Are you a book sniffer?

Have you ever smelled a book? By smelling a book I don't refer to a moist one that smells bad, but to a fresh one. Any book that's in your collection or one that lies waiting on the stands onlooking to a faithful literate owner. In case you haven't smelled one, smell now!

Perhaps I am using the wrong phrase. One never smells a book, one inhales the purity and enjoys the tranquility as it ascends upwards the nostrils startling the smell glands and then expanding in the lungs. The result is, immense freshness and an utter calm state of mind.

It is believed that comprehension is not an easy task, true indeed. Sometimes we read with a diverted mind, sometimes regressing over and over again, only to realize later that we haven't progressed anywhere. That's exactly where you need to close the book, sit back and sniff through its pages. Sniff deep and smile to the pleasant smell.

Comparing reading from PDFs to Kindle, paperback is a multi dollar thing. The feel of holding a book in your hands, leaning back on a couch and turning page by page as you navigate your eyeballs over the last word of every page and the rough feel of rubbing your fingertips on the pages is something that is always desired in times of e-reading. Moreover, buying a book also adds up to the charms of ones' collection.

Considering a paperback's servings during a one-sit reading, it acts as a pillow when your eyes are tired and you opt for a power nap. When you're lying back on a couch with your legs stretched over a table, the feel of tapping a book on your laps with closed eyes is no less than adoring a child, only 200 grams though. When you finish a novel at 3 in the morning, the pain of ending is unbearable, a paperback stays up to its reputation even then by allowing you to cuddle it on your chest and sleep tight, sometimes split across your nose and engulfing your tiredness in its magnificent aroma. The feel of paper is unexplainable, it's relishing, captivating and addictive, and that is what keeps the readers hooked up with reading. Keep sniffing! Keep reading!

Kiss of Love and the Indian Society

There are three kinds of people in our nation- The Rich, The Middle Class, and The Poor. By 'Rich' I mean the ones who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. 'The Middle Class' on looks the rich and hope that their future generations will be born with a silver spoon too. However, 'The Poor' even lack a spoon to eat their meals. People divided in these categories reside together in the society, making India a land of diversity in true means.

When compared together, ironically the rich and the poor show similar attributes- they are the ones who aren't tied up and held back by the strings of culture and heritage. The middlemen are. You might probably spot a poor woman smoking by the gate of a metro station or even a pretty young lady puffing out rings of smoke on a highway through the window of a Benz. In both the cases you pass away with a grin of ignorance, and so does everyone else. But you might rarely spot a salwar-suit girl puffing out in the open street, for the simple fact that she is held back by ignominy and her cultural values.

Recently out nation witnessed an uproar of protest and questioning over the Kiss of Love eve scheduled in various places across the capital. Of course it would have stroked controversies, it was after all an event of the middle class, from the planners to the participants. And even more, it's always a middle class man who is free enough to protest against something.

They (the saviours of the society) say that our culture and society doesn't allow holding on to the partner's head and kissing openly, but ironically what's allowed openly here is to take up any corner across the street and hold your penis until it drains off the last drop. Sadly, we're part of a society that has its kids influenced deeply with the western culture, who themselves never let go an opportunity to rape someone. Or let me rephrase in case its not true this way, who would never protest for a girl being raped in threat of being beaten down by the rapist or even killed. But, they were free in flocks to protest against lips meeting lips. Just in case people are so free to volunteer there are a lot many things to protest against, from heaping garbage dumps in public places to issues of never ending rapes or women going out in the open for defecation. Surely, these too are not true attributes of our society and culture.

If only the Middle Class changes their observance, a lot many things can change in this nation, a lot many objectives can be reached together. We've been taught unity is strength, but we've always practiced criticism as our strength. For a matter of fact, no matter how hard the middle class protested, the ones born with a silver spoon won't stop greeting their friends with a kiss even on the busy market streets, the ones who lack a spoon to eat will continue mating on the footpaths and producing more children overnight. To the rest of us, it started with a middle class man and ended on a middle class man. All others are spectators, who'll clap, cheer, shout and later return to their own respective business.

**This article bagged 1st prize in Book Review India's essay competition, read here:
https://bookreviewindia.wordpress.com/2014/11/26/the-winning-article-kiss-of-love-and-the-indian-society-by-bisht-udai-narayan-singh/

One last time

It is true when people say that life has many shades. Indeed, it has. Once we were all small kids, so innocent and charming that everyone wanted to cuddle their arms around us. People entertained us for hours in a stretch to just spot a momentary smile radiate out from our face, and we took all the privilege of their love. Ironically, in return of immense love we even literally pissed over their costly silk saris or reputed army uniforms. And they only smiled. Then there was a school life, the first memories of making friends, of sharpening pencils and littering the neighbour's compound. Eating tiffins together and running across the field, chasing balls and seldom friends. The post-lunch lecture, at times of a power-cut was the most unbearable moment of the day as the entire body exhausted heat fumes and every bottle in the classroom soon drained out of its last drop. The moment when everyone smiled as the last ally too walked out of the class to join the punishment. Memories of growing up from lower school to middle school and finally getting promoted to higher school now seems as if it all happened so quickly.

There was little sense of responsibility then and life was lived with utter joy and immense zeal. The present mattered and future was of little importance, until one day we walked in through that college gate. Things changed all of a sudden, just overnight. The first day's orientation marked the culmination of freestyle living and the beginning of an era of responsibility and future planning. We were expected and trained to grow up. We were warned to control over getting addicted to a few habits termed 'bad,' what friends termed 'cool,' 'necessary,' 'stress-relievers' and so forth. It was an all new world, just identical to the feeling of getting introduced to puberty in the past.

They say good times are short lived. Burdened under the workload of submitting assignments after due date, preparing and appearing in numerous exams per semester and commuting to and fro from college ended the college life time before it even started. Yet, we clinch tight a few memories- going out at lunch and late night to have parantahs with coke, tucking the shirts under the belt, bunking classes together, buying new sim-cards from the stalls outside the college gate almost every month, and walking down the aisle kicking everything that came in the way. Time ended just like the path ended every morning from college gate to the classroom.

An year has past and we are all scattered in different directions like marbles after a toss. Groups that were once united are all apart and busy with their lives now. Some have got on the wagon that takes them to the journey called 'life after college,' while some are still on the stands, trying their luck to get inside every one that comes their way, already overstuffed from the last station.

As I sit on the stands, waiting for the next wagon with hopes of getting a seat, memories of college life embraces me. There were days when we were unconcerned of such a day, days when we slept under a blanket of a million stars and gazed back at them dreaming of such a shiny and lustrous future to come our way. There were friends, best friends, who ate, drunk and slept together until dawn cracked and today they're all scattered away. Too far to schedule a meet, to far to reunite and too busy to borrow a moment. New people have taken their place and things have changed, thus proving again that time waits for none.

