The street was long, unwinding, pitch dark, blinding its way ahead. But in unison they were seen marching their way forward, as if light within was too illuminating to demand electricity from the perennially power starved Bangalore Electricity Supply Company (BESCOM) Limited.
No, they did not stumble upon potholes, spotted everywhere in Bangalore. No, breaking of bones by police baton was also reported. It was a free flow of human chain. One after another-- men, women, and children--followed each other, to a greater glory. To everyone’s surprise, that day the SUVs and BMWs patiently waited for the never ending caravan to proceed ahead of them.
Ubiquitous pedestrians took the form of a collective giant. The Frankenstein crowd surged every nook and cranny of the city. It was looking monstrous, but, the monster did not whip fear factor, rather provoked unexplainable sensuality, asking everyone to take part in the feast of human bravery and dignity, when oppression became unbearable.
That day, all hell broke loose for arm chair intellectuals and analysts. They failed to comprehend the sudden adrenalin rush amongst the otherwise calm citizens of Bangalore. Even at ground zero, observers were astonished and amazed by turn of event.
The reporter from the local Kannada news channel could not believe her eyes. At 12am in the midnight, the human chain, spread almost across Bangalore, matching each other's footsteps in a choreographed fashion. Few were found holding each other hands, others too ecstatic to bother for any human touch. Some hummed in incoherent tunes, clapping their hands against all forces, chanting a new anthem. The protest anthem was two liners “free 99% from clutches of 1%; free the humanity from all practiced oppressions…”
When repeated again and again, it formed a song. The freedom song, Bangalore was unconsciously waiting for long. This is how the protest movement in Bangalore started.
Like all other protest/rebel/reclaiming…movement springing from Arab to America, Bangalore also found its road to freedom.
Again nobody knew who and how it was started. Many tried their guessing prowess to come to a logical conclusion. In India’s tech hub the movement germinated from a social networking site? But, no concrete evidence certified the movement to any individual, or group. As if all wanted it to happen, they all wanted to scream out aloud, for suffering heaped on them since ages.
The high decibel protest chord, created cracks in the walls of Vidhana Soudha. The legislators were found running hither and thither, nearing to comical conclusion, when many accidentally tripped on their own lungis/dhotis, leaving themselves naked in the process.
In search of safety havens, the much protected VVIPs ended up in cells. Gowdas, and Yeddyurappas were seen locking themselves up in jails meant for hardcore criminals in their hurried bid to save themselves from public wrath. Who knows, the angry mob might had indulged in orgy of violence, turning the roads blood red?
The glassy corporate towers too succumbed to the pressure, it quickly fell into crumbles. The rebels walked over the high secured zones of power, once denied to commoners. All of a sudden powerful were stripped off their power. Defying prescribed norms, without the robe of power covering them, they too looked akin like malnourished children dying everyday in far off corners of Karnataka. After all, donning shinny polyester tuxedos does not make anyone immortal. Death will come to all of us one day. Be a king or pauper, as mound of earth bury the body within, insects crawl over pounds of flesh to bite off the vanity, life looks in a listless motion. It mocks at us, mocks the false pride with which one group inflict tyranny on another. Calling of life takes a simpler note, come join me, death is life ahead.
The protesters on Bangalore roads were said to have conquered the fear of death. Thus they had all left their homes and families which took them ages to nurture. But, when death evokes no fear, god too has to come out of the temples to join genuine demands.
That night god of protest smiled on Bangalore too. Long live the movement!
(Disclaimer: This is how I would like to see Bangalore protest taking off. Don’t worry my dear brothers and sisters! The entire episode is just a figment of imagination. You all are safe in your cocoon to continue with your daily lives. But, you never know, someone somewhere in your own city might be planning for the coup, and maybe, you too will decide to break all rules guarding your ordered life, to be part of the protest.)
Monday, November 7, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Being Homeless
Ever wondered how does it feel to be homeless? No, no…not in that existential sense of the term, where NRIs (Non-Resident Indians) lament being miles and miles away from their matra bhumi. The coinage actually should be fatherland. I am saying this with malice, lot of malice, as feminism is just an “ism” left in the hands of a few intellectuals to be practiced, according to their convenience. After all, masculinity is the order of the day. But, then again I love men.
When I take up the subject of homeless, I am talking about it in the real sense of the term. Being homeless, without a roof over your head in a big city like Bangalore, that too when you are a relatively new entrant, without any family or friend to bail you out of the crisis. And, yes, here you are a typical middle-class Indian woman, who generally thinks haazar times before checking into a hotel room alone, and, of course, with little money in hand. Then, it is no good.
Moreover, you cannot join the squatters on the narrow alleys of Brigade Road at night. You can find quite a sizable number of them, especially after 11pm, when the traffic wraps up its day in a narrowing tizzy. They are in all age groups, children, breastfeeding mothers, middle-aged lepers and in what not deformities, shaking your mental inertia sarcastically. The best thing is that in spite of their countless inabilities, they are open-hearted, generous and courteous, even welcoming a complete stranger into their fold. Guests matter a lot to them too.
