Season's greetings...and memories

It's that time of year again.

That time of year when I so yearn for Calcutta and my childhood that I forget to see what Delhi has to offer. Missing Park Street has become something I look forward to now. Never attended midnight mass at St Paul's Cathedral in all my years at Calcutta. But managed to score on that count last year by ringing in Christmas at a crowded Sacred Hearts Cathedral.

Miss seeing the lights of Park Street, the Christmas trees peeping in from windows and balconies, wishing the sisters at Carmel a joyous festive season and much much more. Miss the Christmas party at Latha aunty's house, the pleasure of all us 'kids' raiding the phuchka shop at Lord's More on the pretext of celebrating Christmas together.

Miss the gulp of a much diluted vodka surreptitiously downed years ago on this day and the sip of wine that followed soon after. Miss some friends who got me drunk with their mere presence, some who brought cheer with all the fights we had, the smiles, the arguments, the making-up-after-huge-fight sessions, the badminton matches played till the halogen bulbs at the para court started flickering and the shuttles started begging for mercy.

Miss the plum cakes my mom would get ritually every year for me and my brother, the New Year, the book fair, the annual picnic and Saraswati Puja.

Yes, it's that time of year yet again and I am missing my past, the city of my childhood, the city where I grew up, the city where I first thought I fell in love.

This city isn't bad either. At least this Christmas I have lots of plum cake on which to feed my nostalgia. Along with it I have some yum gajar ka halwa... a labour of love of sorts made painstakingly and with single-minded focus. I have the chilly winter breeze to look forward to. So what if I still have to discover the Park Street-like warmth here, so what if I don't have Carmel to go back to.

I miss my mommy, but she, hopefully, will be with me next Christmas if I manage to move to a bigger warmer house, cos where I am right now, is pretty much freezing my soul, not just my body. Looking forward to the warm Christmas sun to un-freeze my heart...

Best wishes of the Season to one and all! May it fill us with cheer, peace, forgiveness and love!

Aruna's Story, My Thoughts

'Unconscious for 36 years, woman seeks SC permission for death'
Aruna Shanbaug, a woman whose fate is so fearsome that just the contrast between who she was before November 23, 1973 and what she has been since then, evokes a strange unrest in the mind.
"I met a big learned pujari who said I had a sau mein ek patrika [a rare horoscope], that I'd be a success, will live long & would go abroad..... but even if he was talking rubbish it does not matter because I know I will become known in my field’’ Aruna is believed to have said when she was a 20-something nurse.
Soon after, the woman from Karnataka was brutally sodomised by a ward boy at King Edward Memorial Hospital in Mumbai where she worked. She was left blind, without speech and paralysed by the incident. For the past 36 years, according to newspaper reports, she has been confined to a room, in fact, a bed in a hospital. Her family today consists of the nurses and attendants who look after her.
The man who dealt that crushing blow to a bubbling, promising life probably lives unknown in some part of this same country. He is protected by the same laws that force her to continue living a life that is undignified and painful.
The law, which finds it unpleasant to rule that she should henceforth not be force-fed and should be allowed to die, did not have provisions that could nail the rapist who brought her to this vegetative state. Where is the justice in this law?
Why can we just see such stories, such incidents, feel pity for the victims and just forget about them once the channel is turned off, or once an anniversary passes?
Just the injustice of the whole debate and the need to hold it seems to take away from Aruna's right to dignity in life and death.
While we ruminate on the provisions of the law on life and death, while we examine whether her plea to not be fed amounts to killing her or not, while we argue about the powers vested in us as a society and law, Aruna lives another day dying — force-fed, in fear of what she has been through, and probably praying intensely that a certain pujari's prediction about her long life will become untrue.
And while we debate whether or not we should shun our sense of propriety as society and interfere in matters of life and death, we do nothing to make that life more worthwhile, safer or even more worthy of living.

Bhopal, Bahroop and more

So many things are clouding my mind right now.
Characters from plays I have been part of are suddenly walking into my life. And I stand, gaping.
First there was Tsutsomu Yamaguchi. The man who survived the only two atom bombs ever used in history. And I always thought that Ennamen Kawaguchi in Badal Sircar's Teesvi Shatabdi was a figment of an exceptionally cynical playwright's imagination. I did not think Fate would cruel enough to let a person go through such tragedies. Imagine what a laugh Fate would be having to have seen Yamaguchi/Kawaguchi or many more such unnamed men and women escape the atom bomb at Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. And then what vile pleasure would be Fate's to guide them to Nagasaki, where a similar experience would be waiting for them. Is there a purpose in Fate? If yes, what is it?
Then there was Rajkumar Keswani and the Bhopal gas tragedy and the many people I encountered on my journey through reams of dialogues during the production of Bhopal Kyun/Yahan se Shahar ko Dekho. To have smelt a tragedy of enormous proportions six months to a year before it actually took place, and to have seen it and lived through it to tell the tale 25 years later.
What could have altered destiny? What was the purpose in so much destruction? It all seems so wanton now, when politicians haggle over the amount to be spent on a memorial to victimes without discussiong how much money should be spent on cleaning up toxic wastes that have been dumped at the same place over ages or how it should be done.
There must be a reason for everything no? For the people we meet, the choices we make, the place we are when we are, the things we do that we do.
Still searching for that reason.