As almost a quarter of this life span marks its completion, life starts playing its cards. From days of togetherness and close friendship to loneliness again. There are twists and turns all the way up and what lies on the other end can not be foreseen. It might be a busy routine job waiting to handcuff us for the next many years or perhaps in the next turn, we'll all meet again to sleep for one last time under the open sky, overstuffed on one single blanket, struggling to stay on it, gazing at the million stars and laughing our hearts out on old memories.

A river of national importance

Ganga, the river, in true means is a mother. She gives the love and resource to sustain, and yet in the end men turn their backs at it and leave back with plastics, flowers, ashes, candles and discarded clothes on the bank, to flow away with the currents of the river. Yet again they come back to pay their homage when someone dies, and end up putting in a few more dead flowers.

Imagine the fate of the river that commutes over 2500kms, almost through a hundred cities, across four states into a vast ocean; and what does it take along except liter? Throughout the year, everyday millions of Indians pay homage to the river on its banks, and undoubtedly contribute towards curbing its beauty. The waters of the Ganga that is considered so sacred that no change is observed in its form even after years of storage, has actually started stinking and rotting at many places near industrial sites and dense populations.

The Ganga pollution and ways to overcome it is one of the biggest challenge that our nation faces at the present time. In a 2007 survey, Ganga was termed the fifth most polluted river in the world, which followed with no signs of recovery. The pollution of the river is a serious threat to more than a hundred species of aquatic species and the Ganga dolphins have also been termed endangered in the recent past. Considering humans, the threat is even bitter and consequences more fatal.

The amount of garbage dumped actively, passively and sacredly in the Ganga annually, can form a huge mountain chain across several kilometers. Though Ganga is a river of the living, but it is treated like that of the dead. The purest soul contribute to the most irreversible deeds, leaving a big black spot and later wondering how to erase it.

Imagine the pleasure of seeing transparent blue waters in the entire river until it exits into the Bay of Bengal. Imagine people sitting by the banks of Ganga, hands folded and lips murmuring mantras while the breeze sways away the hair. Families taking a stroll by the river in the evening as sacred music plays soft beats to the ears. Temples on the bank light up with dias and candles as people gather in the temple compound to take an aarti of the river, without approaching its waters. The rituals don't change, only the medium does.

A pollution free river awaits its dawn on the farther end, only we need to realise the importance of the objective.

A Gunshot for survival

The most powerful feeling that I have ever experienced is while holding a gun. Indeed even more, when someone stands on the other end. It is an indescribable feeling filled with authority, superiority and mercifulness (entirely on your terms).

The cold feel of curling your lips around the muzzle and rolling the chamber with your fingertips, that's no less than heaven on earth.
The sound that generates when the parts cling together, that's music to ears. Sitting relaxed back on a couch and gripping the gun firmly with two hands, when you pull up to aim, you can almost hear your heartbeat and feel your pulse. In that little minute, from aiming to pulling the trigger your hand almost sticks to your chin, the left eye refuses to open back, the forehead fills with sweat and the mind suddenly recalls the importance of breathing again for survival.

Thereafter, it's that BANG that matters, the echo that batters in the room and is distinctly heard until it completely fades off after creating a thousand ripples in plain air. The little smoke that exits out of the barrel from both ends, and the stench of gunpowder that lingers back in the air is more captivating and magnetic than any other odour or temptation.

The little vibrations that are left oscillating from the wrist to the elbow and back to the wrist along with the imprints of the butt left on the insides of the hand and the redness marked with the trigger on the index finger is what you never desire to lose. The puff of breath that is exhaled marks the completion of the task and explains the fact that a life taken is another life saved. Even as the target falls down there is so much to gain with one single shot, with one single pull or in one small tick.

What follows after 30 seconds is complete silence, a silence that has the potential to directly pierce through you and enter your veins and change your state of mind. Sometimes fear creeps in and sometimes pride. Where a sense of pride would make the shot even worthwhile, fear on the other hand would ruin all the feelings that one had just felt and lived.

Even before the happening happens there are elements that pull one back, thus there should be a driving force pushing you towards glory from the back of the mind and a pull from the heart should grip all muscles together while the fingertip kisses the trigger and pulls it back, a sense of doing should persist in the calm mind as the aim stands opposite the muzzle. Mercy, fear and pity should be locked off while determination, existence and adventure should hold the reins.

It is true that existence is yet another word for survival, and survival means elimination. Sometimes it is for good, and sometimes for a desire to be good, but never for bad. The moment you consider it mean and deceitful you lose. Thus feeling is so harmful that it won't let you last even a moment more on the battlefield. The mere thought makes one weak and allows the rival to take his shot. Thus, humanity should be turned off and only the motive should linger in the mind. The shot that can give you life can take it away too, just in a blink of a second. Do or die is the theme of the battlefield, no matter where it is, inside a close room or on a busy street. Pull the trigger and live your life, think a moment more and soon you'll be on the ground.

"Kill him! NOW!"

My brother shouted from the window. His words reverberated in the room. The dacoit stood tall before my eyes, loading a yellow metallic bullet in his rifle. Death was just seconds away, in the form of a seven feet black dressed and turbaned villain. I had to reach a decision, time trailed. I had to choose between death and survival.

I closed my eyes for a brief second. And made my choice.

BANG!

It echoed and smoked and stenched just like baba had taught me. There was silence all around and it entered me piercing through open skin. The man dropped. I lived.

Things that happen only in India

India, a land of multiple languages and rituals, a home to numerous religions and festivals is where one in true means find unity in diversity; the same for which the nation is also better known as.

However there are innumerable things that one can perhaps only spot in India. The seventh largest nation homes 1.2 billion people and stands tall as the largest democracy on planet earth; which lately is better known for its now ruling Prime Minister- NaMo, a tea-stall vendor of the 80s.

Two things that have gained immense popularity worldwide since our new government are the Prime Minister and the Nation itself. Things, issues and old trends are on a roll towards change, as the new PM focusses on a developed and skilled India in the coming days.

Though in a nation like India, the old saying- "No change is permanent" stands true and has been proved multiple times in history. A lot of good things and approaches ceased to happen with the blink of an eye, however this time the nation doesn't seem to believe that any of these rooting changes will ever stop. Good for the doer then and good for the receiver!

But to whitewash the old stains and the black spots that our nation bears of the past, definitely we have to get down on our knees and wipe the floor clean ourselves. Not only this would serve the cause, we would in turn also have to change our habits and brush up our social etiquette chapter once again, loud and clear.

Coming to the point about things that can only be spotted in India, I would like to begin with a little observance on change. Change is a very interesting element, just like a bucket of paint- ready to cover the stains and old spots, but a little mishandling can again bring in all the spots those were wiped clean.

India, is more of a journey than a country where you see different shades of lifestyle and trends as you move from one end to another. But, there are a few common things that you can spot no matter where you are in the nation.