But then, fear, that chilling maddening fear, what if they eat my fleshy body in moments of desperate hunger? After all, they are all hungry and naked souls.
The breastfeeding mother sitting in the corner of a pavement told me to be careful at night on Brigade Road. She confessed that her infant, too ,has stopped trusting her. In spite of his repeated attempts to find warm milk in her young breasts, all he tastes is disappointment, evident as he looks helplessly at his mother. Mild dose of blood can be always seen oozing out of her breasts, as the baby accidentally bites her flesh in the hope of food, but unfortunately his hunger gets aggravated.
The boy smirks at the taste of blood. He demands for milk, which his mother cannot afford. Throughout the day, she keeps her blouse unbuttoned in the hope that her infant finds some food in her. Thus her deep brown pair of breasts is always at the mercy of public viewing, scrutiny and at times squeezing too. A mother’s small, firm breasts hardly understand the meaning of any purdah system, Indian women since ages have followed without ever questioning it.
The chilling December wind slowly coagulates the blood, circling around her nipples due to non-stop suckling. It looks as if the nipples are wearing red rings chiseled out of blood around it. The little one looked nervous. He stared at me with his big rotund eyes, shining bright within the structure of his dust- washed face. He looked older than his self, much older. He who refuses to get down from the lap of his mother knows that poverty denies you the milk of your life too. A primitive right of having mother’s milk, as old as human existence goes.
Even after encountering such horror, I still could not muster up the courage to go back home, just 10 kms apart, which I left only in the morning, never to go back. Leaving your home can never be easy. It was not easy for me as well. But, when you pack your suitcase, and the rest of the inmates at your home make your existence look meaningless, you march ahead, to fill some sense into your senses, and find out what deeper meaning life holds for you.
So, you decide to sit on the pavement, next to a huge mall, mulling what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would scream about. Dazzling with stars, the vast sky suddenly transforms into the figure of a roof over your head. Under the huge, unending roof, you feel a sense of pride for owning so much in a world, where you have been denied almost everything. Perhaps, this is the same sense of pride beggars and the homeless of Brigade Road flashes at you. They are the owner of the night sky. Tonight I share some space with them. I am honoured.
Morning takes it own time to wake up, before it becomes all bright and sunny. Suddenly, all that you saw and encountered the night before disappears. You find yourself cuddled in the bed with your loved one in your home. Doorbell rings the arrival of the newspaper. It carries the same old front page stories --- business merger of an IT giant with a well-known European behemoth, a Kannada starlet gets engaged, and prices of vegetables soaring.
The briefcase reads, bodies of a woman in her early 20s and an infant were found in the middle of Brigade Road by the police on late Monday night. The body of the baby boy was found next to the woman suspected to be his mother. Injury marks were found on the woman’s body and the baby’s mouth was smeared with blood. Both the bodies were taken to Bowring Hospital for further medical investigation. Police are awaiting the postmortem report to find the truth behind the deaths.
When I take up the subject of homeless, I am talking about it in the real sense of the term. Being homeless, without a roof over your head in a big city like Bangalore, that too when you are a relatively new entrant, without any family or friend to bail you out of the crisis. And, yes, here you are a typical middle-class Indian woman, who generally thinks haazar times before checking into a hotel room alone, and, of course, with little money in hand. Then, it is no good.
Moreover, you cannot join the squatters on the narrow alleys of Brigade Road at night. You can find quite a sizable number of them, especially after 11pm, when the traffic wraps up its day in a narrowing tizzy. They are in all age groups, children, breastfeeding mothers, middle-aged lepers and in what not deformities, shaking your mental inertia sarcastically. The best thing is that in spite of their countless inabilities, they are open-hearted, generous and courteous, even welcoming a complete stranger into their fold. Guests matter a lot to them too.
But then, fear, that chilling maddening fear, what if they eat my fleshy body in moments of desperate hunger? After all, they are all hungry and naked souls.
The breastfeeding mother sitting in the corner of a pavement told me to be careful at night on Brigade Road. She confessed that her infant, too ,has stopped trusting her. In spite of his repeated attempts to find warm milk in her young breasts, all he tastes is disappointment, evident as he looks helplessly at his mother. Mild dose of blood can be always seen oozing out of her breasts, as the baby accidentally bites her flesh in the hope of food, but unfortunately his hunger gets aggravated.
The boy smirks at the taste of blood. He demands for milk, which his mother cannot afford. Throughout the day, she keeps her blouse unbuttoned in the hope that her infant finds some food in her. Thus her deep brown pair of breasts is always at the mercy of public viewing, scrutiny and at times squeezing too. A mother’s small, firm breasts hardly understand the meaning of any purdah system, Indian women since ages have followed without ever questioning it.
