in a matter of minutes an old shopkeeper, probably in his late sixties came running from the farther end of the street. In his hands with immense safety was a handbag clutched tightly, that read in bold ‘Adidas’. He halted before the tall white skinned man and with a sheer smile extended the bag to him. He told them that it was him who had just responded back to their phone call. They accepted the bag and without checking its contents hung it over their shoulder. Then they joined their hands in the Indian tradition and paid their tribute to the old man’s generosity. Their faces were happily lit. One of them extended a five hundred rupee note to the old man who refused to accept it saying in his mother tongue, “Hum sirf kakdi bechte hain sahib, emaan nahi. Yeh paise aap rakhiye maine inke liye mehnat kari hi nai.” (We just sell cucumbers sir, not our goodwill. You keep this money, I have not worked for it.)

Then as they sat back on their bike, kicked start and throttled past us, they kept their hands joined in respect to the old man’s honesty and kindness. The man also waved them off, his face lit with pride. In no less time the story of his benevolent deed exchanged lips and ears and he had already made himself an exemplary figure of the day. But, nothing else matched the satisfaction that he carried on his face back to his stall. Surely for him it had become a moment worth remembering for an entire lifespan, and passing on to his grandchildren as a story with a good moral of honesty.

My bus honked, and I climbed back to my seat. Though it was the same hilly route that had severely troubled me for the past few hours, but for now I carried with me immense strength from the old man’s deeds. I had started loving the place, and of course the route was an integral part of it. We passed the small cucumber and lemonade shops, and in my last gaze I carried with me their shabby clothes, wrinkled faces and pure hearts.

The way she looked back…

How can I ever forget?

The simmering dress, within which she was all wet

Like an angel descended from heaven,

Or perhaps Snow White accompanied with dwarfs seven.

The light rain and the road filled with golden maple leaves,

We trotted beneath the trees in the pre-monsoon eve.

How gracefully the rain hit her on the face,

And she wiped it so gently with grace.

Like a dove wiping her beak on its back,

She too splendidly did without a slightest lack.

Taking her hand over her head she motioned it clean,

And then set her hair behind the ear, like a queen.

We crossed each other face to face,

Like galaxies moving in space.

So fascinated I was with her simplicity,

And so was she equally pulled towards me like elasticity

Both looked deep in the eyes,

Those resembled the deep oceans and the infinite skies

Like the fixed pupils of a tigress,

Looking deep at the deer with hope, joy and calmness

It spiked our hearts as we passed by,

 Like a person with a dagger pierced, left to die.

The hearts skipped a beat, and the blood rushed

Surely both to themselves blushed.

I closed my fist in a punch,

And my senses alarmed for a response in a clench.

For me it definitely was a moment of joy,

One in all those days worth lived, and the hopes stood high!

Something within me said, “Hey, it worked!”

And again a heartbeat I ducked.

As if gravity stopped acting on me,

Some butterflies emerged and I felt so light and free.

Gathering all hopes I turned back on the golden street,

She kept going far with continuous steps in a fleet.

For a moment I doubted if she would turn back,

Perhaps this will all go in vain, and the good fortunes (as always) I’ll lack

But somewhere along the line those few seconds had cast a spell so deep and vast,

She was magnetized, and I was pulled back by a hook just-as-fast;

Oh! Then it all happened so clear and out,

She turned back, her lips arched with the same charm throughout

Curling a tuft she graciously tilted her head,

And lowered her eyes as she looked ahead

With narrowed eyes and endearing pink cheeks,

So smashing she looked in the contrast beneath the maple and the teaks.

She smiled and laughed, then blushed and ran,

And turned back again and again…

From the end of the road she gestured a bye,

Like a peacock fluttering on a rainy day under a rainbow so high..!

Listen, the hills are talking!

I fill my lungs completely with the cold oxygen that soothes the wind pipe and the entire tract as it paces downwards. Then I hold on and breathe again. This time I am able to inhale only quarter of the first breath. The lungs are about to burst.