Love is the most widespread epidemic in the nation, whether you roam around in the temples observing the walls or you commute by a train or bus, you can always see names circled in hearts with an arrow pierced through. Sometimes, there is a message, like, "I love you Sheela," with love spelt as 'lobe' or 'luv'. Uncountable seats are scratched mercilessly, across the year and the back panel of seats acquire new names, phone numbers and love messages every minute, surpassing
the old ones. I often wonder, if the writer's dedicated lover ever gets to read these messages that their lover wrote scratching and breaking their fingernails. Some wise people bring along a permanent marker for the mission.

As you get down from the bus and turn along the lane, you can spot a faded message on the wall in Hindi saying- "Do not spit here." And the message itself fades with tens and tens of pan-stains jetted with a precise aim on the Hindi letters. As you'll pass by, someone will again use the wall to empty his buccal cavity.

Then as you'll pass by a thin lane, probably a gully- beware to cover your nose when you walk by an empty plot between two houses, coz that's a community dustbin. Don't be surprised to see men urinating on the walls adjacent to this plot.

Urination brings us to our next topic- public toilets. Enter a public toilet, whether in a railway station or a bus station. As you slam the door close and sit down you see a list of contact numbers scratched on the door with ugly and pathetic descriptions such as 'whore,' 'jugaad,' and things similar.

Talking about a journey by train, as it halts between stations people rush in and rush out in a haste. Everyone is in a haste to acquire the empty berths and are later seen negotiating amongst other co-travellers to sit in their seat. The person who sacrifices his seat in the first place is seen battering from seat to seat until his journey ends.

To the list there are numerous other things and acts, but however there is one indispensable thing. When we compare sleeper coaches with AC coaches, we find no haste. People come in a steady gait and take the seat that's allotted to them. There is no negotiation and no inconvenience to the other person. Similarly, enter a toilet in a mall or a PVR and you won't find inscriptions and lurking comments. Travel by metro and there are no love hearts with names and arrows. Also, there are no pan stains in the compound.

So what brings in all the difference? How does a nation with the same people travelling in these two different places act differently? The answer to the problem is literacy and infrastructure development. The sooner it will spike up, such acts will fall down.

With the advent of PM NaMo's government, the entire nation is optimistic about a radical change in the coming years. The sound of an approaching hurricane can be heard clearly, that is on its way to carry away the ills from our community. Sooner or later, in these five years, the entire nation believes that a roadmap to development and change will be laid out. It is thereafter our responsibility to step on it and walk the way through. No matter how good or bad the government is, at the end it is us who matter. A better India is our responsibility and our birth right.
To end with a poetic line, it is wise to say-
"Jhadoo bhi chalega aur rupya bhi uthega, Aao milke sath bade, akela Modi kya kya karega!"
Jai hind!

**This article was picked by TOI, read here:
http://m.timesofindia.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/Things-that-happen-only-in-India/articleshow/45023058.cms

A political love story

Finally, on a relaxed Sunday when usually everyone wakes up late and schedule movies and lunch programs with friends and relatives, today however must have been a different one. With the Maharashtra-Haryana state election results being declared since morning, the common man must have been glued in front of their led-screens, counting each seat, as their favourite party lifted up inch by inch.

Many channels began with their exit poll predictions since dawn, with predictions of Modi-led-Lotus to lead the day. And minute by minute, it happened as it was predicted, the dream of our PM began manifesting with the first rays of the sun. In the allotted time frame for campaigning, Prime Minister NaMo gave 38 rallies altogether in Maharashtra and Haryana. Having faced, a break up over seat sharing with their more than two decade old ally Shiv Sena in the Maha-city and Congress's history of never losing in Haryana, the victory seemed tougher. No matter what the circumstances were, NaMo's determination of serving people and a Congress-free Nation was immensely repeated and emphasized, until it turned into reality. With a win in 47 seats out of 90 in Haryana, NaMo led BJP into a majority thrusting the oldest political party Congress into a setback with 22 seats, impotent to even sit in the opposition. Similarly, in Maharashtra BJP lead with +122 seats out of 288, falling short of 23 seats to form a government. The biggest turn came in with Congess's ally NCP ditching its former mate and offering to give an outside support to BJP, if it desires to form a government with them. However BJP's old partner Shiv Sena, remarked that it awaits BJP's proposal for a collation.

A conflict of ethics turn up as people around the country await for BJP to pick up a side. Siding with NCP, a former side mate of INC, BJP might lead into some of the biggest post-election controversies, as NCP has been a part of the party that Modi has lead his reform of eradication against.

Considering SS, BJP seems lesser worried about proposing it as the pre-election arrogant and firm Uddhav Thakare has turned soft and inviting. It can be another way of BJP retaliating in a silent manner, proving their caliber of gaining the remaining 23 seats without SS's support. However, NCP's sudden influence, of coming into party again, though with a collation seems like a budding political love story.

Politics, with all these moves yet again proves its unreliability on either side. And amidst the hustle-bustle of results the Indian Hockey team's confiscation of Sultan Johar Cup by their 2-1 victory over Great Britain, and FC-Northeast Vs Goa-FC Indian Super League 1-1 draw remained a hidden topic.

Finally, now the nation looks ahead to Mr. Modi for his promises and development schemes. The 65% below 25 youth looks for employment schemes, farmers hope for a better price to their crops, oldies look for a worry-free pension directly hopping into their bank accounts without dragging their heels in government offices from desk to desk and the common man still looks for a further depreciation in fuel prices. Good for all including him, if NaMo materialises his dream in the dedicated time frame; however, our nation's present situation goes handy with the Hindi phrase- "Ek anaar, 100 bimaar."

A political love story

Finally, on a relaxed Sunday when usually everyone wakes up late and schedule movies and lunch programs with friends ad relatives, today however must have been a different one. With the Maharashtra-Haryana state election results being declared since morning, the common man must have been glued in front of their led-screens, counting each seat, as their favourite party lifted up inch by inch.

Many channels began with their exit poll predictions since dawn, with predictions of Modi-led-Lotus to lead the day. And minute by minute, it happened as it was predicted, the dream of our PM began manifesting with the first rays of the sun. In the allotted time frame for campaigning, Prime Minister NaMo gave 38 rallies altogether in Maharashtra and Haryana. Having faced, a break up over seat sharing with their more than two decade old ally Shiv Sena in the Maha-city and Congress's history of never losing in Haryana, the victory seemed tougher. No matter what the circumstances were, NaMo's determination of serving people and a Congress-free Nation was immensely repeated and emphasized, until it turned into reality. With a win in 47 seats out of 90 in Haryana, Namo led BJP into a majority thrusting the oldest political party Congress into a setback with 22 seats, impotent to even sit in the opposition. Similarly, in Maharashtra BJP lead with +122 seats out of 288, falling short of 23 seats to form a government. The biggest turn came in with Congess's ally NCP ditching its former mate and offering to give an outside support to BJP, if it desires to form a government with them. However BJP's old partner Shiv Sena, remarked that it awaits BJP's proposal for a collation.