The chilling December wind slowly coagulates the blood, circling around her nipples due to non-stop suckling. It looks as if the nipples are wearing red rings chiseled out of blood around it. The little one looked nervous. He stared at me with his big rotund eyes, shining bright within the structure of his dust- washed face. He looked older than his self, much older. He who refuses to get down from the lap of his mother knows that poverty denies you the milk of your life too. A primitive right of having mother’s milk, as old as human existence goes.
Even after encountering such horror, I still could not muster up the courage to go back home, just 10 kms apart, which I left only in the morning, never to go back. Leaving your home can never be easy. It was not easy for me as well. But, when you pack your suitcase, and the rest of the inmates at your home make your existence look meaningless, you march ahead, to fill some sense into your senses, and find out what deeper meaning life holds for you.
So, you decide to sit on the pavement, next to a huge mall, mulling what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would scream about. Dazzling with stars, the vast sky suddenly transforms into the figure of a roof over your head. Under the huge, unending roof, you feel a sense of pride for owning so much in a world, where you have been denied almost everything. Perhaps, this is the same sense of pride beggars and the homeless of Brigade Road flashes at you. They are the owner of the night sky. Tonight I share some space with them. I am honoured.
Morning takes it own time to wake up, before it becomes all bright and sunny. Suddenly, all that you saw and encountered the night before disappears. You find yourself cuddled in the bed with your loved one in your home. Doorbell rings the arrival of the newspaper. It carries the same old front page stories --- business merger of an IT giant with a well-known European behemoth, a Kannada starlet gets engaged, and prices of vegetables soaring.
The briefcase reads, bodies of a woman in her early 20s and an infant were found in the middle of Brigade Road by the police on late Monday night. The body of the baby boy was found next to the woman suspected to be his mother. Injury marks were found on the woman’s body and the baby’s mouth was smeared with blood. Both the bodies were taken to Bowring Hospital for further medical investigation. Police are awaiting the postmortem report to find the truth behind the deaths.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Lalbagh witnesses country’s first ‘lusty’ debate
I must say, this juicy piece of news was missed by dozens of newspapers and TV channels -- as they buried themselves busy and screamed their lungs out over war against corruption, (I didn’t know graft is a new malady. I wonder where was everyone when Bofors, hawala, fodder and a number of unearthed scams were sucking the economy dry), tainted organisations and individuals besides the new-found love for the IPL matches, especially after the miraculous Cricket World Cup victory.
It was a debate session, sometime back, under the amorous night sky of April at the glamorous Lalbagh Botanical Garden in the heart of Bangalore.
The two feisty contenders (debaters) were none other than Mr Love and Mr Lust. And, of course, I don’t have to mention the topic of discussion. Yes, you have guessed right, its —“What is more moral in the 21st century -- love or lust”?
The guests in attendance were a bunch of intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals (like me), who took upon the lawn at Lalbagh to provide an apt and patient listening to the debaters for the evening.
And Mr Love, with his usual good looks, clean-shaven face, wearing a designer suit, first took upon to an imagined stage, standing almost 6 feet tall.
Mr Love started the debate with a conventional slogan: “Love makes the world go round”.
Mr Lust, with his belly protruding from his ill-fitting T-shirt, did not let Mr Love continue even for a second and interrupted.
“Lust produces babies, babies grow up into men (women), and they further produce more babies. This is how mankind is surviving and ruling the planet, with its sheer numbers. Lust is in nature and you, my dear friend, cannot ignore nature,” said Mr Lust, flashing his crooked smile.
Recovering from this jolt, Mr Love, regained his composure and said, “Lust leads to corruption and further corruption.”
“And, corruption is the order of the day. Even your Mr PM is no more a clean man (notwithstanding the fact that he agreed to form a panel to draft some jan lokpal bill). His hands, too, are tainted with the muck of Indian dynastic politics. Then, why blame lust only?” Lust exhorted.
The gentleman inside Mr Love could not bear it anymore.
“Babies who are produced without love in its ultimate conclusion, that is marriage, are called “illegitimate” or “bastards,” said Mr Love, with his nostrils flaring.
“Why do you want to go into the legality of the matter? That way we all will have to undergo DNA test, including the stray dogs in your neighbourhood. Anyway, they are already under the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP) scanner,” smiled Mr Lust.
“So, so …what are you trying to say?” fumbles Mr Love.
“Nothing is immoral? All is fair? Because of people like you, there is so much of paternity tests and subsequent confusion in the world. Why don’t you accept you are bad, dark and immoral?” asked Mr Love.
Hahaha! Mr Lust laughed out loud. I love your pretensions, your dubious proclamations, your I know-all attitude, everything sucks…. cried out Mr Lust.
Suddenly, few khaki-clad men came in rushing, trying to decipher the reason behind loud noise coming out at an ungodly hour from the garden. But all they could find were bottles of beer, cigarette butts and used condoms strewn all over. The stars were shining bright, the cries from the dog were audible too, but no human presence.