More Bhopal

Bhopal -- 25 years of living with a toxic tragedy.

At this same moment two decades and a half ago, poisonous fumes leaked out of a pesticide plant in Bhopal, killing thousands of people. According to government figures about 3,000 people died. According to the Indian Council of Medical Research, between 8,000 and 10,000 people died in the first three days of the gas leak. About 25,000 died of exposure to radiation within the next ten years.

Tragic, isn't it? That an industrial disaster could have caused so much death and destruction?

But what is more tragic is that 25 years later, the government still claims that there are no hazardous chemical wastes in the Union Carbide factory or around it. This, when independent groups have conducted research that calls their bluff.

To add to it, the Madhya Pradesh government wants about Rs 116 crore from the Centre to build a Hiroshima-type memorial at the site.

Isn't it crazy? Rs 116 crore, which is almost 5% of the total sum the Indian government got as compensation for the thousands of victims affected by the leak of methyl isocyanate will be spent on setting up a memorial for the victims. So much of it can be spent on medical research that may find cures to the various kinds of ailments that come with drinking poison everyday. After all, isn't it tragic, that even 25 years after a pesticide plant misfired and shut down, children are still born with deformities?

Or with foresight, the government may find a more permanent and lasting solution to the drinking water problem there, so that at least from now on, they will not be drinking contaminated water.

The government could also spend the money on cleaning up the crap left behind by Union Carbide, so that there can be an end to the continued contamination. There could be special facilities for those affected by the gas leak.

But no, what we want there, is a memorial, where more and more politicians in future can go to pay homage to the people they have failed and will continue to fail.

What will be the purpose of such a memorial? To remember the futility of the deaths? To keep reminding ourselves of how well we have failed them? Or to pat ourselves on our back that we have the courage to continue working and making people work in death traps such as the Union Carbide plant?

It really makes me wonder about the value of human life. Is there any value for life? Or have we stooped so far below into the depths of greed that we do not care anymore?

Will things change? What is the price of justice? What is the fruit of justice?

When we have deadlines for everything, why not for something as basic as a deadline to provide the right to a life of dignity so that we don't die like flies stuck to a swatter, helpless, and oblivious to the greater heights we can aspire for.

It's 1.26 am. Maybe the fumes would have been churning now, waiting to escape into the dark starry night and poison a city's destiny. May be I should just go to bed and leave the world handle its minor glitches on its own.

:(

Bhopal Again

Another date on the calendar, or is it just another date?

When 25 years ago, thousands of people dropped dead

Like flies swarming to those same dead bodies...

Today, they are but photographs and memories

Not lessons learnt and lessons that should have been learnt.

A toxic gas leaked they said, blinding, killing, maiming

Accidents happen. Deaths are inevitable.

But what of the generations of maimed we bring into this imperfect world?

Twenty-five years ago, the B&W photo of a child stunned by toxic fumes

Shocked living rooms across the world

Today the same child gazes out with those same haunting eyes

From the same B&W photo out of the same newspapers

It surprisingly fails to move me the way it did the first time

Something has snapped.

Is it the hope that things will change?

That the child’s life was not lost in vain?

It's all about numbers and facts.

So many dead, so many dying,

Chemicals with fancy names, fancier aims

Bleed people, day in and day out.

Poison water in a ghost town.

More children are born with the scar of a mistake made 25 years ago

More children will die, because that wrong was never righted

Because we have lost the will to fight for justice

Because we do not care any more about deaths, disease and despair

Because we have become numb to everything around us

Because we have to be worried about tomorrow's headlines & today's deadlines

Much deeper than the toxic wastes seeping into the ground

A cynicism has seeped into our collective existence.

We are all in a stupor, chasing a fading finish line

Where the only way to get is grab

Where the only progress is regressive

Where the only pleasure is pain

And where the only knowledge is ignorance.

Forgive us O unnamed child of Bhopal,

Who died in 1984 and lived forever after,

That we have failed you and so many others like you

That we have sacrificed your lives

In this race for some unnamed utopia that keeps us going.