A conflict of ethics turn up as people around the country await for BJP to pick up a side. Siding with NCP, a former side mate of INC, BJP might lead into some of the biggest post-election controversies, as NCP has been a part of the party that Modi has lead his reform of eradication against.

Considering SS, BJP seems lesser worried about proposing it as the pre-election arrogant and firm Uddhav Thakare has turned soft and inviting. It can be another way of BJP retaliating in a silent manner, proving their caliber of gaining the remaining 23 seats without SS's support. However, NCP's sudden influence, of coming into party again, though with a collation seems like a budding political love story.

Politics, with all these moves yet again proves its unreliability on either side. And amidst the hustle-bustle of results the Indian Hockey team's confiscation of Johar Cup by their 2-1 victory over Great Britain remained a hidden topic.

Finally, now the nation looks ahead to Mr. Modi for his promises and development schemes. The 65% below 25 youth looks for employment schemes, farmers hope for a better price to their crops, oldies look for a hassel-free pension directly into their bank accounts without dragging their heels in government offices from desk to desk and the common still looks for a further depreciation in fuel prices. Good for all including him, if NaMo materialises his dream in the dedicated time frame; however, our nation's present situation goes handy with the Hindi phrase- "Ek anaar, 100 bimaar."

A post-surgery introspection

Sometimes I like the feel of spitting blood. Other than being saline it is the sacred feeling to see it live, once in so many years, or perhaps only a few times in a lifespan. These days I am living my best- tasting, circulating it in my buccal cavity and eventually spitting it out. Uggh! Ugly, isn't it?

My surgery has left me with nothing else to do but rest. Lying with a straight spine, I spend my day with my over stuffed nose dug in my droid, and breathing from my mouth. Today is the fourth day and I spend sunrise to sunset sipping juice and eating bread and porridge, and not to forget a handful of tablets twice a day- just in hopes of getting better. Sometimes blood mixed with saliva or mucus brings in a different taste. On a normal day it might taste bad, but on bed rest it tastes quite unique and sacred.

There are things that I fear now, things that are more fearful than that surgery. The list of feared things is topped with sneezing and coughing. Sneeze can severely harm by corroding the inner sides of the operated nasal cavity. So I give my best to stop any possible sneeze or coughing. Last when I got instincts of a coming sneeze, fear started creeping in about the immediate aftereffects. Knowing that it had to be stopped at any cos I started rubbing my throat and nose in a repeatedly hasty manner, until it finally got postponed. God knows what cancelled it, perhaps the rubbing or who knows if the sneeze itself felt pity over my state.

There are a list of activities that can not be performed as smoothly as on a usual course, to quote a few- brushing, chewing, walking, bathing, etc. But anyhow you've always got people to take care of you. Thanks to the wonderful lady called 'mother' who never tires out of serving and the little companion called 'sister', who leaves all the good stuff for her brother, taking pains to serve and wipe him repeatedly. And then there's a 'father', who might not cook and serve but he never forgets to abide by the social and financial responsibilities in his court. From serving the pills every morning and noon to arranging a taxi for check-ups, and he offers his shoulder to rest upon when he seas a limp in my gait.

In these four days I've experiment a lot of things. No doubt some of my biggest learnings that I've made (now) have come to me amidst my struggle for breathing. These past four days of demanded care from my near ones, made me realise the real value and selfless love of a family.

From tying a cloth around my neck before a meal to wiping the chin after every serving, I have been served like a kid in the past 96 hours. No matter what you ask for, and irrespective of the fact how many times you demand it, no one tires out of fulfilling the demand. Something makes me feel, a mother is a real form of god, with qualities that no one else can ever possess. Coz it isn't just the qualities but also the purity of heart that matters. As small insignificant tear drops roll down from the corner of my eyes, my mother never fails to notice them. She comes and sits beside me, rubbing my head she asks me, if it is paining? I nod in a no, but she still persists upon her doubt. And in the course another drop rolls down. Her face frowns and she consoles me saying, just a day more and day after they'll remove the gauges. To strengthen her I smile at her, the smile stretches my nose and I feel a brief pain, but this pain is enjoyable as it is capable of absorbing her pain. Every night she covers me in a blanket and every time during the night her eyes open, she first looks at me and then at the clock.

Yesterday she asked me if I would like to have some tea, I agreed for her satisfaction and I saw her pouring tea into my coffee mug and going through a detailed process of cooling it. In the course of serving me less hot tea, her tea too got cooled eventually, but her satisfaction of serving me was way higher than her care for the taste of her own tea.

On my first day of rest, I had problems sitting up so I spent most of my time lying down and watching movies. In between my father would come to me and check my status, sometimes he brought the newspaper and read the top headlines sitting beside me. Had I asked him something in detail, he would have read me the whole article too, but I didn't intend to bother him.

When I recall the last time, when my parents used to treat me in this manner, my memory dates back to almost two decades. The last time, my mother wiped my chin after food was when I was a toddler, the last time she gave me a bath was when I was probably three or four. The last time she wiped my tears was when I had fallen off my bicycle in my childhood. And probably that too was the time when my father would have read me headlines and storybooks. Things haven't changed for them even in two decades as I've grown up from one and a half feet to five and a half. As those infancy milk teeth have shed off and cheeks have filled in with thick beard, nothing on the contrary has changed for parents. Their child is the same little boy who has 'just' grown up under their eyes, whose every problem's solution is his mother's lap.

So blessed is our fortune that we have so caring parents who keep us safe from all problems and pains. For them we are the same little child (with a weak immune and fragile strength)... But ironically we've grown up!

Goodbye Sinus

Day 01: Oct 9th, 2014

As I write this a hundred thoughts are running in my skull, ranging from what does an operation feel like to will it trouble me? The attendant has already stuffed my nostrils with local anesthesia gauges and parts of me have already started feeling numb. I am lying on my side, writing what I feel as the pre-effects of my nasal surgery.

I am down half a liter glucose through my left arm and the needle still sticks there with the adhesive tape, giving me jerks of pain as I try to put my hand into some activity. A patient rolls out of the operation theater on a stretcher, his skull wrapped in white. He is operated for his right ear two positions prior to me. I tried asking him how he felt, but perhaps he didn't hear or was uncomfortable in responding back.

I wonder what will it be all like? Based on a brief Google research, I sketched the procedure of my surgery, that makes me feel excited about the coming things. I am almost half an hour away from entering the O.T, and I am wondering why is it called a 'theatre'?

Perhaps it will be fun, or else It'll be just a step towards relief. In these last minutes, before I am separated from my 24 year old ally 'Sinus', I thank you for all these mucus filled years. These thunderstorm experiences that I've had within me and those innumerable free balloons that I grew up inflating from my nose. I thank you for your never departing companionship that made me unique amongst my family, cousins and friends. I thank you for those restlessness moments that you gave me, those moments of lazy ness and ugliness.