Then with immense pressure I release it in a Whoooooooo! It brings out all my worries, illness and the inhaled impurities, making me feel fresh and lively. It is a sudden transformation, like an adrenalin rush through the entire body. I look around and see a plethora of pine and deciduous trees, spreading their spiking charms around the entire place. On the farther side in the North is the chain of the sky-touching Himalayas; their peaks mesmerizing the entire attention with the first rays of the morning sun. It is so different than the usual view of never ending line of houses- separated by pitch black streams with swines rolling in them- that can be seen from the top of clock tower, in Dehradun. I fell like never leaving this place of limitless green around me.

If you’re wondering where am I, I must tell you it’s Ghurdauri, Pauri, Gharwal, Uttarakhand. In case you still haven’t caught up then I suggest you to refer Google maps. What I am here for is another key issue. It is my passion for this particular task that brings me here, to render my services to the emerging technocrats of this nation. I am scheduled in the lap of Mother Nature for a two days personality development session in a government engineering college.

Connecting back to the dots of immense tranquility and solitude that I experience here, it urges me to appreciate the scenic beauty of the place. Though this place has lesser facilities than the high end cities of our nation but, the charm it carries in itself is far beyond comparison to any luxuries that you intent to possess by virtue of money.

5 Unparallel aspects of being here

1.     Foremost and undoubtedly ranking above all is the calmness of the place and the swift breeze that swipes your face with an august touch. The better experience comes over a moist face.

2.    If you’re a lazy person like me who doesn’t find time for yoga and other Baba Ramdev patents, then over your panting alone (in this non pollutant place) you can equalize a month’s anulom-vilom potential (carried in the polluted city air). In case you’re a voracious smoker, then there’s nothing better to service your lungs and quit the poison stick.

3.     If you’ve lived in hills during your childhood days then you know that there’s nothing more adventurous then bike-riding on the curves peeping down in the immense deep valley.

4.      Unlike the city, out of the many aspects another is the surplus drainage of water from the hills, filtered and added with the minerals of the Mother earth. It’s cold, sweet and undoubtedly pure than pure-it!

5.     And finally, as the day sets with the dusk you hear the crickets squeaking and hopping all around. The kit-kit-kit-kit; kit-kit-kit-KIT-KIT-KIT-kit-kit-kit it does was least heard in the past two decades.

The green pines and the crickets,

The pasture so relishing and the local midgets

It’s an accomplishment to be among them,

And to receive the cold wind wham

This beautiful valley, so vast and shallow,

With trees, herbs and countless mallow

It reminded me of as being child,

Memories now those are faded and mild

The morning winds and the heart robbing nature looks,

About which I had read a lot in books,

The swishing winds and the banshee hallucination,

In the pitch dark nights the fears of imaginary creation

Good to be here with people so loving,

Only the clock seems running

Something’s pulling me back for a stay,

Saying repeatedly, “Dare you think of going away.”

Mother

I remember how you collared my tie,

With your hands so guarding you then wiped my eye.

Those happy to remember childhood days,

It brings a smile in so different ways.

You were the one, who always stood beside me,

And to every problem I shared with you, I got a glee.

The little days were not always delighting,

Sometimes amongst us was a lot of fighting.

And you sometimes spared your food,

To hold me tight and for sure you cheered my mood.

I remember the tinted roof,

And the shabby walls,

Where hung the calendar,

And my sister’s dolls.

Those b’ful days are so memorable ma!

And more to them is your presence in them.

Because it was you who made it happen,

To the wonders and delights so adorable.

Everything happened so perfectly,

I wish I could rewind back the wonder valley.

To win your lap and the soft hands,

Only because the miraculous strengths I lack;

Else I would bring us together,

Just to stay in your laps forever.

Ma! Those happy days do you remember?

I wish we could go back together.

My first job

Every first thing is fascinating, crazy and of course it leaves one with the best memories for lifetime. For instance your first crush!

I took my first job at a talent school, a mesmerizing hub of nurturing talents. Being a creative writer, I originally was more attracted to the place on my first visit as all around were people who really cared about their dreams and had passion to drive their talents into meaning. I thus joined as a freelancer without a second thought.

