Why I have to be like you?
I might be one dimensional
You can add a new dimension to me
When BJP wants us to scream Bharat Mata Ki Jai
Let my Muslim brother chant Jai Hind
Why all the colours have to turn saffron?
I love black and blue.
When my lover left me suddenly one day
I questioned
He slammed the door on my face.
Today I question the establishment
My rulers
When I see dead bodies hanged atop trees and grazing buffaloes cry in silence
I question a hundred times
I am Rohith
I am Kanhaiya
I am Umar
I am Anirban
I am Soni Sori
Yes, I am Irom Sharmila
I am one, but many
The voices that question
A million questions to an establishment that has shut the door on our faces.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
The End
The weight of its wetness stretched across the skin of her face. A single tear drop that escaped her half-closed eyelids as she breathed her last seemed to have washed away all the pain that she had endured for decades.
Her frail body looked even more fragile as she lay dead, surrounded by a host of mourners. Some were crying, some others were remembering the dead in her youth—how beautiful she used to look, how good she used to be in the kitchen, how swiftly her feet moved on the sewing machine. Strangely, none of them had seen her in her youth. Yet, as the ritual demands, they were remembering the folklores told from one generation to the other.
When my grandmother died at 93 it took more an hour to untangle the knots in her hair. The nurse had to apply almost a bottle of oil on the dead woman’s head. Her eyelids would open and close in rhythm with each stroke of the comb that rummaged through the tangled mass. Finally as the nurse finished her job, grandmother’s head lolled on the pillow covered in a white case, the excess oil spread in an uneven cloud. The women of the house dressed her in the finest of clothes. Grandmother’s steel almirah was open for everybody’s inspection. The racks were filled with mekhela sadors, shawls and the much-eyed jewellery box in one corner. A necktie which once belonged to her husband hung on the inside door.
It was almost 20 years ago. Everyone says it was perhaps the arthritis in her knees that had become unbearable and her legs gave up one day. She fell in the courtyard and never got up on her feet. In that accident, it was her urge to live that got crushed. After that she refused to speak or eat her meals. There were times when she would soil the bed and get admonished.
Everyone who came to enquire about her health would say: “It’s time God took her away. She was too old and had endured the trauma of her husband and four children’s death.”
As the hearse van waited outside the gate, they lifted her body and placed it down with a jolt. Soft plumes from the burning incense sticks got lost in the cloud of fume left behind by the rickety van. It was time to say goodbye.
Her frail body looked even more fragile as she lay dead, surrounded by a host of mourners. Some were crying, some others were remembering the dead in her youth—how beautiful she used to look, how good she used to be in the kitchen, how swiftly her feet moved on the sewing machine. Strangely, none of them had seen her in her youth. Yet, as the ritual demands, they were remembering the folklores told from one generation to the other.
When my grandmother died at 93 it took more an hour to untangle the knots in her hair. The nurse had to apply almost a bottle of oil on the dead woman’s head. Her eyelids would open and close in rhythm with each stroke of the comb that rummaged through the tangled mass. Finally as the nurse finished her job, grandmother’s head lolled on the pillow covered in a white case, the excess oil spread in an uneven cloud. The women of the house dressed her in the finest of clothes. Grandmother’s steel almirah was open for everybody’s inspection. The racks were filled with mekhela sadors, shawls and the much-eyed jewellery box in one corner. A necktie which once belonged to her husband hung on the inside door.
It was almost 20 years ago. Everyone says it was perhaps the arthritis in her knees that had become unbearable and her legs gave up one day. She fell in the courtyard and never got up on her feet. In that accident, it was her urge to live that got crushed. After that she refused to speak or eat her meals. There were times when she would soil the bed and get admonished.
Everyone who came to enquire about her health would say: “It’s time God took her away. She was too old and had endured the trauma of her husband and four children’s death.”
As the hearse van waited outside the gate, they lifted her body and placed it down with a jolt. Soft plumes from the burning incense sticks got lost in the cloud of fume left behind by the rickety van. It was time to say goodbye.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Happiness is like sweetmeat
This has happened to me earlier as well. Every time I almost lost my faith in humanity and is about to alienate myself from everyday happiness and sorrows, I am brought back to life. Like that sudden gust of wind, invisible yet so real. Today I am back again to live, cherish, mourn, smile… In fact, it was yesterday only, when I finally decided to go and tell my neighbour who stays two floors above my flat to stop throwing water down their balcony that variably showers down to my balcony and creates puddles all over it.