It's time now to depart. Goodbye Sinus!

-----------x-----------x------------

Day 02: Oct 10th, 2014

It's been almost 24 hours, my nostrils are stuffed with as much gauges as can be stuffed in. It is a state of immense discomfort, I am breathing through my mouth with hopes that soon I'll be relieved.

Last night, when I entered the operation theatre, the attendant instructed me to lie down on the operation desk. I did as told with a feeling of fear mixed with curiosity. In my initial moments I was relaxed and unworried, knowing that it wouldn't pain and the doctors would take all measures to keep the surgery painless. But the aura inside the O.T started creeping doubts and fears into me. There were four doctors discussing someone's failed operation. To my understanding, fortunately it was all about a fifth doctor (who wasn't present inside the room), but unfortunately it was a failed operation. My thoughts of before entering the O.T started changing shape and big hallucinating fears started creeping in.

I looked around at the doctors, a thin man seated beside me was the most loud man. Another bald fellow sitting directly opposite my legs nodded and agreed to whatever the first guy said. The third one was seated further left of the thin one, busy in his own cup of tea and talking occasionally. However the fourth, the one who was treating me was busy preparing for the surgery, explaining others about my 'case' (as they referred to it). They were all relaxed and happy, talking loudly and sipping tea after every two statements. They even seemed ready to work upon me.

After ten minutes the thin doctor suggested my doctor to begin the surgery. They mutually agreed and covered me under a green cloth, covering my eyes and only leaving the nose exposed. Vibes of what-will-happen-now started flowing through my veins and I lay there worried and scared as a few blades and scissors clashed near my ear.

They began with an injection, indeed two injections- both of them simultaneously from either sides inside the nostrils. Within minutes the tissues went numb and they began their discourse of how-to-proceed and long steel things started creeping in and out of my nose. Sometimes there was a scratch, sometimes a stroke, sometimes a few repeated strokes and sometimes harsh scratching. Seldom I could hear the breaking noise of bone pieces and then those being placed out on a tray.

It took them some fifteen minutes before they finally unwrapped me from the green cloth and I was taken back to the ward on a stretcher. It was a contrary moment to that when I had gone inside. Earlier when I had entered the OT, I was whole, energised and vigorous, now I felt incomplete and stuffed excessively with gauges and deprived of my strength.

I lay in the ward listening to my relatives, their interpretation of what might have happened inside. Finally the doctor came out and showed the bone pieces that he had extracted out of my nose. There were 5-6 pieces in a steel tray (the one that is usually seen in movies when Amitabh or Summy Deol is cured off a bullet) ranging from a minimum of 1 cm to almost a maximum of 3-4 cms.

Finally after two hours of rest, I was discharged last night (same time) and since then I am on my bed, fidgeting and breathing through my mouth, with just hopes that day after tomorrow these gauges will be removed and I'll inhale..... Just like YOU do!

Dreams of a pleasant future

Dreams, they are so insignificant and delicate like a water bubble. If you constantly pump them with the right flow of breath the bubble grows bigger and bigger, more charming and shiny. But, howsoever if something touches it from outside, it bursts into millions of molecules that can never be repaired. As a child I had a dream to fly like a kite in  the infinite sky. I dreamed of travelling in the universe with wings outstretched and the head held high, passing through the clouds and galaxies in outer space. 

I had dreamed of my youth to be as joyful as a video-game, with lives in stock to risk the one I had at hand. I had dreamed of making mistakes and replaying it again and again. I had dreamed of passing from one level to another with an untouchable high score and an unbeatable performance. Life to me was a bucket filled with colors and a plate full of all kinds of sweets that would be tempted and admired by all. Life to me wasn't mathematic-equations or engineering derivatives, in fact it was mountains with tree chains and a lush green carpet of grass. A place where meditation, tranquility and spirituality would come to me and I with open arms would welcome it. 

Life to me would have been a blank canvas on which I could paint myself a mighty king with an army of soldiers standing behind me and a beautiful queen standing on the other side of a river on the bank filled with daffodils. The youth that I had fancied was more like a tree with leaves in different shades of green and colorful flowers blossomed all over, that would attract birds and bees. Days there would pass with the body dancing to the tunes of their chirping and buzzing, and not to the horns and honks of the passing traffic. 

A field filled with yellow sunflowers facing east and mountain tops overlooking a valley of flowers and trees of all kinds was what I had felt with each passing day in my childhood. It was more like white pigeons flying in a flock and swans travelling transversely across the blue sky in an arrow formation with least movement of their wings.

Dreams of a pleasant future were like handlebar mustaches growing abundantly on the cheeks and not like the ones trimmed every third day. It was always about spreading like a creeper, upwards with strong roots and an irresistible grip. It was like a butterfly fluttering innocently, yet attracting every eye that fell upon it. Dreams of a beautiful future was not salt that had to be added with limits, but sugar- the more you poured the sweeter it got. It wasn't a bathroom shower, but an outdoor torrent that drenched everything and after which followed a clean green universe with little herbs and grasses popping out of the belly of mother earth. Dreams then were not related with limits and restrictions, but with abundance and freedom, like shoes that touch every corner of the world and not socks that always remain inside.

Whenever in the past my mind ran across the thought of soul and body I always admired it with the relation of a nib of a pen and the ink within. The nib like the body has a purpose to touch, write and pierce as much as it can, and the ink inside the refill helps the nib perform its duty a million times in its span. Also, it leaves its immortal mark on the host in the form of a verse, story or sometimes a stain.

Dreams often occurred to me like a long empty road waiting to be traveled across by tires that had a firm grip. The engine hardly mattered as it only had the purpose to aid the tires in their rolling mission. Challenges, obstructions and difficulties were like punctures, meant only to give rest to the tires and make them even determined to travel forth.

But, as time rolled things changed and their meanings altered accordingly. I realized life isn't sunshine, rainbows and mountain tops, but instead a race and a marathon. No matter how determined and hard you start, only the end line matters. It turned out to be the survival of the fittest. Irrespective of whether you loved participating in the race or how good you felt crossing the finish line, only winning mattered. Life in true sense meant pushing back someone and taking their place.

No one cares to remember you even if you were the matchstick that extinguished burning an incense stick. Only the fragrance and the incense stick is remembered. Life thus turned out to be selfish with motives and missions, with greed and ambitions that fulfilled one's own self and profited others the least. In the race to be ahead, you are thus expected to be not only clever but also cunning, not only determined but also prepared to push back anything and anyone that comes in your way. 

If this is what being ambitious is than I had never wanted to be one. My dreams of a glorious future were of togetherness and mutual benefits. They were like a kite that soars high and takes the thread along with it. they were like the tires that took on the journey to travel on all smooth and bumpy roads, suffering and smiling while the windshield only smiled throughout the journey, looking at the beautiful scenes.