On my further acquaintance I discovered ‘Indian School of Talent,’ was a new concept, something non-traditional, something other than the normal keep-studying-till-you-cross-twenty concept. They had semester based approach facilitating scholars, college goers and even passionate married spouses to join the league of talent-finders. With many departments of talent- Music, Dance, Art and Craft, Taekwondo, etc- they facilitated easy learning through veteran trainers.

My experience at ISOT has been worth sharing, I gained big fames by the end of the journey. Starting from their website content, I leaped on to newsletters, press-releases, brochures, departmental case-studies and short write-ups. Though I worked there for a short while of approx sixty days, but the learning and the journey itself has been worth remembering for a lifetime. It was from there that I started blogging, http://www.daydreamer303.blogspot.in that has now crossed a thousand page views. Moreover, I was also selected as a contributor for the National web page of TIMES OF INDIA during the tenure of my job. And now, here I have my own profile page on TOI’s website: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/nricontributeprofile/22628709.cms

It is a pleasure for me to express my greatest gratitude towards Mr Manu Panwar, Director ISOT who did teach me many a things, those I shall carry with me for lifetime. The people I met there, Dushyant Singh Pundir, Ashwini, Mukesh Birla, Vishal Sharma, Nidhi Kakkar, Kritika Som, Deepak Sharma, Sandeep Saini, Shrishti, Sumeet Kaur, Anita Sharma and to not forget the helpful maids and service boys, shall always have their imprints in my heart. I look forward to remain a helping hand in any means.

Those Awkward Love Making Scenes...

Ha! I can’t stop smiling as I write this at the stroke of midnight; to be precise it’s 23:57 in my watch. And I even know what’s going through your mind.

If you’re wondering whether I am finally writing an erotic post or narrating a seducing act, then to not spoil your interest I offer you to read ahead.

I would begin with reminding you of those glorious days of the past when we were kids, utterly innocent yet fully mischievous. How we appeared to the adult eye was a complete contrast to the infinite things we knew and talked about with friends and foes. The biggest discoveries were made in the biology class and before the TV set, sitting alone with a locked door.

‘Change (physical and mental) is universal and inevitable,’ is not what some renowned Sufi saint has said in the past, but a random thought that just crossed my mind. Have you ever wondered what would have happened if we would have not been inclined (physically and psychologically) towards these happenings (inside and outside our clothes)? Oh! Life would have been so monotonous and non-happening. The zeal would have been lost; the curiosity would have been flushed with the passing classes. So today what Virat Kohli says in a commodity ad, “Alive is Awesome,” is just as meaningful as those days when we really were Alive and Awesome. Though with time both the liveliness and awesomeness have gained better meanings but yet, those days remain unforgettable.

There were a few greatest fantasies in our teens and tots. In an increasing fashion of age and wisdom let’s talk about our interest ranging from cartoons to trump-cards, from Champak to Chahcha-Chaudhary, from Nagraj to the masterpiece 999 in 1 videogame. With the passing time and Shaktimaan’s weekly guidance it changed from gully cricket to mohalla-football; from indoor sports to cycling. But sooner or later new things were always added.

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Now what I write is for what you actually are reading this blog. Let’s start from the title, ‘Those awkward love making scenes.’ Did I say ‘love-making scenes’? Oh! I did. But looking back all those years it is hard to say if we even knew what those words meant. Though we might not know its literal meaning but its appearance on the small screens did actually disturb our biological processes, didn’t it? Oh I see you blushing!

Now, the most significant part of this blog-post: It was absolutely fine and welcoming to see the hero-heroine behind the trembling bushes or Shakti Kapoor actually heading ahead to an innocent girl, when we sat alone in front of the television. We secretly knew something was happening, indeed it was about to happen. But, on the contrary when it was a family-show time you always prayed for Shakti Kapoor to not appear on screen. And if unfortunately he did come, then there was only one common monologue (that we said with a sinking heart), “Main pani pi kar aata hun.” From the kitchen door, sipping the tasteless water the eyes would be glued on the screen watching the innocent girl plead voraciously and cry out loud, “Mujhe bhagwaan ke liye chod do!” Only after it ended the water glass would hit the sink and the steps would trot back.