“This is a ghostly affair…,” one guard said, confused as they saw two apparitions walking past the garden, singing “yeh dosti hum nahi chorengey…”
Hope Mr Love and Mr Lust have learnt to co-exist together. Anyway, one without the other will be another subject of debate….
Note: This piece of news is written in a humble (read desperate) attempt to save the dying art of blogging (where there is no fear of editors with their ever-sharpened knives ready to chop off ‘important” extracts of your stories or sometimes the entire story.) Hope, the “sexy” topic chosen will grab a few eyeballs, the writer too will get few ‘upmarket’ readers.
It was a debate session, sometime back, under the amorous night sky of April at the glamorous Lalbagh Botanical Garden in the heart of Bangalore.
The two feisty contenders (debaters) were none other than Mr Love and Mr Lust. And, of course, I don’t have to mention the topic of discussion. Yes, you have guessed right, its —“What is more moral in the 21st century -- love or lust”?
The guests in attendance were a bunch of intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals (like me), who took upon the lawn at Lalbagh to provide an apt and patient listening to the debaters for the evening.
And Mr Love, with his usual good looks, clean-shaven face, wearing a designer suit, first took upon to an imagined stage, standing almost 6 feet tall.
Mr Love started the debate with a conventional slogan: “Love makes the world go round”.
Mr Lust, with his belly protruding from his ill-fitting T-shirt, did not let Mr Love continue even for a second and interrupted.
“Lust produces babies, babies grow up into men (women), and they further produce more babies. This is how mankind is surviving and ruling the planet, with its sheer numbers. Lust is in nature and you, my dear friend, cannot ignore nature,” said Mr Lust, flashing his crooked smile.
Recovering from this jolt, Mr Love, regained his composure and said, “Lust leads to corruption and further corruption.”
“And, corruption is the order of the day. Even your Mr PM is no more a clean man (notwithstanding the fact that he agreed to form a panel to draft some jan lokpal bill). His hands, too, are tainted with the muck of Indian dynastic politics. Then, why blame lust only?” Lust exhorted.
The gentleman inside Mr Love could not bear it anymore.
“Babies who are produced without love in its ultimate conclusion, that is marriage, are called “illegitimate” or “bastards,” said Mr Love, with his nostrils flaring.
“Why do you want to go into the legality of the matter? That way we all will have to undergo DNA test, including the stray dogs in your neighbourhood. Anyway, they are already under the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP) scanner,” smiled Mr Lust.
“So, so …what are you trying to say?” fumbles Mr Love.
“Nothing is immoral? All is fair? Because of people like you, there is so much of paternity tests and subsequent confusion in the world. Why don’t you accept you are bad, dark and immoral?” asked Mr Love.
Hahaha! Mr Lust laughed out loud. I love your pretensions, your dubious proclamations, your I know-all attitude, everything sucks…. cried out Mr Lust.
Suddenly, few khaki-clad men came in rushing, trying to decipher the reason behind loud noise coming out at an ungodly hour from the garden. But all they could find were bottles of beer, cigarette butts and used condoms strewn all over. The stars were shining bright, the cries from the dog were audible too, but no human presence.
“This is a ghostly affair…,” one guard said, confused as they saw two apparitions walking past the garden, singing “yeh dosti hum nahi chorengey…”
Hope Mr Love and Mr Lust have learnt to co-exist together. Anyway, one without the other will be another subject of debate….
Note: This piece of news is written in a humble (read desperate) attempt to save the dying art of blogging (where there is no fear of editors with their ever-sharpened knives ready to chop off ‘important” extracts of your stories or sometimes the entire story.) Hope, the “sexy” topic chosen will grab a few eyeballs, the writer too will get few ‘upmarket’ readers.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Superwomen vs superbombs? Well, some are simply dud bombs
Thankfully, women have a day all to themselves while the rest are being enjoyed by the men,” winks Pammy, my buddy.
In saying so, Pammy is not endorsing the concept of International Women Day’s celebrated across the globe every year on March 8, media immortalising the superwomen who are successful, svelte and sirens even in their 40s.
Rather, my dear Pammy is nowhere close to those archetypal “super women”, bombs who are known for being making it big and bombastic in life. They are the ones who proudly declare to be the face of the fast-changing modern day India, signing mega-business deals at offices, to changing diapers of babies and shaking a leg at the wild evening parties.
Pammy is poles apart from them.
In fact, Pammy’s office routine begins and ends with an hour-long lecture on her “non-professionalism”, by her boss in office. The humiliation doesn't end there. Even at home, her five-year-old son Sunny doesn't miss to point out Pammy's failure in cutting the extra flab around her waistline, while most of his friends have mothers who look like models. Instead, Pammy cuts a sorry figure with her belly jutting out of her newly bought skinny jeans. Her ever-growing waistline has become a cause of embarrassment for both the son and husband. Both the men in her life don't have much to admire in her.