If only I can find a way to unite dreams with living, and not pushing to live; I believe a better world, of the one I and you had dreamed together in the past would be attained. And what else do we need to live if not love? Because someday wealth and positions will vanish like smoke, but love shall always linger in the form of fragrance. 

Let's prepare for the Good Days

India, a nation on the path of sure-shot development with a hundred and twenty seven million citizens and thirty-six millions divinities on its side still lingers between unsolved issues of excessive pollution and communal riots. The India of Gandhi, of Nehru and of Jinnah that is now approaching its 68th independence is yet to ink a full-stop on communal differences. No matter how far we travel on the road of development we first need to eradicate the differences between ourselves and accept the entire nation as one family and one home. Only then shall we be able to enjoy the prosperity of this golden land.
In the past six decades since independence, this year has been a lot different and a lot expected. Not for many reasons, but just for one. Some called it a ray of hope, some a last chance, some transformation while others called it MODIfication. One man shouldered all hopes in the second most populous democracy and seventh largest country in the world. From eradicating corruption, to turning down inflations and spiking up development; little or more, to every question and to every problem ‘MODI’ remained the answer. And so happened as it was dreamt, Narendra Damodardas Modi assumed the Prime Minister’s office on 26th of May following a massive victory throughout the nation. In one of his initial thanksgivings he conveyed that, “Good days are about to come,” and ever since the expectancy of the common man was raised to even tremendous heights.
Surely in the present time India is hitting ahead on a road map of development with massive projects like urban planning, bullet trains and various other developments. But the question of concern is while one party tries bringing better facilities and hopes, the other starts finding loopholes to criticize it. Will we ever come out of this cat and mice game? Will we ever join hands and progressively step ahead into a modern India or are we always going to play small talks-small acts until the coming many decades?
Apart from our political differences there are two things that have severely thrashed our global image on a much larger context. One, our half a century old communal difference between Hinduism and Muslimism, and the other our never ending habit of living in an environmental dustbin. Though my words might seem hurtful, but ironically deep down we know that it’s a bitter truth.
Anger is a state of mind, and often what follows anger is crime. Crimes in our nation are categorized into two different types. One where we report to the bureaucracy and the other where we ourselves become the deciding factor.  The former is when it happens between any two common people, and the latter is when it happens between a Hindu and a Muslim or vice versa. Ever since independence our ruling parties have used our communal differences for their benefits and we as a good meal have served their appetite. And perhaps, if such circumstances prevail we might never become the good-so-dreamed brothers of our community.
What seems as a bitter relation between these two communities in India through the media-perspective is not what exactly prevails in our personal lives. No matter where we live and in what circumstances we’ve grown up, irrespective of what religion we belong to or which community we descend from we never judge a person in terms of caste and religion while becoming friends. Friendship in life has always remained a virtue, not a judgment. It is a feeling of happiness and not a decision. We now need to cherish our friendship more than the pre-occupied false thoughts and no-wonder we will be soon on commendable heights as a nation of brothers. With each stroke upon the differences of these two communities the question on each of our part repeatedly arises, ‘If not now, when?’ So, let us start preparing for the coming soon good days by doing what’s needed, so that we as a nation celebrate together the good days when they arrive.

Each day I pass with hopes on tomorrow, Yet tomorrow never comes and days pass in a row

Each day I pass with hopes on tomorrow,

Yet tomorrow never comes and days pass in a row.

Someday I forget to sleep; someday I forget to wake-up,

Someday I am high and someday just too tangled up.

So for each present day I procrastinate things,

With hopes on tomorrow and my invisible wings.

I don’t have a job, yet I feel no less than a king,

Conceiving, admiring and believing there’s no better a thing.

Sometimes I pity, sometimes I regret and sometimes feel ashamed,

And yet in another moment I think one day I’ll be acknowledged, adored and famed.

The worries fly away in a jiffy and I close down my plans-for-the-day,

In wonderful dreams I sleep while the saying goes- ‘while sunshine make hay.’

Often when I finish a book or a movie I feel so inspired,

I clean my room, organize my schedule and find myself hired.

All it takes is a day for the sun of hopes to set down,

And the routine follows: Up-Eat-and-Down.

Two more days and the room again becomes a mess,

Eyes back on the ceiling and ears on jazz.

Not every day is smooth and there are hard times too,

Often when people ask- ‘What do you do?’

My parents stand beside them and wonder why I look tensed,

Up with a smile I tell, ‘Umm.. preparing for defense.’

‘Good luck!’ they say and move ahead,

My mother hugs me and I feel blessed.

There I vow to inherit change and do things that I haven’t done yet,

I clean my room, sort-out my books and see the sun set.

I pick a book and try hard not to lose sight,

But I yawn, scratch and miss the day light.

I take a break and think if it’ll be right...

…to close the book only for the night!

A chair by the wall and the table too far, My bed in the center and the switch so far

A chair by the wall and the table too far

My bed in the center and the switch so far.

How hard I convince, my body doesn’t respond,

To make a slipping way through the clustered mound.

I lay awake in a passerby’s hope to turn off the lights,

Though lazy I might seem, but my hopes have never-ending heights.

The bulb distracts my sleep, and yet I won’t bubble,

The light strikes with its might and in a pillow I cuddle.

My eyes feel the piercing effect, and I shut them as hard as I can,

And just hope for someone to pass, a lady or a man.

I turn sides in restlessness with hopes for a nap,

Oh! I so much miss a dark room and my mother’s lap.

An hour passes by and I am struggling to sleep,

It’s two in the morning and yet hopes of a passerby are deep.

I hear my friends giggle in the next room,

And just hope someone comes to turn off my illuminated doom.

I pull over a blanket to cover my face,

But, the striking light does not grace.

I curl in and curl out; I turn over and turn about,

In restlessness and despair I make a pleading shout.

But it fades off in the noise around,

Like a squeak ends in the roar of a hound.

With half shut eyes I hope of my redemption,

For an angel to come and perform the sacred action.

And then I hear approaching footsteps from the farthest end,

Waiting for the moment to come my heart lay quenched.

As he passed by my door, for his help I yelled,

Which perhaps in his haste he missed.

I quickly turned my side to catch a glimpse of him,

Perhaps another word could make the lights dim.

But all I saw was emptiness,

And the footsteps had faded away with momentarily happiness.

I lay half-slept, half awake staring at- the chair by the wall and the table too far,

My bed in the center and the switch so far.

Life: Live it. Love it. Play it.

Life's a journey, live every moment.

Life's a picnic, don't miss the adventure.

Life's a zoo visit, don't regret in the end for what you couldn't spot in there.

Life's a circus show, a theater act, a new released movie, pay close attention.

Life's a football match, every moment is special.