Maybe there will be a time for redemption

Or maybe there is no Judgment Day

Till whatever the end, it's just another disaster

Just another anniversary

Just another date in just another yellowing calendar.

I don't want to die. I don't want my thoughts to die. I don't want my desire to make a difference to things around me to die. But I am so afraid that this will become blunt as time goes on. There is so much that needs attention right now. I need to do so much more than what I am doing. Thinking is just one aspect. There is more that needs to be done.
The biggest fear is that getting caught up in the mundane realities of life will leave me with no time for thought, will suffocate my spirit of action and nullify my existence.

Discovering Faiz

An evening with Faiz Ahmad Faiz, with Shubha Mudgal's dramatic voice playing the medium. Can one ask for more?

Mudgal began her tribute to the revolutionary poet with Jashn ka din hai, Junoon ki yaad manao. Delivered in her powerful voice, the words of Faiz reverberated through the auditorium at Nehru Memorial Museum and Library. Her rendition of his poems stirred the audience, which included veterans on Faiz like Prof S.R Kidwai and those like me who are just beginning to be initiated into the works of the master of Urdu poetry.

Mudgal's voice brought him back to life 25 years after his death on November 20, 1984.

It was a journey of the discovery of an art form, a genre of thought, an era long past, but which still retains a relevance for the present that is fast dissipating into an abyss of hopelessness and despair.

Hum dekhenge, wo din ke jiska wada hai,

Jo lau-e azal par likha hai...

It's the message of hope in the face of adversity, of love in the face of hatred and peace in the face of war.

Mudgal confessed to her lack of Urdu talim, and her 'bhakti' for Faiz saab. But that is the magic of Faiz, isn't it? It draws you out of your inhibitions at not knowing a language and gradually leads you into a a magical journey of exploring something new at every step.

The beauty and cadence of his words weave a web that intoxicates the listener, leading him on to a revolution, a cause and much more.

That is the magic I have found in Faiz, and am still looking for more, to fulfil my desire to drink his poetry to the lees.

May his words give wing to hope wherever there is darkness, and courage wherever there is fear and conviction wherever there is indecision.

Raqt-e-dil bandh lo, dil figaro chalo

Phir hamin qatl ho ayen yaron chalo

Aj bazaar mein pa bajaula chalo

Mcleodganj

Hills, beautiful hills

Barren peaks in the distance

That give way to snow, which like a scoop of vanilla ice garnishes the hills

Peace in the air

Sombre monks in flaming attires

Flowing red robes everywhere bustling about in their dogged pursuit of peace

Blue skies

Fluttering prayer flags

That refuse to be weighed down by the hopes they ferry to the blue skies

Lotus petals

Dragons and heavy metal

Buddha sits on a lotus alongside Bon Jovi and Che looking out of earrings and badges

Tea, hot Tibetan butter tea

Steaming momos

That pave the path to salvation wrapped in gastric juices and needs of existence

Piety, prayer, devotion

Church, temple, monastery

Beckoning to the faithful, to lovers of art and curious explorers of the Self

Mountain trails

Gurgling streams

Long walks through both to lose yourself before a renewed discovery

Silent revolution

Austere penance

Living in a home that never will be home, keeping alive their past to empower their future

Liberty, sovereignty, self-determination

Web of words that keeps struggles alive

And give wings to dreams in distant places and times

Gathering hope,

Beaming them across mountains

To mobilise strength to save Tibet, Free Tibet and spread Peace

Taken in by Origami. Now am just folding every bit of paper I can lay my hands on to create birds, animals and more

Dreams...w(h)ither dreams

There are times when everything points in the same direction. More than two conversations I have been having today are all about what people want and what prevents them from achieving what they want.
I have always thought I do not know what I want. So I asked others if they suffered from the same ignorance. Some said we were in the same boat. But many others said they knew what they wanted, but could not pursue it for fear of hurting those who are close to them.
Is it justified to forgo one's dreams so that people around do not get hurt? Is it not in some ways a treachery to one's own purpose in life? Where does one draw the line between 'my wants' and 'the results of my wants'? Till when do I think about how my actions will hurt those around me? Till when do I hold my dreams ransom to those of others? To social compulsions, family traditions, peer pressure? Aren't all of these in the long run, some kind of social constructs that we create and we can dismantle at will?
How sacred are these external impulses that we internalise? How sacred is anything? For that matter how sacred are our dreams?

Will the Phoenix rise again? What will keep it going? There are no dreams to give wings to its flight.

Love's labour lost

Flap flip flap

The bird has flown the nest.