To add to the disaster, Pammy happens to be a miserable cook. "Now, what do we take solace from," they sigh in unison over Pammy’s repeated 'mistake' of over-cooking the rice and adding too little salt on her bland rajma curry.
“Where’s the spice and salt in life?” Pammy angrily asks, snubbing her son and husband who had long resigned to fate of having a wife who even after eight years of marriage haven’t learnt a bit of cooking.
“Eat whatever I cook. I too get tired after a day’s work. I am no superwoman,” adds Pammy.
“Then there seems to be no women’s day celebrations for you, as you are no superwoman. Mummy! Women's day is all about being extraordinary. Superwomen, who are smart, suave, feisty, intelligent and beautiful celebrates the day. Only extraordinary women are seen flaunting their womanhood on the day. And, sorry Momma, you have nothing great about you,” there goes Sunny again with his blunt and honest observation.
After Sunny’s thunderbolt, comes Pammy's quiet retort.
“Yes, dear son, women’s day is all about superwomen, extraordinary and feisty women winning awards at glitzy award nights for being business tycoons or sizzling item numbers. Aam aurat like us, never celebrate women’s day. We’re too ordinary to be celebrated or appreciated by others. And thank god, I am no superwoman, nor do I aspire to. I am happy being ordinary, very normal and often ignored,” she fakes a smile, realising pretty well how all her efforts to be 'super' have blown up in its face.
And, then comes the unbearable lull, and Pammy’s husband, looking for some breathing space, switches on the television, where a news anchor briefs about how the bold and the beautiful of Bangalore celebrated the women’s day. “Let’s salute the spirit of women on the 100th year of women’s day celebration across the globe.”
In saying so, Pammy is not endorsing the concept of International Women Day’s celebrated across the globe every year on March 8, media immortalising the superwomen who are successful, svelte and sirens even in their 40s.
Rather, my dear Pammy is nowhere close to those archetypal “super women”, bombs who are known for being making it big and bombastic in life. They are the ones who proudly declare to be the face of the fast-changing modern day India, signing mega-business deals at offices, to changing diapers of babies and shaking a leg at the wild evening parties.
Pammy is poles apart from them.
In fact, Pammy’s office routine begins and ends with an hour-long lecture on her “non-professionalism”, by her boss in office. The humiliation doesn't end there. Even at home, her five-year-old son Sunny doesn't miss to point out Pammy's failure in cutting the extra flab around her waistline, while most of his friends have mothers who look like models. Instead, Pammy cuts a sorry figure with her belly jutting out of her newly bought skinny jeans. Her ever-growing waistline has become a cause of embarrassment for both the son and husband. Both the men in her life don't have much to admire in her.
To add to the disaster, Pammy happens to be a miserable cook. "Now, what do we take solace from," they sigh in unison over Pammy’s repeated 'mistake' of over-cooking the rice and adding too little salt on her bland rajma curry.
“Where’s the spice and salt in life?” Pammy angrily asks, snubbing her son and husband who had long resigned to fate of having a wife who even after eight years of marriage haven’t learnt a bit of cooking.
“Eat whatever I cook. I too get tired after a day’s work. I am no superwoman,” adds Pammy.
“Then there seems to be no women’s day celebrations for you, as you are no superwoman. Mummy! Women's day is all about being extraordinary. Superwomen, who are smart, suave, feisty, intelligent and beautiful celebrates the day. Only extraordinary women are seen flaunting their womanhood on the day. And, sorry Momma, you have nothing great about you,” there goes Sunny again with his blunt and honest observation.
After Sunny’s thunderbolt, comes Pammy's quiet retort.
“Yes, dear son, women’s day is all about superwomen, extraordinary and feisty women winning awards at glitzy award nights for being business tycoons or sizzling item numbers. Aam aurat like us, never celebrate women’s day. We’re too ordinary to be celebrated or appreciated by others. And thank god, I am no superwoman, nor do I aspire to. I am happy being ordinary, very normal and often ignored,” she fakes a smile, realising pretty well how all her efforts to be 'super' have blown up in its face.
And, then comes the unbearable lull, and Pammy’s husband, looking for some breathing space, switches on the television, where a news anchor briefs about how the bold and the beautiful of Bangalore celebrated the women’s day. “Let’s salute the spirit of women on the 100th year of women’s day celebration across the globe.”
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Impressions of a year gone by...
Few words aptly define 2010 ---- scam, scams and more scams. Be it political scams, journalistic scams, telephonic scams, economic scams, onion scams, social scams, personal scams, lusty scams, emotional scams, idiotic scams...,after all, scams ruled the minds. More than hundreds of millions of Indians were washed, unwashed, dressed and undressed in the public over the four letter “revolutionary” word scam.
I will say my life, too, was no less a scam in 2010. I was jobless for almost half the year, after being rejected by more than half-a-dozen prospective employers. Finally, someone succumbed to my repeated begging, and I got that much-elusive appointment letter.