Life's a plate of desserts, bet you don't wanna miss anything.

Life's a bike ride, let the air sway you.

Life's a TV show, watch with interest.

Life's a blank canvas, be creative.

Life's a first date, be loving.

Life's a mother's hug, be blessed.

Life's a tree, keep growing with humbleness. 

Above all... life's an entertainment switch, press START!

Mr. Prime Minister, are you there?

To the hands of

His highness Mr. Prime Minister,

Prime Minister’s Office,

South Block, Rasina Hill,

New Delhi,

India- 110011

From the Pen of

A concerned Indian,

Writing what's protested

From your society

India

Sub: Letter of concern

It has been somewhere near a month since BJP is serving the nation, and I heard the passenger fares of Indian Railways have hiked up by 14.2% and there are rumors that tobacco (the most consumed product by we the frustrated Indians) will also face an uplift in the price, on a lay man's scale by INR 3.5 per stick. Oops! that's even more frustrating and disappointing for the common man. Our nation, though it had come up with a whooshing support for your 'Bharatiya Janata Party' is believed to have got bitterly disappointed by the your initial efforts. The Congress party that we along with you have cursed for inflation will soon be spotted subscribing to channels like India Today, Q-tiyapa, Aaj tak, India Today Group, So Sorry, and Election-2014 on Youtube where they won't hesitate even a bit to ridicule, criticize and condemn you along with the channel crew. 

Sir, I on my part firmly believe that your approval for these decisions must have been backed up with a humanitarian approach and a mindset of concern for us, the common man. But, unfortunately that's what my million other countrymen might not understand. India that you're showing is in the light, but the India that they've seen for the past 65 years and more is in the dark. It is unrealistic, unreliable and fearful for us to keep our hopes stringed with you until the so said 'Good Days' finally do arrive. Believe me sir, I am not an atheist in your game plan, but that's what a million other might be. This nation is of followers, we intimate what we see people doing out there, and in the present moment we are all intimating questions of betrayal, confusion and unrealistic judgments; which someone somewhere is making us poke  you with.  Believe me even though when you're sitting on that royal chair, planning a better and glorious future for us, there's a ghost somewhere who too is ruling us from your vicinity. The question comes-HOW?

Let me elaborate on this, as I said above, we are a nation of followers, in more simpler terms we are the descendants of the monkey family, and the most common thing about monkeys is that intimation is their birth right. Show a monkey a razor and it'll pick one too; pull it over your cheek and it'll do the very same. This simple fact is well understood by people around you and I guess you too know that very well. In a nation of religious beliefs and varied cultures all you need to bind people behind your logic is a story. For instance, umm... let’s take your story. Connecting the dots backwards you narrated your story being a Chaiwalah and you related it with ours, and I say there's no offence in relating stories- that's what is needed to be done to make others understand; and your doing was definitely for a better cause, for a better purpose, for 1.237 billion better purposes. But, the in the same way someone else is also selling stories, stories that can harm you, stories that can turn the masses against you, stories that might trigger agitation and loss of hope from your system; and their stories begin from your authoritative orders.

Coming back to the point where we had begun the discussion, inflation. Mr. Prime Minister, now that the Railway rates have already hiked I urge you to give a Metro like development to the blue trains of this nation. Can our trains not become cleaner and hygienic with trustworthy safety and security to the motherly women and sisterly girls? It is a pity that our trains that touch every part of this nation lack water and cleanliness, and trains that run in your capital are always gleaming and glistering. When the people using both the trains are same, so what brings the difference?

As they say- the first step is the hardest one, empathizing with your responsibilities I understand that starting a fresh term in a government is always difficult. There are pitfalls of the previous government that you have to cover up. There are big smiles to bring on the entire nations’ face that might in the beginning come with a gaze of surprise or even betrayal at times. But, at the end of the day the distance covered speaks for you. What I’ve heard from your officials as a reason for this price hike is the present under-loss state of the railways. Anyways, focusing only on the brighter side, optimistically, I Mr. Prime Minister hereby ask for your kind support and cooperation in the remaking of this nation. For such a remaking that would startle the entire world, and I believe you will in lieu of the 14.2% from the common man.  

Jai Hind!

Even the rich prick their nose

India is a country of infinite vastness, with various cultures, multiple languages, innumerable trends and different segments of lifestyle: ultra rich, medium rich, rich, upper middle-class, middle-class, lower middle-class, poor, very poor and extremely poor. Amongst these, though everyone is a human but yet there is a hierarchy of their actions. People have divided this nation into cities, bigger cities, villages and small-villages, all of which inhabit humans from one of the above class. Even the smallest village and the poorest man holds a reserve of infinite use to the rich and iconic citizens of this nation.

In my previous article I talked about the rural India being called as “backward”, the one where farmers toil their fields with sweat and blood, where women shrink their youthful bosoms reaping harvests under the scorching sun and where children waste their childhood grazing cattle. All of this that they’ve wasted contributes to the upper segment of the society. The farmer’s blood and sweat gives us pulses and wheat, the women’s bosoms dry up while making the farmer’s efforts count; and the Horlicks and Bournvita could have never been put to use if those little education-deprived kids would have not sacrificed their schools for grazing  Rampyaari and Shyampyaari, the cattle.

            Our nation even today is not observed as one, but two: the ever-glittering city India, and the dark-after-six village India. The former is where people count themselves as humans, and the latter don’t get to count themselves as anything, because the former have already considered them as upcoming humans. In the talks of the former, the latter are also better known as ‘uncivilized’, ‘superstitious’, ‘mannerless’ and of course ‘backward’. It is a bitter truth that every house in the city has a servant or a maid, who falls from a village or small town; but still the complaints of the city folks for them never dies. They hate it when the servant pricks his nose or scratches his armpits, but seldom they teach him the basic etiquettes and often only scold.

            For the ones who are capable of sniffing and mewing in English, it is only a fortune that we’re born and brought up in a city. If we just consider it a bit closely, we’ll realize that it wasn’t us who decided where you and I were to be born and what identities we were to carry in this lifespan. We are perhaps given this life, wherever we are today, just to serve others and keep them happy, rather than to criticize and complaint. It is a fortune that we are living in a city, and it thus becomes our moral duty to serve the ones who fall short of services and benefits than us.

            The rural India, also best known for its remedies and cures out of herbs and superstitions is mostly availed by the city folks, than the villagers themselves. At the time of need, the insignificantly small, illiterate, mannerless men are also worshipped as god and tasks like walking on burning charcoals, sometimes eating them too, eating ashes, dancing naked, and a lot more are also performed by the richer ones, just in hopes of getting better. What one calls superstition is what one himself falls for at the need of the hour.