On a bright, sunny day, when the heat decays everything it touches,

The bird has flown its nest after years of breathing, living, growing.

The egg had hatched on a cold night in March…Yes, there used to be cold nights in March not so long ago.

The tiny bird came out, wary of everything and everyone around.

It was happy to be alive and out of a cramped, limiting shell.

It learned to breathe on its own,

But did not know its nature was to fly. It ate what came its way

From the warm embraces on hot, humid afternoons to the loving gazes across the greens.

It fed on the long walks through eternity

On debates from God, to theatre to sex

It did not judge, did not grudge and did not budge.

It lived as it thought it should.

There were some who told it to learn to fly for it would have to fly some day.

It scoffed at their ignorance.

After all, not every bird flies, some

Soar and others

Glide and still others become

One with the breeze that threatens to destroy them

So our little bird was content in what it saw as the essence of its life.

There were fights with its conscience, some with the world,

There were long distances within itself, paces to be covered in so little time.

It learned to make the most of what it was given.

Gradually, the world became more important than its own conscience.

There were voices in its head.

And these voices were different from the voices that had questioned what people had always told it.

About flying, fighting and fearing.

It started learning new meaningless things such as

Fear – of parting and not being able to live after that

Pain – of separation and inability to balance between the voices within and those outside

Guilt – of not being able to fulfil expectations and not being able to accept limitations

Doubt – about itself and its abilities and its potential

Envy – of everything around that seemed happy as it thought it could never be

These feelings became a burden. Yet the long summer nights and the short winter days,

The hours spent away from the world discovering itself,

The effort put in to adjust, accommodate and understand kept it from falling apart.

But in secret, the bird taught itself to fly.

So that when the Moment came, its skills would not be found wanting.

And in secret, it kept waiting for the Moment.

It kept looking for the Moment,

Lived anticipating it

Preparing for it

So much so that when the Moment finally came, it did not realise when it flapped its wings and flew, glided and soared.

But from that distance, when the delirium of the wings it had taken died, it looked down on what was left behind.

In a split second, that cold night of March came back into view.

Along with it came the years it had spent dreaming, daring and Living in defiance of the Voices Outside.

It saw what it had once owned and had now lost.

It saw the essence of its being, and how far behind it had left its soul.

And in that split second, the Earth and the Heavens did not stay still.

The Earth kept spinning around the Sun and the Heavens kept rumbling

The bird forgot to flap its wings.

The memory of its past life caught up with its future and brought its present to the ground.

And in that moment, the bird lived and died its destiny.

Something that began in March 2003 and has ended so many times, only to rise like the Phoenix...but this time, the ashes have become cold

Random thoughts II

I have come such a long way from myself that I have lost sense of direction.

Now, I don’t know along which turn I left myself

Or how to go back to who I was.

But it doesn’t matter does it?

It seems to be such an impossible thing to lose oneself.

After all, I must be the sum of my experiences.

So all the turns I took would eventually lead me to my destiny.

No matter how far I run, where I hide, and what mask I don

My destiny will find me.

After all, this is Kali Yuga.

I have to receive my punishment and award here and now

Before Yama comes for me

Before I become one with the universe that bore me

Before I embark on the next journey

Towards my nirvana, my destiny.

Looking for answers. Went on a long drive across the city. Surprisingly, did not take a single photograph. Was with one person who always makes me happy. Surprisingly, even she could not remove the pain and the numbness I am feeling. Saw more lights and firecrackers than I have in the last five Diwalis put together. Yet the darkness within is far from dispelled. What am I looking for? What is lacking? Where will I find what I am looking for?

Let there be light...

Diwali, the festival of lights. Some bitter truths, some unnecessary arguments, some tears and some smiles. And a lot of food. And an inability to recall where I have been on Diwali last 7 years. I have managed count till 2004. Anybody knows where I was on Diwali 2003 and 2002?

Rag doll

I made a doll the other day,

Nurtured her with all my love,

Clothed her with my affection,

And dreamed many dreams for her.

Gave her the best money could buy,

A sound education to guide her life,

Trained her to think,

To be independent,

To ask questions,

To follow her heart with courage and conviction

But when she did follow her heart,

And made a choice that fell below my expectations,

When she did stumble on the path I chose for her,

I couldn't help but berate myself.

I couldn't but help regret giving her the wings to fly

Now that she wanted to fly the cosy nest

I had built with nights of wakeful vigilance

Sacrifices made with a loving heart

Criticisms from the world I dammed within myself,

I felt my heart would break when she flew

I felt the fear of the lives I had seen ruined

Cast their shadows over her future

I mourned my love for her, my blinded love

That forbade me from shackling her dreams

When she was dreaming

All I could see was the path she took

Was the path not chosen by me

And it was a path less travelled,

A path less known,

And a path I had little faith in.