Sometimes, I laugh thinking how in the near future our kids would react to these scenes.

It would be fun to catch them!

My Second Birth

I am living two lives in one birth.

I am no SUPER-human; alike all I too am a NORMAL-human with just an unwashed black-box of the last flight.

It is quiet unusual to say that I remember what, where and how my previous birth was; that I indisputably recall every single happening, just as if it was a pleasant yesterday. From the time I grew up to the days I fell in that beautiful love and unfortunately couldn’t live long to cherish it. I remember everything. I remember everyone, not a single face fades off my memory.

In my first birth… I was born about half a century ago, to be exact in 1960, in ‘Kali’, a village some 50 miles east from where I now live. I had a lovely family: My mother, who was always concerned about me; my dad, who was a constant supporter in everything I did. He did not even question me when I decided to quit school in my 8^th standard. My lovely little brother who gave me his share of kheer in every festival and looked upon me with hopes to take the goats for grazing for the next coming months. I had a granny too but she was quiet old to participate in anything.

On my usual grazing courses I met Chanda, a resident of the adjoining village who too used to be in the forests with her cattle. Slowly but deeply, we fell in love and our meetings increased dramatically. Waiting became habitual and our faces lit up on seeing each other. However, neither of us accepted but deep within we could feel each other’s state. She realized somehow that next to her I loved kheer and she would bring bowls full of it for me cooked with her added ingredients of love and affection.

However, our dates discontinued following my ill health. The last autumn I saw, took me in its folds up to my grave. In was seriously ill with high degrees of fever and could do nothing other than coughing and sweating profusely. I left for my cremation from the bed in fifteen days, at the age of 25 wasting the remaining years. I believe my disappearance would have brought a sudden bolt to all, including Chanda.

So in 1985, the exact year of my death I was reborn. I had a granny now; she told me tales of my birth. If I were to believe her then I was born in a bullock-cart on the way to the government hospital barely 3 miles ahead. My mother cried in pain all the way ahead as and when the cart moved over a stone or went through a pit. I though do not exactly remember my birth, but everything after that is clearly scribbled inside my scalp. I grew up in a mosque compound, my dad was a priest in the mosque and I had five other siblings, (all elder to me) who loved to play with me all day long.

Unlike the last birth I was now born fair and that made me the prince of the mosque compound where I lived. There was something very strange, as I grew up and started roaming the adjoining places all around I found them familiar and thoroughly roamed. My mind had it all like a map within it: the mosques, the temples, the grounds, the factories, the mills, the fields and the woods. I was familiar to EVERYTHING like having inhabited there for decades in the past; ironically I was just crossing a mere age of ten.

Then one fine day I set out on a trail with the memories of my subconscious. I crossed places after places and with each falling step my memories gained more depth. I realized I was there before, undoubtedly. That night I had a dream, I saw myself at the same place where I had been during the day. Then my dream carried me to the place where I had lived my last birth.

The next morning, I stole a few chavannis from my dad’s kurta and set off for the village to discover the traces of my past birth. “Kali Gaon,” I told the conductor and in a course of an hour he too yelled out the same words for others and me to get down. There I was on a big field that used to hold a Ramleela stage in the Navratras. I had been here to attend the seasonal fairs and other carnivals. From there I took a straight walk, passing through barren lanes and field mounds, balancing myself with stretched arms. I crossed hand-pumps and tube-wells, I bisected my journey short through sugarcane fields and ran across orchards until I finally reached an old hut.

I went inside, uncared about who I now was. An old woman slept on a cot, her face wrinkled, skin loose and hanging like a deformed leather shoe. The walls of the hut were dark with smoke of the fireplace. In the gloomy ambiance, I spotted a framed photograph hanging on a nail. I went closer and rubbed it clean to realize it was me; this is how I would look a few years later. Beside it was another frame of a man. It was my dad. Both the frames had garlands over them. I looked back at the old woman with sympathy. She slept with parted lips and her fragile hands over her chest. Her face was pale and she barely seemed alive. I touched her feet and moved out of the hut. As I passed by the courtyard, a thin man walked into the hut looking at me, he was my younger brother.

