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.

But, our country will prosper now

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autobiography of a ten rupee note

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

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

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

My journey: The joys

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

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

The pains:

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

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

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

The last breaths:

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

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

Hitting the bird’s eye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Seeing to Doing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those memories of the past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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