And I had not the confidence my princess

Would cover the distance she chose

But somewhere something nagged me

The fear that a wrong decision she made

Would show badly on how I brought her up

So I took back what I gave her,

The confidence she had in my faith

The conviction of her choices

The beacon of her dreams

But at least my doll is with me now

A bit bruised here, a bit bruised there

But at least she will be safe in my embrace

At least she will be happy in my gaze

To measure up, to show off and to love unconditionally again

There are a number of thoughts rising up like bubbles in boiling water. But surprisingly I don't have any questions for anybody. I am sure everyone has reasons for everything they do. I have a lot to think about. I am looking for clarity, for a footing on which to place myself so that I like what I see. Right now, there is a bruised soul, confused beyond redemption, shrouded in self-doubt and self-deprecation, waiting to see the light of day. But as a Russian joke had it, has recession forced God to switch off the light at the end of the tunnel?

There's rain outside and rain within

Random thoughts

I am not convinced. About some decisions I have taken. They seem to have been taken by others and imposed upon me. I want to break out of the shackles binding me and scream out, yes there's a voice that's hidden within me. It's not the voice of somebody cracking arbitrary, meaningless jokes or intelligent comments. It's someone who has had a dream, who strangled that dream and now is afraid to dream again. I am scared to move out of this doldrum. If I take a step backward, which is where I want to go, I have to break bonds with so many things that have held me, nurtured me and nourished me since childhood. If I take a step forward, I would have lost the right to dream forever. Not because I have woken up from this one, but because I still don't know why I have woken up from this one.

There is a candle burning in a corner of the room, but the last person to go out left the window open. A strong wind is trying to blow out the flickering flame. Will the wind burn out the light? Or will the flame burst forth and set the whole room ablaze, so that the smoke can reach out to the heavens with renewed faith?

Sabse khatarnak hai sapno ka mar jana. Par sapne dekh kar fayda hi kya hai, jab unhe sach karne ka himmat hi na ho.

Pujo shuru

Shubho Mahashashti to all. Had phuchka and egg roll at CR Park. :)

Twit-ter Twit-ter

What is with the journos? Why can't we let a man tweet in peace? There's a ridiculous report in an agency saying Shashi Tharoor is complaining about his workload. There are a number of people following the junior minister for external affairs and most of them may be journalists waiting like vultures to prey on his words.
First the cattle class and now this. Why are we going overboard about his tweets? He has a right to his opinion like everyone else doesn't he?
Guaranteed that he must exercise restraint while replying to comments such as the 'cattle class' remark, but all the criticism surrounding that can also be taken with a pinch of salt.
So much for the holy cows all around us. There are politicians out there doing much worse and here we are following his tweet with an eye for a blooper.
Is it really that big a crime or even that newsworthy if a minister says he has a 'ridiculously full schedule'? At least one thing is clear, a lot of twits, unlike Tharoor, have a lot of time on their hands — to make news out of every twitter.

Do dreams really reflect what you are yearning for? Or is it just because I've been reading about Carl Jung that I've been consciously dreaming what I think I should be yearning for?

Else it would be difficult to explain a series of dreams in one single night where I have made up with people I'm having a strained relationship right now. Maybe it's just a sign of how complicated I have made my life.

Like one says Love Happens, I can't really say complications happen, no? Am sure there's some amount of agency in love as well as complications in life. We are ultimately responsible for our own joys and sorrows.

Why then is it taking me so much time to get out of this? And why don't I see a way out? Am I not looking in the right direction or am I not looking with the right attitude? Either way, I need more effort to soothe the hairs I have ruffled. Get to work with right spirit.

Faith

Hola Mohalla, 2008

Pushkar, 2008

Eid at Jama Masjid, 2009

Monday, September 21, 2009. Eid Mubarak. Jama Masjid.

Feeling the power of thousands of people praying together is a humbling experience. Being a part of the crowd of devotees, watching them stand, sit, bow and rise as one sends a thrill down the spine. It triggers a streak of faith among atheists, togetherness among strangers and solace in a crowd.

Oblivious to shutterbugs, rolling cameras and pesky journalists, with ears trained only to hear the holy words booming from the microphone, the devout visit the Jama Masjid to celebrate Eid.

Despite being warned about 'selfish' crowds that would steamroll those ahead of them, I found the Jama Masjid fairly organised. Yes, there were crowds. But nothing unmanageable. Awe-inspiring but definitely nothing intimidating.