It had become a routine as a sudden gush of water, without any warning or fixed timing, would come down running from two floors above us and soil my clothes hanged out to dry in the balcony. And every time, I would wash them again muttering the choicest of cusses under my breath. Thank god for those desi gaalis. If not anything or anyone, you can always rely on them for support. Honestly, they have great healing power. Just stand in front of a mirror, mouth them aloud recalling the faces of all your real and imaginary enemies. As they tumble out like oranges from a bag, gaalis leave behind a soothing sensation in your mouth and soul.
Most of my anger manifests from the fact that the water from above ends up creating large stains on my laundry hanging on the clothesline. The hapless I have no option, but to wash my clothes again. This routine went on for a few months. I always felt like going and telling my tormentors about my precarious situation. Somehow I could not muster the courage. More than courage, I was slightly confused how would I approach them (strangers) with my personal problem. Was it okay to go and have a word with them or to keep suffering silently. Finally, I decided to bring an end to it when I saw my almost dried clothes soaked in mud water again yesterday.
I took the stairs and rang their doorbell. First, the lady of the house appeared. Immediately I introduced myself, as we never crossed each other’s path and told her the reason for my unannounced visit. She mumbled something, which I could not understand. All I could figure out was that they watered their plants some time ago. I politely requested her not to do so.
Soon, I found the man of the house standing in front of me. Looking at his face, I knew he was ready to shoot me. Like some principal of a school he wanted to check my house to find out if I was lying. I politely disagreed, as I was alone at the house at that time. I tried to tell him my problem again. His defence was: “It’s my hobby to grow plants and I will water them. Nobody can stop me,” he told me as I looked baffled. On the contrary, he asked me, “What do you do when it rains?” “My simple answer was rain water was not dirty. Probably, he thought he was next to rain god and humans are at his mercy.
I was slightly angry by then. However, I tried to talk some sense into him. I suggested him to call a plumber to connect the pipes of his balcony to the drains down. He refused. I asked him to keep his plants in his other balcony. He told me it was already full with potted plants. Still I did not give up. I asked him to keep his plants in his drawing room or on the corridor. Of course, how could I forget that plants needs sunlight? How could I be so anti-environment?
Immediately, he growled. “Madam, plants need sunlight. Can't you see?” I wanted to tell him, I could see a lot of things and the most apparent among them was his arrogance and insensitivity. By that time, I could feel a sudden heat in my cheeks. Anger was growling inside my stomach. I blurted out, you are an arrogant, insensitive man. And, I left the place. I could clearly hear the door slammed behind and a loud "thank you, madam" from the man who till a few seconds ago was full of vim and vigor and gave a good fight to protect his right to pursue his hobby, even if at the cost of others.
I felt like a fool taking some 40 stairs up and down to request someone to take care not to throw water down their balcony. I realized I should have understood earlier that those who throw water on the road or balcony or anywhere else know it well that it would be a cause of trouble for others. But it gives them that thrill and of course, they have hazaar excuses. I felt the same thing when on so many occasions vehicles zoomed past me on waterlogged roads without caring about the mud water drenching the pedestrians, as they coyly negotiate the potholes. It is not that drivers behind the wheels can’t see the road ahead, or they have blurred vision, it is the thrill to see shit on terrified faces who walk like some ants on the roads.
I was upset, slightly humiliated and desperately wanted an outlet to vent out the simmering volcano inside me. I came home and went to the washroom and did two things. Washed the clothes again and released all my pent up anger as buckets of water drowned and swallowed all the mud from my clothes and mind.
Probably, I would not have cared to narrate the above incident had it not been for what I am going to tell you now. I prefer to bury bad experiences in some unknown corners of the mind as I feel I could be wrong. May be people who abuse and make you feel small don't do it deliberately and thus there's no point telling them how you feel.