It is high time that we now start believing that there aren’t two Indias, but one. One single nation with swaying mustard fields and glittering skyscrapers, with both barren mud streets and polished six-lanes connecting us back together. It is time to believe in brotherhood and humanity, to accept that we’re one. For if one has the advantages of the advancement of science and technology, the other has an infinitely strong inheritance from the past. It is time to act as one, to offer an equal status to everyone as being a human anyone can feel the urge to itch and sometimes not necessarily in the dark, even the rich prick their nose.

**This article was picked by TOI, read here: http://m.timesofindia.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/Even-the-rich-prick-their-nose/articleshow/35665017.cms

My India where English doesn’t exist

Half a century past independence, just walk down five kilometers from the highway and you will still find the same India that bald Gandhi had left. The very same, where chapattis are made on a chulha, where defecation is still done in the open. The India where women reap grain-fields, and men gather on a crossroad at sunset with hookahs and tobacco. The India where one can spot more buffalos than motor-cars, and more hand-pumps than streetlights.

‘Rural’ is the word we use for such India, in more contemporary words also called ‘backward’. The India that supplies milk to every house in the city, grain to every kitchen in the country and sugar to every single Barista and Café Coffee Day, is backward. One prime reason for this is the non-existence of the international foreign language, English. The proximity that hasn’t yet been met by the farmers, the easiness which the natives of these places do not find in comprehending it, or be it the unsuccessful inheritance of the language that still prevails is what makes it backward.

Toiling big malls, going for late night shows and swishing down the highways leaned back in air-conditioned cars is perhaps not what can make a particular region forward. Accepting it or not, doing the righteous thing and bearing one’s responsibility is perhaps what matters more. Terming a region backward with brains full of arrogance, and eyes hazed with differences and hostility is perhaps not what lays the foundation stone of being categorized under backward, okay and forward.

Considering the ongoing elections, enter any village stepping down five kilometers from a highway and you’ll listen curious voices all around discussing and debating over the national governance. In their talks is a concern for their village, faith for their neighbors and an attachment for the nation. They give priorities for matters like these; you’ll see plethora of men, women and children listening peacefully and co-operatively to their future leaders during a campaign. Matters like elections are considered as another form of a festival there. The so called backward-class folks, the poor farmers, the dalits and majdoors residing in kuccha-houses and huts line up vigorously on the day of election to use their franchise and help bring a better governance in their nation. They decide to sacrifice the day’s wages, and who knows perhaps a few families do even sleep empty stomach. But, on a whole they keep their dream alive to upgrade the state of their country.

On the contrary the people of the busy streets, of metros and malls, of Audis and Benz remain busy in their business deals, family issues and other daily tasks. Ask them, whom they’re supporting and they’ll look down your face with a blank expression. The primary thing of concern here is the invaluable money-mantra that they chant day and night. Amidst their occupied life they often forget small things, like family celebrations, children’s academic meetings, and unfortunately in the same list adds up the national elections. The one and only chance where we, the citizens of this nation come at par with those who rule us is often sadly missed. For some it happens unintentionally, and for many it comes as a day of leisure, of relaxation.

But, one thing that remains alive forever is- dissatisfaction and complaints. Whether one has voted or not but no one in this sovereign and democratic nation remains back in cursing the ruling party at times of inflation and crisis. It is true enough that some answers, regrets and guilt often come late to one’s realization. How logical is it thus to call a region forward when people remain so lethargic in one such important issue. The other India that is termed backward is the same India that heaps the entire nation’s kitchen with bread and butter. But alas! It is called backward just because it is the place where PVRs, Baristas and CCDs are hard to spot, where nightlife doesn’t happen, where Audis and Benz aren’t drove, and where English doesn’t exist.

*Also catch this blog on TOI's website. Click the link below:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/My-India-where-English-doesnt-exist/articleshow/34730151.cms

The inner fold

There are cars, bikes, carts, rickshaws and autos before me, all in motion. Everything is at its best to overtake and overrule the other. The clock-tower signals exact ten o'clock and all the clock-hands meet only at two places.

People are rushing to their destinations, going from one place to another. Across the street a bevy of ladies are carrying a procession and a group of traders protesting against the current government, perhaps for some price rise issue. They are together here, but on a daily living they don't care so intensely for each other.

Everyday I pass this place, and each day adds a new story to my account. On my way, I meet an old lady with hands wide spread to the passing pedestrians asking for alms. She is a jack of her trade with good facial expressions and lips those murmur blessings to all.

Not everyone stops or cares to put a rupee or two in her bowl, even I haven't in the past two months of our one sided interaction. But, that doesn't pull her back from her going. When someone doesn't stop she blesses with even more concern, affection and courtesy, in a much higher pitch than before, not bothered by those who simply passed by.

She misses a leg, and its replacement, a plastic one is kept beside her on the tarpaulin. That adds on sympathies and her ever-blessing throat is relieved to some extent as the numb leg does the talking. Anything that I recall hearing from her has always been soft toned, blissful and blessing. She is a soft toned motherly lady. Perhaps a mother of two or three...

I wonder, how impeccably god has made her, with so much patience and courage to bless every stranger that passes by. No doubt this is her work and work is rarely related with concern, but words that she speaks for begging have never appeared honey-coated to me. Those words seem directly leaping out of her vast and affectionate heart.

Today, the advent of 2014 shows insignificant humans who preach the teachings of Jesus: 'love thy neighbor.' The ones who are really generous and loving are reducing in a rapid manner. Feelings of selfishness, jealousy, hatred and money-orientedness are taking over in a similar rapid pace.

But, amidst all odds, there are these beggars and other neglected people of the society who in everyday life, though for a selfish motive bless us, with words like our mother's. Their motive is unquestionably selfish but that limits to only an earning of a rupee or two, seldom five. No matter what, but this motive of theirs is far better than those lurking talks and misguidances of new-acquaints who leave us robbed on a train journey or in a roadways bus.

A puff of death

Sitting there in a saffron robe,
Crouched in, he is affected by the winter-phobe.
Towering above his head a spiral of tangled hair robes,
And hands unwashed, quivering to the hold of dope.

As he inhales, pits form on his wrinkled cheeks,
And mucus like dewdrops from his nose leaks.
He wipes it with a closed fist,
Troubled enough he looks with the morning-wind and the mist.

Snakes of smoke jet-out from his nostrils,
And tears of winter cold stream down his cheek-hills.
He lays back with the tranquilizing effect,
In an aftereffect, numb with an immobility defect.

A blanket of mist sits atop him and on the herbs.
Dogs wander around him while goats chew his robes.
His beard covered with tiny droplets, those glitter like pearl in the first rays of the sun.
And morning walkers as they cross him, pass a pun.

With a dropped jaw, unconscious he lay.
Perhaps dead by now, his dry lips curled the yellow hay.
Time moved, but not he.
Inwards in no time, towards him people flee.

Then came an ambulance and later a police car,
Looking at everything I stood far.
Died by the puff, he was carried, pulled by hands and his ankles dragged.
And down the road in the busy street they vanished.