This was different from the crowds I encountered at Pushkar during the camel fair last year and the sea of turbans at Hola Mohalla/Anantpursahib last Holi.

Don't ask me what was different. I'm still thinking about it. At Pushkar, the crowds were channelised through narrow lanes and bylanes, jostling cattle, beggars and more. The roads were dirty for the most part. But there was a sense of chaos. Yes, that was absent at Jama Masjid today.

At Hola Mohalla, though it was not chaos, the crowd was overbearing. Just the sight of people wherever you turned your eyes was exhausting.

Maybe the space at mosque made all the difference. But whatever it was, it has got me hooked just the way Pushkar enticed me to return. I hope to go back to Jama Masjid for Eid next year, too.

Till then, may the power of faith keep us going through life. Ameen

A swim, a step and a lesson

What's age got to do with doing what you love? Nothing, probably.

At least two people I have seen have inspired me to just give life your best shot and not bother about results. Both are in their late seventies and move about with the aid of walking sticks. They look like any other ageing people, who have lived their life and are now ready for the final journey. But something makes them different.

I saw one of them participating at a Shiamak Davar Institute of Performing Arts summer funk event. He was dancing with youngsters at least one third his age. His agility, spirit and moves out-shadowed those who performed that day. The flourish with which he took a bow with the other dancers in his group just sent the message home. When you are doing what you love, that's what matters most. The rest will fall in place. And mind you, he didn't touch his walking stick till he came up on stage to be introduced to the audience.

And the other person, I saw today at the pool. He was quite overweight. But that did not interfere with his strokes. He just swam with ease and pleasure. When I saw him leave the pool premises leaning on his walking stick, I couldn't help but decide that I would not give up till I reached my target of one kilometre today.

They probably will never know they have inspired somebody so much, but that only adds to the charm of what they do. For they do it for themselves.

I hope I can learn and imbibe this spirit of living life to the fullest, on my terms and living by example. My salute to both of them.

The Power of One

Where there's a will, I guess a way finds itself. After an attempt to swim one km and falling shot by 400 metres on Thursday, it was a momentous pleasure to have achieved my target today... Of course, it helped that the body behaved by not cramping my dreams. Now, it will be a time-bound target. From one km in 65 minutes to faster and faster and faster ever more.

Pushing the limits, and pushing myself to the limits. May the spirit triumph.

Train to austerity derailed?

Is the Congress taking the country for an 'Austerity' ride? Pranab Mukherjee's concerns about the economy may be well-placed, and his suggestions at austere measures may stem from genuine concerns about the country's treasure chest But isn't the party and the media going overboard with the whole campaign?

One wonders if all the hullabulloo about austerity is actually proving quite costly for those involved... The casualties are extending far and wide.

Austerity, ironically, comes at a price. Sometimes, you may end up spending less, while dealing a blow to others around you. At least Rahul Gandhi's train ride from Delhi to Amritsar on a Shatabdi will leave the Indian Railways thinking twice about hosting such elite guests in future.

When Rahul and his PR managers were planning his 'track' record, they may have made room for press photographers taking shots of him, but not arbitrary mischiefmongers taking potshots at him. And least of all, would they have given them credit for such good aim that broke windows of the air/conditioned train.

Now, the railways is stuck with a criticism of the security it provides to passengers, a bill for a broken window pane and some unasked-for publicity.

Some passengers who travelled on the 'un/fortunate' Shatabdi may be gushing at having been able to shake hands with Congress's Prince Charming, but many others may have just been put off by the delay caused by increased security checks, the surge of security personnel at an always crowded public place and so on and so forth.

The Congress may or may not have given much weight to Rashtriya Janata Dal president and Lok Sabha chief wit's comments on a return to the Gandhian way of travel -- and no, here we are not talking about the Gandhis of 10 Janpath, but about travelling general like the Mahatma. One just hopes the party gets over its need to express solidarity with the masses -- or as Shashi Tharoor may put it, the cattle classes -- in this way.

In fact, it may just benefit by practising these measure and not talking about them too much.

May be everyone will take more kindly to the austerity drive if it is not so in-your-face and overhyped. May be this will also fulfill some security requirements of the SPG, which has been having a tough time with Rahul's 'public display of affection' -- expressed sometimes by travelling in the Metro and at others by breaking security cordons to pet a crying child, or simply by taking the Shatabdi.

After all, if you have a price to pay for fame, you also pay the price for austerity instead of making the taxpayer pay for it. And limited publicity to the austerity drive, though it seems like PR harakiri at the outset, may go a longer way in helping the Congress connect with the common man and the common good.

