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.

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.