In the hindsight, when someone tells me that 2010 finally managed to get rid off the financial coup of 2008, I simply want to beat the blues out of the economists. What the F…? I struggled, literally begged, ran from one swanky office to another for a job? But, no employer even considered giving a cursory glance at my much-polished CV. Or, is it my lack-lustre work record? I am still in doubt. I thought when the economy is in its pink, it should accommodate all and sundry. If I am not one, than of course, I am one amongst the sundry. I deserve a job, so do millions of my unemployed brethrens.
At a time, when finance ministry is shouting from the rooftop, that GDP(oh! Please explain that what does that mean), will touch the double-digit figure by 2011, and business houses wag its tails in celebration, I could not understand why an average Indian like me have to slog and slog for a job? Perhaps, this is another scam (or in the making), beyond the understanding of common mortals.
The second scam of my life in 2010 is something I don’t remember very well. Oh, yes, I can now recall it vaguely, my loss of memory. I have lost it, yes, lost my memory bank. I don’t regret that. It’s but natural to experience memory loss when age is catching up fast. In fact, I thank my stars, for the loss of memory. I can at least have the bliss of forgetting most of my unsavory experiences.
The last, but not the least, my third scam is a secret. A secret I don’t want to reveal. I, too, want the CBI to hunt and chase me and find my secret. With CBI, the media will also follow. I will get my 15-minutes of stardom. The nation will witness me in the breaking news section of TV channels and few anchors will definitely gurgle before screaming my 'tainted' name again and again. My niece will be delighted to see her aunt on the television, forgetting her favourite cartoon characters for few hours. I hope a few media houses have already started planning their stories, revolving around my secrets. And of course, an obituary of a common (wo)man.
I will say my life, too, was no less a scam in 2010. I was jobless for almost half the year, after being rejected by more than half-a-dozen prospective employers. Finally, someone succumbed to my repeated begging, and I got that much-elusive appointment letter.
In the hindsight, when someone tells me that 2010 finally managed to get rid off the financial coup of 2008, I simply want to beat the blues out of the economists. What the F…? I struggled, literally begged, ran from one swanky office to another for a job? But, no employer even considered giving a cursory glance at my much-polished CV. Or, is it my lack-lustre work record? I am still in doubt. I thought when the economy is in its pink, it should accommodate all and sundry. If I am not one, than of course, I am one amongst the sundry. I deserve a job, so do millions of my unemployed brethrens.
At a time, when finance ministry is shouting from the rooftop, that GDP(oh! Please explain that what does that mean), will touch the double-digit figure by 2011, and business houses wag its tails in celebration, I could not understand why an average Indian like me have to slog and slog for a job? Perhaps, this is another scam (or in the making), beyond the understanding of common mortals.
The second scam of my life in 2010 is something I don’t remember very well. Oh, yes, I can now recall it vaguely, my loss of memory. I have lost it, yes, lost my memory bank. I don’t regret that. It’s but natural to experience memory loss when age is catching up fast. In fact, I thank my stars, for the loss of memory. I can at least have the bliss of forgetting most of my unsavory experiences.
The last, but not the least, my third scam is a secret. A secret I don’t want to reveal. I, too, want the CBI to hunt and chase me and find my secret. With CBI, the media will also follow. I will get my 15-minutes of stardom. The nation will witness me in the breaking news section of TV channels and few anchors will definitely gurgle before screaming my 'tainted' name again and again. My niece will be delighted to see her aunt on the television, forgetting her favourite cartoon characters for few hours. I hope a few media houses have already started planning their stories, revolving around my secrets. And of course, an obituary of a common (wo)man.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Mountains, my only refuge
The air has almost lost its moisture --- dry and taut, a blanket of gloom across the city. The sky, too, seems to be in no mood to rain down relief. There is no sign of those proverbial pregnant clouds, dry days are sure to stay for long. The Met department has made no such predictions, but sometimes age-old intuitions, too, should be respected. And, I do that. Call me a fool, I don’t care. My mind, remains in a state of suspended animation most of the time. And it’s during such hours of life, I long to go back to the hills.
I have always been a child of the hills. I have grown up in the green, deep valleys of Arunachal, my umbilical cord still tied to the land. I’m sorry this city culture and comfort don’t suit me much. Interestingly, sometimes I feel I’m a threat to the city.
No, I have no connection with any of the terrorist groups of Northeast India. The guns drive me crazy. After witnessing victims of bomb blasts on several occasions in Guwahati, I shudder even at the mere mention of it. At times, clarifications come handy as most of the Northeastern people are ‘suspects’. If you are a Northeastern, like the Kashmiris, you can be easily arrested under the monstrous Armed Forces Special Powers Act AFSPA. AFSPA is a special law and applies to not so special citizens of India.