I moved ahead, roaming in the old familiar vicinity with heavy steps. Thoughts about my past life raged in my mind; in all this time I had recalled everything, the happy old days, the grazing of the goats and of course Chanda too. I kept walking under the burning sun and it kept me perspiring. In a few minutes my throat choked and I reached a hand-pump. As I struggled to pump and drink simultaneously I heard a feminine voice call from behind, “Let me help you.” I collected the falling water in my hands and drank with all my energy. With a long exhaling breath I rose up to thank the generous lady. As I looked up to her something within me moved. Her appearance was of a spinster, though aged enough to be married, but she seemed to be held behind by some reasons that showed in her face. Her eyes were waiting to see someone; the lines on her forehead were narrating stories and her stare at me was probably framing judgments and questions within her.

She probably was still thinking on me, but I had found all that I had come for. It was her, still waiting for her lost love.

Spiritual Assault

God is omnipotent and that is how we’ve known him. Though we haven’t seen him but have heard and believed the tales associated with his divine strengths and capabilities. Our belief in him has made us more inclined towards him and has no doubt triggered our hopes and ambitions.

            In the past decade man has become more receptive to any form of hope and pleasure; and simultaneously has turned impatient and hopeful. This realism for sure has immensely magnetized many positives and negatives. From faith to luck, from the substitution of hard-work to devotion, from Laughing Buddha to the God idols everything is available in exchange of a few crisp notes and they are all believed to bring good fortune to our homes. The irony is that we too are engulfed so deeply in this whirl of desires that we have started believing on things from a ‘yantra’ to a ‘red-fortune telling book’.

            Amidst all these things, a few spiritual saints have dug their bottoms deep in the name of service and devotion of the common man. You can find these long bearded, saffron/white wrapped saints wandering all around and boasting to tell tales of your awaited bright future. However, in the recent past these saints were few, but veterans of their fields. Today, ironically there are many and it’s hard to guess who the holy ones are. No doubt it could be true that many of these holy-saints are holy and lead a life of complete austerity but in the haze of the present it is hard to find who really the true ones are.

           

            The present national uproar has hysterically shifted from politics to satanic-spirituality ever since the spiritual guru Asaram Bapu has been dragged into a rape case. Where on one note this incident has shattered the beliefs of thousands of devotees from these holy-babas, on another note it has also divulged the hidden face of the literal word ‘leaders’ (gurus). In my previous blog too (The Holy Pig raped a Chick) I talked on the same matter that recorded the feedback of people as referring to the matter as pathetic, unholy, and similar many other negative descriptions.

            No doubt after all the political games, national scams, price hikes and other similar things the common man is now also scared to pour his heart out to some guru for guidance. For him there is only less to gain and more to lose. Surely this incident has horrified us all and that leaves the aam-aadmi with one last guru to approach for all his problems and questions (without being physically harmed or harassed) - GOOGLE!

The Holy Pig raped a Chick

Once upon a time... In a big country farm there was a pig. Around him were all sorts of animals and birds. He was brown, with hair as hard as steel wires jerking out of his flesh. Though he was perfectly alike his counterparts and also had the same dirty polish of gutter water on his torso, but yet he considered himself different from his friends, relatives and the entire breed. He said he was unique and had his own philosophies to prove it. He would leave the farm in the morning and go in the woods, spend his time sleeping under a fallen tree or would sniff around the faeces of other animals (sometimes ate it too!) and return back at dusk with a tale.

He would mount on a plinth in the shed and yell, “I met the Tiger today. Oh! He’s so friendly, he invited me for lunch and we ate together.” The other animals: Cows, buffaloes, hens, roosters, horses, sheep and goats would all gather around him to hear his adventures. Only the other pigs would envy him and with little sense of believing avoided to be a part of the crowd; however they too eavesdropped him up to his last words.

