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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The strength of Indian culture

Recently I was in Rishikesh, the city of sages and the divine. I was with a few friends on a tour of rafting and campaigning. Our day started at a resort that was named after the sacred river that flowed sweeping its backyard- ‘The Ganga’. The golden beams of the breaking dawn entered our bedroom and for the first time in the entire season I witnessed the glory of the rising sun. The effect was miraculous, I felt extremely energized and lively.

As I opened the large window nature engulfed me in itself. It flowed in and diffused in the entire place, making it merrier. Down in the lawn were health conscious people practicing the art of yoga and a few yards away on the Ghats some were taking dips in the holy water. There were people recognizable from numerous parts of the nation. There were Tamils with horizontal tilaks, there were men from Nepal with slant eyes, a few North Indians, some Gujratis with big turbans and also a few foreigners. The blondes were the only ones whose place of origin I could not judge; perhaps they were Americans or French or may be Spanish!

On my desk was the day’s scheduled that included a yoga class (ongoing), breakfast at the resort (an hour later), rafting (at ten) and then the lunch (past mid-day). The evening was planned for snacks and the night was at the camps on the beach with a special essence of a bonfire.

We marched into the restaurant and took a table, waiting for the food to be served. People kept coming in from the main door and soon the room was full. A foreign couple stood at the door with eyes battering all over the place to locate an empty seat. I waved my hand at them and they came along without a long thought. My friend vacated the opposite side of the table for them and we managed three on a seat of two. ‘Shukriya!’ she said, in our local dialect. It sounded sweet and different from their mouth. We smiled and she extended a hand ahead. We shook it turn by turn and introduced ourselves. After us she told her name, ‘Sarah’ and smiled so broadly that it perplexed us over our hospitality. Then a moment later her friend proceeded with the same rituals and introduced himself as ‘Lincon’.

‘You’re Spanish?’ one of us asked.

‘No, Americans.’

‘Have you learnt Hindi?’ another friend of mine asked.

‘Still trying to learn, but we know a little bit,’ and then he spoke a few words and ended with an over-stressed ‘theeek haey?’ in his American accent.

We smiled and they too took their turns looking at each other and smiled back. Our conversations then went from their mother land to our freedom fighters, from Obama to Modi; from the World Bank to the Reserve Bank. When asked about their experience in India they said that they felt at home, safe and secure. The best aspect of India is that it runs a hundred cultures and traditions, giving optimum variety to the practitioner to choose from. It is a land of stories, a birthplace of legends and a community of sages.

In a matter of minutes we all shared a lot and their open minds accepted everything without a doubt. We talked of the practice of eating with hands and discussed the philosophy of acupuncture associated with it and how it results in sharpening the memory. They liked it all!

They showed us their travel schedule, had already roamed South and the West and were in their final days enjoying Uttarakhand, before their Visa expired.

As we moved out of the restaurant taking bites of our ice-creams I asked them, ‘What brings you to India?’ ‘That,’ they both pointed out together towards the sacred river, ‘We’re here to take 108 holy dips in it and will carry a bottle of its sacred water to The States. I had read about the river years back and ever since I have desired to take a bath in it.’

Their answer astonished us and their faith in our culture amazed us. For some India is a land for sustenance and merchandise; for others it is a land of stories, beliefs, practices, cultures and divine powers and that is what pulls them to our motherland from miles away.

*THIS ARTICLE WAS PICKED UP BY TOI NRI SECTION AND APPEARS ON ITS WEBPAGE. CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO REVIEW IT THERE:
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/The-strength-of-Indian-culture/articleshow/22630253.cms