I have reasons to say that I am a threat to any city, though a few genuine and some nonsensical. In spite of spending years of my life in various cities, I am yet to understand the psyche of motorists. They make me spend agonizing moments under the sun every time I have to cross the roads. As the busy world moves ahead of me, I wonder if I am the only one who has got all the time. During such moments, I jaywalk my way braving past the motorists, who scream and hurl abuses at me for violating traffic rules. That way, I am a threat to the city. Someday I could be the reason for an accident, I must confess.
They also call me an outsider, the self-claimed city dwellers. I don't speak their language. In fact, there isn’t a single language that I can speak properly. Not even my mother tongue. I suffer from learning disability. That way, I don't belong to any country, or city, or any one land. In a way, I have become a curious case of homelessness, a vagabond they call people like me. My crime is that I cannot speak any of the recognised languages properly. This is freaking. Now, I can choose to speak gibberish, hope nobody has a problem with that. I can actually write songs in gibberish. Don't worry, I won't make you listen to them. These are my secrets. Every individual has the right to carry secrets in their hearts -- secret bank accounts, secret defence deals, secret affairs … the list goes on. I, too, have a few secret engagements, and I don’t have any regrets about that.
Thankfully, my absence never raises questions by friends, relatives, colleagues… no one.
A self-acclaimed non-city dweller with a few secret engagements… This again makes me a criminal. But, I know the law won't follow me. It doesn’t have the time to follow petty criminals like me. So, for the time being, I, and all those of my ilk, can run amok and enjoy our freedom with those uninterrupted feet.
But then what about traffic jams? The cities are infamous for that. I stand almost 90 minutes on crowded buses to travel 14 kilometres. These days, I don't have a steady posture. My steps are always shaky, unconfirmed. Perhaps, that is why people give me those strange looks. Moreover, my features don’t go down well with the mainstream crowd. I bring inclusiveness to the unicoloured society. I threaten the system, which is known for knowing, loving and appreciating only established facts of life.
Threatening a peaceful, established society is a crime and I don't want to be privy to such crimes.
My crimes are many, but my skin has become too thick to get affected by accusing fingers. I am unabashedly uncivilised. But I, too, need to breathe, breathe easy and breathe my share of air. Where else, but the hills I can take refuge in.
I have always been a child of the hills. I have grown up in the green, deep valleys of Arunachal, my umbilical cord still tied to the land. I’m sorry this city culture and comfort don’t suit me much. Interestingly, sometimes I feel I’m a threat to the city.
No, I have no connection with any of the terrorist groups of Northeast India. The guns drive me crazy. After witnessing victims of bomb blasts on several occasions in Guwahati, I shudder even at the mere mention of it. At times, clarifications come handy as most of the Northeastern people are ‘suspects’. If you are a Northeastern, like the Kashmiris, you can be easily arrested under the monstrous Armed Forces Special Powers Act AFSPA. AFSPA is a special law and applies to not so special citizens of India.
I have reasons to say that I am a threat to any city, though a few genuine and some nonsensical. In spite of spending years of my life in various cities, I am yet to understand the psyche of motorists. They make me spend agonizing moments under the sun every time I have to cross the roads. As the busy world moves ahead of me, I wonder if I am the only one who has got all the time. During such moments, I jaywalk my way braving past the motorists, who scream and hurl abuses at me for violating traffic rules. That way, I am a threat to the city. Someday I could be the reason for an accident, I must confess.
They also call me an outsider, the self-claimed city dwellers. I don't speak their language. In fact, there isn’t a single language that I can speak properly. Not even my mother tongue. I suffer from learning disability. That way, I don't belong to any country, or city, or any one land. In a way, I have become a curious case of homelessness, a vagabond they call people like me. My crime is that I cannot speak any of the recognised languages properly. This is freaking. Now, I can choose to speak gibberish, hope nobody has a problem with that. I can actually write songs in gibberish. Don't worry, I won't make you listen to them. These are my secrets. Every individual has the right to carry secrets in their hearts -- secret bank accounts, secret defence deals, secret affairs … the list goes on. I, too, have a few secret engagements, and I don’t have any regrets about that.
Thankfully, my absence never raises questions by friends, relatives, colleagues… no one.
A self-acclaimed non-city dweller with a few secret engagements… This again makes me a criminal. But, I know the law won't follow me. It doesn’t have the time to follow petty criminals like me. So, for the time being, I, and all those of my ilk, can run amok and enjoy our freedom with those uninterrupted feet.
But then what about traffic jams? The cities are infamous for that. I stand almost 90 minutes on crowded buses to travel 14 kilometres. These days, I don't have a steady posture. My steps are always shaky, unconfirmed. Perhaps, that is why people give me those strange looks. Moreover, my features don’t go down well with the mainstream crowd. I bring inclusiveness to the unicoloured society. I threaten the system, which is known for knowing, loving and appreciating only established facts of life.
Threatening a peaceful, established society is a crime and I don't want to be privy to such crimes.
