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)