A Republican’s riposte

Pammy aka Prema Singh, my best buddy is busy making plans about how to spend her “hard-earned” holiday on Republic Day.

“Holidays come hardly for people working in corporate houses. Republic Day is one such rare occasion. And, I don’t want to miss the manna from heaven,” smiled Pammy while noting down things to be done on the D-day.

I was a bit annoyed with her almost “hysterical” behaviour on the prospect of enjoying a “holiday”. I couldn’t stop myself from asking her if Republic Day means anything more to her than just a holiday?

“You’re right! Republic Day is just another holiday for me. Where is the voice of the public, the aam janata in Indian Republic. Their voices are nothing less than chaos to be silenced by teargas and lathicharge,” said Pammy, unable to control her angry outburst to my question.

“In India, the world Republic has nothing to do with public, the people. In India, public has been obliterated from Republic”

“It’s just a holiday for many of us.”

“You are just another typical corporate executive, enjoying American dollar pie as salary,” I said, making up my mind to enter into a verbal duel before our regular patch up dramas.

“It’s no mean achievement to be a Republic for 60 long years with a democratic government at the helm of affairs. The Constitution of India is the longest and most exhaustive constitution of any Independent nation of the world today. We’re proud owners of words like sovereign, socialist, secular, democratic republic, as enshrined in our Preamble,” I tried to give her some “gyaan” on what does it mean to be a “Republican”.

Pammy laughed and winked.

“Yes, we are just owners of few heavily moralistic words, which have never been implemented.”

“India is corrupt. Here, scores of children die of hunger, families of brides pay dowry to marry off their daughters, artists bribe their way out to win awards at glitzy ceremonies. If this is a Republic, I am sorry to be called a ‘Republican.’”

Today, I too was determined not to be cowed down by Pammy’s usual verbosity, the thought crossed my mind quickly.

“So, why don’t you take up the reins of the country in your own hands and turn it into a heaven.”

“Yes, I wanted to. I wanted to end poverty, provide education to all children, equality to all women, homes to homeless…I wanted all good things in my country, but my countrymen failed me, and now, I am failing my country,” tears of agony burst from a dormant volcano even before Pammy could end her thoughts.

Along with Pammy, I too cried. Agreed that we both failed to make India a true Republic —one obeying too many rules, the other breaking all rules.

The layers within

While peeling off onions to add to my curry preparation for dinner, the imposing façade emerged from the unknown.

“Human beings are no different. They are just like onions,” there goes off my friend Prema Singh as she watches me putting all my efforts into chopping the bulbs into fine pieces.

“What?” I ask, unable to stop giggling at the strange comparison between humans and onions.

“Yes, it’s so hard to define them. Humans, like onions, wear layers of mask on their face. So hard to understand what goes behind a human mind? They are complicated.”

“But don’t you think the comparison is a bit strange and funny,” I interrupt wiping off the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“See! Like your onions, humans too never shy away from making you cry,” she smiles shrugging her shoulders.

She has logic! I couldn’t do much, but smile in agreement.

“Let me tell you something. There was an old man at my previous workplace. He used to act as if he was eccentric, wearing tattered clothes and depicting himself to be a follower of Gandhiji. What do call them… yeah, simple living, high thinking kinda. While talking about work ethics, he would always talk of Manmohan Singh, who never took a single day off from work during his first tenure as the Prime Minister of India, except during his illness.”

Prema goes on… “His talks were almost prophetic. But deep inside, the old, scheming man would leave no stone unturned to mar the image of his juniors in front of the bosses,forcing many a poor souls to leave their jobs. I never understood humans. Nor do I try to, but it’s just that sometimes onions remind me of the ugly and unpredictable side of human beings.”

“That old man was as pungent and rotten as onions. I used to feel like peeling him off completely with a sharp knife,” says Prema unable to control her anger for the man whose malicious acts must have hurt her too.

But, I could not muster the courage to ask what the “old, scheming man” did to Prema.

It has to be something nasty, otherwise Prema is hardly the kind who would display such anger.

Layers after layers, the onions bared themselves naked on the chopping board. The finely chopped bulbs almost looked vulnerable. The pungency caught my nostrils as I slowly dropped them into the hot boiling oil in a pan.

As the content in the oil pan slowly turned into golden brown, I think I understood what Prema was trying to say…

Deep and dark December, I’m not alone…

Welcome to Bangalore — India’s tech hub. Glassy corporate buildings facing five-star hotels with tuxedo-clad waiters, rock bands jamming in front of ecstatic crowds — this is India’s new city of (en)joy.

But, today I want you to visit the other side of the city — laidback and groggy. It happens on weekdays, especially during afternoons. As if after a heavy lunch, unable to carry its paunch further, Bangalore goes off for a siesta. On Brigade Road, I venture out stealthily, looking heavenwards, thanking him for a lazy afternoon with few mortals walking on the pavements.

The romantic sojourn begins with a visit to the Tibetan market for a bite of beef momos and a tumbler of lime squash — the big burp comes naturally. The next stop is at a paan shop for a banarasi and cigarettes.

After some time of meditation, comfortably numb and watching the vehicles zoom past, crossed-legged on the staircase of a mall, I see the world parched on two halves. No, I am not a junkie, but to get the kick, you need the right dose of food in your stomach and best possible ambience. Talking to yourself, the world seems “not that bad afterall”. A couple of Bollywood songs certainly come to your rescue. This December afternoon, I’m singing my heart out for Bangalore. I thank it, for giving me a roof to hide my giant structure and a piece of loaf to fill my stomach and ample time to sing and laze around.

Few minutes of window shopping, admiring everything and rejecting all (here purchasing power rules and I have none), I am again game for loafing and seat myself comfortably at Kohinoor. This place is a cosy corner. The daily routine at Kohinoor includes two-three cups of tea and a plate of chicken fry and some evesdropping — what are they talking about so animatedly. I listen quietly as they talk and at times flash a smile. Oh, it’s beautiful!

Suddenly my "dream" comes to an end on Brigade Road as the crowd swells, breaking the lull. The lazy afternoon of December starts echoing with laughter and roadside bargaining.

As I smell the air, I hear it echoing, run back to the hills. For, peace is elusive.