YSR and after

Scenes of outpourings of grief after the death of Andhra Pradesh chief minister Y.S. Rajasekhara Reddy (YSR) were indeed moving. Men, women, children, of every age and hue lined up in thousands to be part of his funeral procession. People committed suicide, said some newspapers. Many others died of shock. An overwhelming personality YSR must have been to have commanded so much power even in death and after. But the politicisation of grief is another genre altogether.

The Andhra home minister Sabita Indra Reddy went to pay her respects to YSR at the spot where his chopper crashed about a fortnight after his September 2 death. The gritty lady trekked four hours into the dense Nallamala forest to reach the crash site. She apparently went there, paid floral tributes to a portrait of YSR that was especially ferried there and shed copious tears in his memory. To keep her company were some hapless security personnel and government officials.

I seriously wonder what these people think when they do something as unnecessary and avoidable as this. I mean, if she really felt so strongly about going to the site of the accident, she should have just taken off on her own. Or better still, have convinced herself that YSR's spirit would be easily accessible in Hyderabad as in the hillock in Rudrakonda.

What a waste of resources, time, personnel and energy to escort her there, bear testimony to her tearful farewell to her leader and bring her back safely through the forests that are famous Naxal strongholds. Really!!

Such outpourings of grief at the cost of public servants and public funds is a pity.

Better than this seems building temples to honour him!

Villagers in several districts of Andhra Pradesh have come forward to donate money and build temples to worship YSR. Not a surprise, seeing that this is a country where we deify even the living -- after all Amitabh Bachchan and Rajnikanth have temples to their credits.

But the most ridiculous bit of sycophancy was to follow. A Tirupati Tirumala Devasthanam board member said, for Andhra, there is no God other than YSR.

Am not disputing the devotion the people of the state may have for YSR Nor am I criticisng their hero-worship. But I'd like to know what all the millions who travel miles to pray to Lord Venkateswara at Tirupati every year -- including the Ambanis and Bachchans of this world -- have to say to this TTD trust board member's comment!

May YSR's soul rest in peace, unaffected by and indifferent to all the tamasha being carried out in his name.

Amen

Electric moon

An electric moon casts its beams over a sleeping world.
Its soothing rays exude the confidence of a guiding light.
A little child wakes up to a nightmare,
Sees the shining beauty and goes back to sleep reassured.
Lovers find a spot under a shady tree whose branches keep their secret safe from the electric moon’s snooping gaze.
A thief treads cautiously, keen to avoid its glare
But fails to escape its roving eye.
He feels let down by the miserable replica of the queen of the night.
He picks up a stone and throws it with a curse at this enemy of darkness and his personal nemesis.
A watchman gives chase just as the electric moon whirrs and splinters.
The illusion fades behind the clouds of an angry man’s revenge.
The still night reigns again.
A moonless sky mourns the loss of its companion of a few minutes.

30.07.09

Inspired by a night on a terrace with a very dear friend. A power shutdown ensured that the world around turned to nature for respite from the heat. Fanned by a gentle breeze, spurred by a Halogen bulb flickering on a distant terrace, this night and this poem changed life in more ways than one. The optimist in me hopes and prays that it changed only for the better. May God bless you.

Choices

A word most often heard, most often ignored and most often blamed. Let our choices defend themselves.

We make our choices, we do what we want,
We overlook the barriers, forget that we can’t
Loved ones may be hurt by the decisions we take
Storms may brew because of the choices we make.
But remember this friend, this life is ours.
For joy or for sorrow, be aware of your powers.
Listen to your heart, you will be satisfied
At the end of the day, you’ll be glad you tried.

26/8/01

The Unspoken Word

Time flies
And as it flies, it takes along with it
Winged memories;
Of days spent in togetherness and joy,
Of words of wisdom
That you have imparted to me,
Of lessons taught,
And things you have made me see.
Of secrets shared,
Both moments of pleasure and pain.
Today, as I send you birthday wishes,
The gift of this day dawns on me.
At the same time, I realise,
“Sweet songs are those that tell of saddest thought”
And behind the smile and joyful greeting,
Tears stalk the distance.
Your silence leaves me uncomforted…
The unspoken word reigns!

12.09.00

Misunderstood

Again and again I stand accused of the same crime
Again and again I am judged by the same standards.
I try to explain my position
And am accused; of not compromising or compromising too much.
I move on, with Damocles’s curse hanging over my head;
A garland woven out of shreds of your heart
Weighing heavily around my neck
I bow to ease the pain.
You think it is a sign of shame.
You think I plead guilty to your charges.
I know the pain of losing a loved one’s trust for no justified reason
I know for this is not the first time.
Either way, it is a defeat for both of us
Either way, we are both scarred for life.