But as they say, not all hope is lost. What I'm going to tell you now will remain with me forever. Whenever, I'll feel the whole world is disintegrating and devoid of kind people, I will recall this one incident with every small detail. It happened just a few hours after the incident above. As usual the lady who comes to clean my home came and was in a hurry to leave. As she was about to leave, I handed her an envelope of money, her monthly salary. She counted the notes and said thank you to me. The thank you was something I realized because she had asked for a hike and we gave it. Moreover, she went on an unannounced leave for 15 days and was perhaps expecting us to deduct her salary to half.
It has been more than two years that she has been working for us. Every year she goes on leave twice, around 15 days each. Sundays are holidays for her and she does not come on any of the government and restricted holidays. We have never deducted her salary. It is not that we are generous, but the fact that it would be illogical to do so.
She also works in a garment factory near our house in Marathahalli. Ours is the only house which she cleans and leaves for her factory around 9 am every day.
I know a bit about her life, as she too does about mine. We share our life stories during our conversations every day. She has a daughter and her husband, who is now a caretaker of a palatial house of a rich NRI in Bengaluru, was once working as a supervisor in a garment factory in Peenya. Some five years ago, the factory was closed and she and her husband were forced to leave Peenya to find jobs in Bengaluru. Their only daughter is married with two small children.
After counting the money, she handed me a note of Rs100. Initially, I was surprised, she told me to take the money and buy sweets for myself. I refused, but she persisted. After a while I could see tears welling up in her eyes, I feared she might end up crying if I don’t take the money. She told me I was of her daughter's age and must take the money. Moreover, it was her daughter’s wedding anniversary, she continued. I was nervous and could not say anything. I asked her to bring me sweets from her village whenever she visits. She smiled and asked me if I would like to have saphed peedas (a popular sweetmeat) available at a small confectionery shop near our home.
I smiled, and she immediately got up to go even though I kept requesting her not to do so.
Within 10 minutes, she came back with a box of sweets and gave it to me. I was touched by her love and kindness. This time it was me who was overwhelmed... tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to hug her, plant a kiss on her cheeks. I wanted to thank her, wanted to say: “Thank you for healing so many of my invisible bruises.”
Now, I know, I can take a thousand psychological assaults thrown at me everyday by life and yet not succumb. And yes, the saphed peedas were the sweetest I have ever tasted.
It had become a routine as a sudden gush of water, without any warning or fixed timing, would come down running from two floors above us and soil my clothes hanged out to dry in the balcony. And every time, I would wash them again muttering the choicest of cusses under my breath. Thank god for those desi gaalis. If not anything or anyone, you can always rely on them for support. Honestly, they have great healing power. Just stand in front of a mirror, mouth them aloud recalling the faces of all your real and imaginary enemies. As they tumble out like oranges from a bag, gaalis leave behind a soothing sensation in your mouth and soul.
Most of my anger manifests from the fact that the water from above ends up creating large stains on my laundry hanging on the clothesline. The hapless I have no option, but to wash my clothes again. This routine went on for a few months. I always felt like going and telling my tormentors about my precarious situation. Somehow I could not muster the courage. More than courage, I was slightly confused how would I approach them (strangers) with my personal problem. Was it okay to go and have a word with them or to keep suffering silently. Finally, I decided to bring an end to it when I saw my almost dried clothes soaked in mud water again yesterday.
I took the stairs and rang their doorbell. First, the lady of the house appeared. Immediately I introduced myself, as we never crossed each other’s path and told her the reason for my unannounced visit. She mumbled something, which I could not understand. All I could figure out was that they watered their plants some time ago. I politely requested her not to do so.
Soon, I found the man of the house standing in front of me. Looking at his face, I knew he was ready to shoot me. Like some principal of a school he wanted to check my house to find out if I was lying. I politely disagreed, as I was alone at the house at that time. I tried to tell him my problem again. His defence was: “It’s my hobby to grow plants and I will water them. Nobody can stop me,” he told me as I looked baffled. On the contrary, he asked me, “What do you do when it rains?” “My simple answer was rain water was not dirty. Probably, he thought he was next to rain god and humans are at his mercy.
I was slightly angry by then. However, I tried to talk some sense into him. I suggested him to call a plumber to connect the pipes of his balcony to the drains down. He refused. I asked him to keep his plants in his other balcony. He told me it was already full with potted plants. Still I did not give up. I asked him to keep his plants in his drawing room or on the corridor. Of course, how could I forget that plants needs sunlight? How could I be so anti-environment?