He left the shed with the breaking dawn and would part in the extreme direction other than the crowd. A few animals would spy on him but he would quickly find a hiding place and concealed himself in the woods. Later at night when questioned, he would come up with a new tale, “The Tiger had sent the Cheetah to receive me and he took me on his back as fast as light. Oh! I enjoyed it so much.” The pigs won’t believe, but the other animals admired him.

“But we’ve heard that the Tiger kills other animals?” asked a sheep.

“Oh it’s all crap. They have enough to eat and even they need friends.”

“So you are his friend?”

“No. Actually I am his adviser. I advise him what’s right and what’s wrong.”

And that was the beginning of his awaited destiny; a dream he had long cherished, far seen and thoroughly visualized. He became a spiritual sage of the flora and the fauna. His admiration and avail grew day by day, hour by hour. His chronicles traveled to other lands and beings of his breed conglomerated in abundance. From the shed he ascended to a holy ashram. From the ground, in the filth of shit and mud he rose up to a throne of gold. His philosophies found a meaning, his words had found ears, his days changed and his destiny sparkled in a flash.

The animals worshiped him and served him good food, his followers grew day by day and so did his popularity. He soon owned a community with a private cabin, his acolytes resided in the same community; he kept a secretary who allotted appointments for his meetings. From a pig who churned gutter waters and crunched dried shit, he in no time turned into a divine who averted even speaking of it. His holy-homes were set up all across the state and once every year he gave them a visit. The walls, fields, streets and markets were covered by his signboards and hoardings upon his arrival and a plethora of living beings assembled for his welcome.

Though he was admired by all, believed by many and followed by countless souls across the country but within him he was the same old swine: envious, impish and pervert. He had well worn the white cloak of sanctity, but within it he was as black as the thick tar of the black drains. He secretly eyed the hens, would think of all the bad craps and would facny for the fairest pigs.

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In the midst of a season the hens were affected by a terrible disease that spread from the Pig’s co-mates. With the increasing death tolls more birds gave him a visit and in no time his schedules filled like a bucket poured into a gush of water. The rules changed, he started devoting overtime and took in more appointments. From the first ray of dawn to past-midnight he would solve matters for the hens and roosters.

On one night as time neared to midnight, a family of hens’ sat waiting for their turn to come. With them was their little ‘chick’ for whom they were utterly concerned. The chick was a splendid beauty of vibrant feathers and an elegant body. She had many admirers in her native land and was a terrific heart snatcher. Her simplicity was her most sacred weapon. The Pig had her gaze on her from his cabin. Finishing the appointment at hand he called the family inside. The hen and the rooster bowed in respect and so did the chick. The Pig smiled and his eyes simultaneously scanned the assets of the chick. He talked to them for a few moments and then asked her family to wait outside. The hen and the rooster marched out undoubtedly, happy that their kid would be cured by the holy-saint.

Then the lights of the Pig’s cabin turned off, this worried the hen but the rooster consoled her. The chick chuckled and her feathers throbbed in the air inside the cabin. There was commotion, but the hen and the rooster took it as a part of some sacred ritual. However, what went through their minds and what was happening inside were two far ends of a vast ocean as apart in nature as the Scylla and Charybdis. Inside the cabin the dirty Pig had revealed his true identity and was up with his heinous acts. The poor chick suffered and suffered helplessly.

With a thump, like an avalanche falling down the door opened and the chick hopped out in small, fatigued and painful strides. Her face was red with suffering, her feathers uneven and withered. Tears rolled down her eyes and entered her beak, as saline as the sea water and her mother’s egg’s shell. She collapsed into her mother’s arms, drained of all her energy.

“What…What.…What happened…What happened?” cried her desperate mother gaping awestruck.

The chick just breathed hard as if inhaling all the air of the universe. Her chest cavity expanded, then contracted and the heart pulsated with more haste. She laid numb and motionless, arms open and beak parted.

“WHAT HAPPENED??” wailed the hen. “TELL ME…TELL ME!”

Then in a slow move, the chick opened her eyelids, gulped a drop of saliva into her sore throat and spoke softly, “This saint is not worthy to be worshiped.”

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