Thus spake the hills of Ladakh

“The hills are alive with the sound of music”, or so I always thought. My visit to Ladakh changed that perception forever. The ear-splitting silence of the brown, rugged mountains echoed throughout the journey, opening my eyes to a lot more than the snow-capped peaks in the distance, the lush green patches of grasslands around Thikse and horses strutting along a crystal stream near Pangong Lake.
I was meant to visit a sister lost in her calling helping special people cope with the rigours of existence in the mountains. But from the moment the Jet Airways airplane touched the tarmac at Leh and the pilot announced the altitude, the cold morning breeze that passed through me was full of a message... here was something that would change my life.
After a rest that seemed to stretch into eternity more because of my excitement than the prolonged three hours, the hot gur gur chai (a pink tea with salt and Amul butter that makes a gur gur sound as it is made!!) pulled me back to my feet. With utter disregard for the blazing July sun, I set out to explore the house. Now, that was some fun. What with a ‘sun room’ (with what else but access to bright sunshine on a cold afternoon), bright, pretty flowers, wooden walls and a nice well-kept garden, it seemed like a house out of a picture book.
The first day was devoted to the neighbourhood, because of what my sister claimed could be an attack of altitude sickness. And then, there was no stopping us. We walked around the city of Leh, meeting her friends, sipping gur gur chai where offered and licking softees at other places. The quaint homes, the view of the mountains no matter where you stood, and at nightfall, the dense carpet of stars spreading across the universe — every step was a revelation.
But what was most disquieting at first, and which I grew to love by the time I was ready to leave, was the silence.
The people, though, were far from silent. The shopkeepers greeted tourists, particularly foreigners, with a friendly ‘juley (hello!)’, loudspeakers blared rhythmic chants, drivers blew horns as they sped through the narrow zigzag roads. But despite that, the mountains seemed to have enveloped the whole world in a shroud of stillness.
At night, the old fort in the middle of the town sent off eerie lights, as if twinkling with the reminiscences of the lives of kings and queens long dead and gone.
When we went visiting villages in Ladakh, there was more thand the scenic beauty to be enjoyed. There were some lessons to be learnt as well.
I met a differently-abled 10-year-old who had to be carried to and fro her house and school by her brother, until the students decided to get together to make it easier for her and her parents by building a path across the intermittent streams and the stony slopes.
I visited a village where people had to hike four hours across a mountain to reach any semblance of civilization. Loads of wood on their back only contributed to the strength of their spirit. I miserably failed when it came to transporting my little knapsack on the same journey!
I also met a man who had lost all his limbs when he was a child. For a living, he made paper packets with his mouth; and for life, he taught others to do the same with a smile on his weather-beaten face.
(Today, Ka Iqbal is one of the recipients of the CNN IBN Real Heroes Award for his role in helping make physically challenged people self-dependent. http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/111527/handicapped-ladakh-man-seeks-new-challenges.html)
I met children who carried huge buckets of water day in and day out from a stream almost two kilometres from their house. I also met people young and old, travelling on foot, no matter whether it was hot or cold. And through it all, they smiled and sang, in a language I tried hard to relate to. But probably, the comfort of an urban upbringing had dimmed my vision and closed my ears.
Watching over all this, were the huge, barren mountain ranges, towered over by azure skies, each more lifeless than the other. Yet, each seemed to be belittled by the power of human courage, which had strived not just to survive the difficult terrains and weather, but also to live a meaningful life.
Oftentimes I wonder if I am insensitive to not want to go back to Ladakh and serve these Titans of courage. Then, a voice calls out from the depths of my existence. Every time I crib about the heat or the pollution, about a headache or a muscle pull, I give silent thanks to the almighty spirit of humanity that I do not have to trek across an endless mountain with a huge bundle of logs on my back to return to the warmth of a gur gur chai and a cozy bukhari.

(Written some time between my Ladakh trip in June 2002 and August 2006)

On the way to hyderabad — second sunrise of 2009

Ball of fire, can I hold you in my palm?

Red, round and brilliant —

Why don't you climb down from the horizon

Wade through the sea of fog

And step into my heart?

Manair

There are wells in the sandy river.
Well, do you give sand, water or mud

Kazipet

Kazipet —

A mish-mash of railway lines like intersecting lives

Take one different step

And it opens up a new vista of unimagined possibilities

None right or wrong,

Coz it's the journey that matters

Not the destination...

Cotton clouds

From the cotton fields on earth to a sea of cotton in the skies —

Toil of blood feeds one

The other, a Master paints.

Yet we forget the human struggle to pay homage to the artist divine