Immediately, he growled. “Madam, plants need sunlight. Can't you see?” I wanted to tell him, I could see a lot of things and the most apparent among them was his arrogance and insensitivity. By that time, I could feel a sudden heat in my cheeks. Anger was growling inside my stomach. I blurted out, you are an arrogant, insensitive man. And, I left the place. I could clearly hear the door slammed behind and a loud "thank you, madam" from the man who till a few seconds ago was full of vim and vigor and gave a good fight to protect his right to pursue his hobby, even if at the cost of others.
I felt like a fool taking some 40 stairs up and down to request someone to take care not to throw water down their balcony. I realized I should have understood earlier that those who throw water on the road or balcony or anywhere else know it well that it would be a cause of trouble for others. But it gives them that thrill and of course, they have hazaar excuses. I felt the same thing when on so many occasions vehicles zoomed past me on waterlogged roads without caring about the mud water drenching the pedestrians, as they coyly negotiate the potholes. It is not that drivers behind the wheels can’t see the road ahead, or they have blurred vision, it is the thrill to see shit on terrified faces who walk like some ants on the roads.
I was upset, slightly humiliated and desperately wanted an outlet to vent out the simmering volcano inside me. I came home and went to the washroom and did two things. Washed the clothes again and released all my pent up anger as buckets of water drowned and swallowed all the mud from my clothes and mind.
Probably, I would not have cared to narrate the above incident had it not been for what I am going to tell you now. I prefer to bury bad experiences in some unknown corners of the mind as I feel I could be wrong. May be people who abuse and make you feel small don't do it deliberately and thus there's no point telling them how you feel.
But as they say, not all hope is lost. What I'm going to tell you now will remain with me forever. Whenever, I'll feel the whole world is disintegrating and devoid of kind people, I will recall this one incident with every small detail. It happened just a few hours after the incident above. As usual the lady who comes to clean my home came and was in a hurry to leave. As she was about to leave, I handed her an envelope of money, her monthly salary. She counted the notes and said thank you to me. The thank you was something I realized because she had asked for a hike and we gave it. Moreover, she went on an unannounced leave for 15 days and was perhaps expecting us to deduct her salary to half.
It has been more than two years that she has been working for us. Every year she goes on leave twice, around 15 days each. Sundays are holidays for her and she does not come on any of the government and restricted holidays. We have never deducted her salary. It is not that we are generous, but the fact that it would be illogical to do so.
She also works in a garment factory near our house in Marathahalli. Ours is the only house which she cleans and leaves for her factory around 9 am every day.
I know a bit about her life, as she too does about mine. We share our life stories during our conversations every day. She has a daughter and her husband, who is now a caretaker of a palatial house of a rich NRI in Bengaluru, was once working as a supervisor in a garment factory in Peenya. Some five years ago, the factory was closed and she and her husband were forced to leave Peenya to find jobs in Bengaluru. Their only daughter is married with two small children.
After counting the money, she handed me a note of Rs100. Initially, I was surprised, she told me to take the money and buy sweets for myself. I refused, but she persisted. After a while I could see tears welling up in her eyes, I feared she might end up crying if I don’t take the money. She told me I was of her daughter's age and must take the money. Moreover, it was her daughter’s wedding anniversary, she continued. I was nervous and could not say anything. I asked her to bring me sweets from her village whenever she visits. She smiled and asked me if I would like to have saphed peedas (a popular sweetmeat) available at a small confectionery shop near our home.
I smiled, and she immediately got up to go even though I kept requesting her not to do so.
Within 10 minutes, she came back with a box of sweets and gave it to me. I was touched by her love and kindness. This time it was me who was overwhelmed... tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to hug her, plant a kiss on her cheeks. I wanted to thank her, wanted to say: “Thank you for healing so many of my invisible bruises.”
Now, I know, I can take a thousand psychological assaults thrown at me everyday by life and yet not succumb. And yes, the saphed peedas were the sweetest I have ever tasted.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Put the cover back on the kettle
Let’s not talk about poverty. It’s so NGO types--the whole discussion surrounding the Indian poor with a few journalists like P. Sainath always focusing on the naked, the malnourished and the psychologically bruised found infesting the street of Swachh Bharat.
There seems to be a sinister plot by the foreign media and a few traitors to malign the reputation of the great Indian civilization by always talking about India's obscene record on poverty index even when they are writing about the booming economy of our great country (http://nyti.ms/1MKM3OT).
Why do these hungry mouths haunt only the foreign media and a few desi publicity seekers? Surely, we Indians have a lot to attend to-- family affairs, extramarital affairs, jobs, horrible bosses, etc, etc. Our insurmountable struggle in no uncertain terms can accommodate that extra-burden of thinking and doing something about poverty. Those smelly, unkempt beggars only know how to stretch out their skinny arms at the sight of every passerby to ask for alms, they don’t fit in the picture-perfect dreams of ‘shining India’ or ‘Achche Din’.
Begging should be strictly restricted to our politicians--pleading and shedding tears for our votes. There is a strange novelty about the rich and their trendsetting arguments. It’s such a heartwarming feeling to wake up to the news of benevolent leaders of the country putting aside their ego and wardrobe to help the country-- sensationally priced and designed pinstripe monogrammed bandhgala suits coming under the hammer to clean up the sins coagulating the Ganga. Isn’t that great? It’s absolutely okay for the rich and powerful to wear their suits only once and throw it away for ‘charity’ but that beggar on the outer ring road in Bengaluru seen wearing that same smelly lungi since God-knows-when does not have the courage to get rid of it. That is called greed and inability to part with your valuables.
So, if an aspiring actor/director Varun Pruthi decides to “feed the fire” in a child labour with that elusive piece of meat at MacDonalds and uploads the entire sequence of events on YouTube, the country feels cheated and hurt. Varun is an accused caught in the act of filming and showing the world the unimaginable routine of a child who has to look after his ill mother and a little sister.
For the corporate-sponsored media, only smiling and happy kids interacting with the PM or standing with spelling bee trophies can make it to the front page of dailies. Listen man, front page comes with a cost. So, thus the rest of the pages (those prophetic words that “space comes with a price” heard several times in newsrooms are not easy to forget). Varun is like Satyajit Ray, who kicked controversies, by showcasing our best kept secret--poverty. No, don’t utter the word if you are in an air-conditioned room, the air would get polluted. Don’t look at poverty, your eyes would get hurt. No, don’t whisper those words. Why bother? Who is listening?
There seems to be a sinister plot by the foreign media and a few traitors to malign the reputation of the great Indian civilization by always talking about India's obscene record on poverty index even when they are writing about the booming economy of our great country (http://nyti.ms/1MKM3OT).
Why do these hungry mouths haunt only the foreign media and a few desi publicity seekers? Surely, we Indians have a lot to attend to-- family affairs, extramarital affairs, jobs, horrible bosses, etc, etc. Our insurmountable struggle in no uncertain terms can accommodate that extra-burden of thinking and doing something about poverty. Those smelly, unkempt beggars only know how to stretch out their skinny arms at the sight of every passerby to ask for alms, they don’t fit in the picture-perfect dreams of ‘shining India’ or ‘Achche Din’.
Begging should be strictly restricted to our politicians--pleading and shedding tears for our votes. There is a strange novelty about the rich and their trendsetting arguments. It’s such a heartwarming feeling to wake up to the news of benevolent leaders of the country putting aside their ego and wardrobe to help the country-- sensationally priced and designed pinstripe monogrammed bandhgala suits coming under the hammer to clean up the sins coagulating the Ganga. Isn’t that great? It’s absolutely okay for the rich and powerful to wear their suits only once and throw it away for ‘charity’ but that beggar on the outer ring road in Bengaluru seen wearing that same smelly lungi since God-knows-when does not have the courage to get rid of it. That is called greed and inability to part with your valuables.
So, if an aspiring actor/director Varun Pruthi decides to “feed the fire” in a child labour with that elusive piece of meat at MacDonalds and uploads the entire sequence of events on YouTube, the country feels cheated and hurt. Varun is an accused caught in the act of filming and showing the world the unimaginable routine of a child who has to look after his ill mother and a little sister.
For the corporate-sponsored media, only smiling and happy kids interacting with the PM or standing with spelling bee trophies can make it to the front page of dailies. Listen man, front page comes with a cost. So, thus the rest of the pages (those prophetic words that “space comes with a price” heard several times in newsrooms are not easy to forget). Varun is like Satyajit Ray, who kicked controversies, by showcasing our best kept secret--poverty. No, don’t utter the word if you are in an air-conditioned room, the air would get polluted. Don’t look at poverty, your eyes would get hurt. No, don’t whisper those words. Why bother? Who is listening?
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Stolen Desires--A short story
Every time I entered her cabin to serve coffee, I would steal a glance at the yellow-blue book peeking out from between a carelessly stacked pile of books on her shelf. It was the same book that caught my fancy three months ago. Please don’t ask me “Why?” I have no answer. Every time I felt like asking her to lend me that book, I was interrupted by her request to serve her one more coffee. Her request was genuine. The small paper cups given to us to serve beverages could hold very little amount of the sugary, milky brown substance, not even enough to quench the thirst of a baby, let alone adults. And these are ‘thinking adults’ from a newsroom who help form public opinion. Thus the portion should be large and the management of the company running the newspaper house could be a bit more generous about serving handsome amount of coffee in slightly bigger vessels like the one my granny drinks from in my village home. But, who the hell was I to question the decision of my employers. I just used to serve coffee. Everybody knew me as the coffee guy. Yes, I was the coffee guy, I liked being addressed as that only as it helped me earn my livelihood. I always felt any other name would have killed my professional identity, even my real one.
Every time, I would oblige and leave her small and well-decorated cabin quietly, thinking maybe next time I will ask her. “Tomorrow I will serve her two cups of coffee at one go and ask for that book,” I would tell myself. I know she won’t refuse, but she will be definitely surprised by the request of a coffee-serving guy.
Even before I would leave her cabin, a group of impatient reporters, editors, designers and photographers would make a queue in front of my trolley which I park at the entrance of her room. I would serve them quickly and push it to small rectangular cubicles allotted for other workers. In the process, I used to exchange a few glances, return a few charitable smiles and often used to get leftover biscuits, cakes, and snacks. I reveled in all these bounties, as I was getting everything without ever asking for anything from our village deity, who my mother used to tell me fulfils the desires of all mortals. “But you have to tell the deity with honesty your heartfelt desire. You will get it,” that is what she told me when I was a young boy. I never felt the need to ask for anything except after my father died. I thought, I should have asked the deity to give my father a few more years to live on and nourish the soil which he diligently did sowing bajra and jowar in it. I guess the thought came pretty late to me. By that time the tall and well-built man that my father was turned into ashes, which we later immersed in a river in our neighbouring village.
Strangely, on that day I want to ask the deity to bestow me with the power to own that book. I failed to muster the courage to ask her. No matter how much I tried, those few words to ask her to lend me that yellow-blue beauty eluded me.
As a last resort I prayed hard to the deity. In my dream, I saw the deity as huge as a banyan tree coming to my room and gifting me the book. Next morning I knew the book would be mine. As I went to serve her morning coffee, she was absent from her room. The book instead of its usual place was lying on the floor. As a reflex I picked it up to put it back in its original place. Suddenly the deity appeared from nowhere and asked me to take the book and hide it inside my over-sized uniform. “This is stealing. I am not a thief,” I trembled. “Nonsense, do whatever I say,” the deity ordered and vanished and nowhere to be seen. I put the book inside my uniform and left her room. Nobody got a whiff of the missing book, not even the owner. I started sleeping with the book and waited for the appropriate moment to open it and smell the musty fragrance. As a daily routine I kept serving her coffee and she behaved absolutely normal with me. That gave me the confidence that nobody has discovered the fact that the book was missing, or perhaps it was too inconsequential for them to bother so much about it.
Fourteen days later, I was summoned by a group of management officials who asked me to quit with immediate effect. They denied me my dues too and asked me to leave my uniform at the washroom. As I folded my coffee-stained uniform, I could smell the helplessness of my desire----the desire of an illiterate man to read an English book. Without the uniform I looked like a clown who had been caught stealing. That night I decided to open the book. All I could see was blurry black words. As I wiped off my tears, I saw my reflection staring back at me in pity out of those pages.
Every time, I would oblige and leave her small and well-decorated cabin quietly, thinking maybe next time I will ask her. “Tomorrow I will serve her two cups of coffee at one go and ask for that book,” I would tell myself. I know she won’t refuse, but she will be definitely surprised by the request of a coffee-serving guy.
Even before I would leave her cabin, a group of impatient reporters, editors, designers and photographers would make a queue in front of my trolley which I park at the entrance of her room. I would serve them quickly and push it to small rectangular cubicles allotted for other workers. In the process, I used to exchange a few glances, return a few charitable smiles and often used to get leftover biscuits, cakes, and snacks. I reveled in all these bounties, as I was getting everything without ever asking for anything from our village deity, who my mother used to tell me fulfils the desires of all mortals. “But you have to tell the deity with honesty your heartfelt desire. You will get it,” that is what she told me when I was a young boy. I never felt the need to ask for anything except after my father died. I thought, I should have asked the deity to give my father a few more years to live on and nourish the soil which he diligently did sowing bajra and jowar in it. I guess the thought came pretty late to me. By that time the tall and well-built man that my father was turned into ashes, which we later immersed in a river in our neighbouring village.
Strangely, on that day I want to ask the deity to bestow me with the power to own that book. I failed to muster the courage to ask her. No matter how much I tried, those few words to ask her to lend me that yellow-blue beauty eluded me.
As a last resort I prayed hard to the deity. In my dream, I saw the deity as huge as a banyan tree coming to my room and gifting me the book. Next morning I knew the book would be mine. As I went to serve her morning coffee, she was absent from her room. The book instead of its usual place was lying on the floor. As a reflex I picked it up to put it back in its original place. Suddenly the deity appeared from nowhere and asked me to take the book and hide it inside my over-sized uniform. “This is stealing. I am not a thief,” I trembled. “Nonsense, do whatever I say,” the deity ordered and vanished and nowhere to be seen. I put the book inside my uniform and left her room. Nobody got a whiff of the missing book, not even the owner. I started sleeping with the book and waited for the appropriate moment to open it and smell the musty fragrance. As a daily routine I kept serving her coffee and she behaved absolutely normal with me. That gave me the confidence that nobody has discovered the fact that the book was missing, or perhaps it was too inconsequential for them to bother so much about it.
Fourteen days later, I was summoned by a group of management officials who asked me to quit with immediate effect. They denied me my dues too and asked me to leave my uniform at the washroom. As I folded my coffee-stained uniform, I could smell the helplessness of my desire----the desire of an illiterate man to read an English book. Without the uniform I looked like a clown who had been caught stealing. That night I decided to open the book. All I could see was blurry black words. As I wiped off my tears, I saw my reflection staring back at me in pity out of those pages.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Conversation in silence
There is so much of noise around me/ Here my speech fails me/ I am a pigmy/ The mighty world betrays what my mother taught me/ Don't lie, be polite, don't be greedy / My mother told me so many things/ Many lessons died while i grew up/ I am no more myself/ A poet never lies/ If she does, she grows into a monster.
We all are falling apart/ Sun is up there/ Reality is my dark skin.
Murder the time/ Before time slaughters us/ With all its fancy/ I can smell blood every moment/ Someone is waving his hands / I am sleeping in a raft/ a fish is sleeping on my chest.
Frogs cried that rainy night/The departed soul inhaled my smoke/My mother gave me this life/I shall return home with some sweets.
The world is empty, yet full/We don't know anything any more/ I feel sad looking at people/I am feeling unusually painful/ I feel sad even looking at a floating ballon.
We all are falling apart/ Sun is up there/ Reality is my dark skin.
Murder the time/ Before time slaughters us/ With all its fancy/ I can smell blood every moment/ Someone is waving his hands / I am sleeping in a raft/ a fish is sleeping on my chest.
Frogs cried that rainy night/The departed soul inhaled my smoke/My mother gave me this life/I shall return home with some sweets.
The world is empty, yet full/We don't know anything any more/ I feel sad looking at people/I am feeling unusually painful/ I feel sad even looking at a floating ballon.
Friday, April 12, 2013
The child and the angel (A story by Darshita, my 6-year-old niece)
Once upon a time there was a girl named Little Mermaid. She wanted to go to Mysore. She asked her father to take her to Mysore. But her father said no. Mermaid said why. Because I have no money for plane ticket. Then she went alone. She fell in a river and an Angel picked her up. Mermaid said thank you to Angel.
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