My crimes are many, but my skin has become too thick to get affected by accusing fingers. I am unabashedly uncivilised. But I, too, need to breathe, breathe easy and breathe my share of air. Where else, but the hills I can take refuge in.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Much blood has spilled down the Brahmaputra
The emperor of France and one of the greatest military commanders in history, Napoleon Bonaparte used to call himself son of the revolution.
In a direct rip-off of the legend’s famous self-given title, I and my friend Pammy call ourselves “daughters of revolution”.
But sorry, we don’t share an iota of Napoleon’s military exploits and conquests.
Neither do we ever, even in our wildest dreams, imagine ourselves to live a life or to die a death for which people would remember us forever.
On the contrary, we both are happy in our anonymity.
However, it’s something else for which we feel like that -- our birth --precisely the fateful year of 1979 when both of us were born.
Those were turbulent times, when our birthplace Assam was undergoing unimaginable social and political changes, a time when the entire population -- the old and young, rich and poor, intelligent and not-so-intelligent -- yearned for change.
“You know what, History books might describe Assam Agitation (1979-1985) as a movement against the illegal migrants from the neighbouring country of Bangladesh, but if you probe deeper, it was the time when the greater Assamese society came out openly against the establishment and wanted freedom from all ills,” Pammy spat out.
“Why the hell are you talking about Assam Agitation,” I almost shouted to stop her from again getting into the same debate.
“Can we change history, that too sitting in a far-off place like Bangalore.”
My curt response may have silenced Pammy, but the agony was quite palpable.
The pain of going through hell as silent spectators when the revolution was at its peak was evident in her eyes. Of course, we both were pretty young that time to understand the futility of the revolution.
Pammy, born to Sikh parents originally from Punjab, but her umbilical cord still seems tied to Assam. I -- the so-called indigenous Assamese -- never get so emotional on any issue relating to Assam and rest of northeast as Pammy does.
“We are the daughters of revolution. Perhaps that is why we’re so angry,” Pammy sighs vaguely as smoke from my cigarette rose slowly into the ceiling.
“Perhaps the failure of revolution still burns in our hearts. We cannot cry out loud, nor speak out loud to the outside world,” I too nodded in agreement.
So much blood has been spilled, so many homes burnt down ... still left with nothing in the end. In fact, all that the revolution did was to leave us with a bad taste in mouth, bitterness in heart and tears in the eyes.
“Where is the end to this dark tunnel? When will we get our peace?” Pammy said looking at me, searching for an answer.
I had nothing to say to console her.
I lit up another cigarette, leaving a trail of rings floating in the air. As she got up to leave the room, I realized I succeeded in blowing smoke rings but failed to answer the queries of a tormented soul, a distraught daughter of revolution.
In a direct rip-off of the legend’s famous self-given title, I and my friend Pammy call ourselves “daughters of revolution”.
But sorry, we don’t share an iota of Napoleon’s military exploits and conquests.
Neither do we ever, even in our wildest dreams, imagine ourselves to live a life or to die a death for which people would remember us forever.
On the contrary, we both are happy in our anonymity.
However, it’s something else for which we feel like that -- our birth --precisely the fateful year of 1979 when both of us were born.
Those were turbulent times, when our birthplace Assam was undergoing unimaginable social and political changes, a time when the entire population -- the old and young, rich and poor, intelligent and not-so-intelligent -- yearned for change.
“You know what, History books might describe Assam Agitation (1979-1985) as a movement against the illegal migrants from the neighbouring country of Bangladesh, but if you probe deeper, it was the time when the greater Assamese society came out openly against the establishment and wanted freedom from all ills,” Pammy spat out.
“Why the hell are you talking about Assam Agitation,” I almost shouted to stop her from again getting into the same debate.
“Can we change history, that too sitting in a far-off place like Bangalore.”
My curt response may have silenced Pammy, but the agony was quite palpable.
The pain of going through hell as silent spectators when the revolution was at its peak was evident in her eyes. Of course, we both were pretty young that time to understand the futility of the revolution.
Pammy, born to Sikh parents originally from Punjab, but her umbilical cord still seems tied to Assam. I -- the so-called indigenous Assamese -- never get so emotional on any issue relating to Assam and rest of northeast as Pammy does.
“We are the daughters of revolution. Perhaps that is why we’re so angry,” Pammy sighs vaguely as smoke from my cigarette rose slowly into the ceiling.
“Perhaps the failure of revolution still burns in our hearts. We cannot cry out loud, nor speak out loud to the outside world,” I too nodded in agreement.
So much blood has been spilled, so many homes burnt down ... still left with nothing in the end. In fact, all that the revolution did was to leave us with a bad taste in mouth, bitterness in heart and tears in the eyes.
“Where is the end to this dark tunnel? When will we get our peace?” Pammy said looking at me, searching for an answer.
I had nothing to say to console her.
I lit up another cigarette, leaving a trail of rings floating in the air. As she got up to leave the room, I realized I succeeded in blowing smoke rings but failed to answer the queries of a tormented soul, a distraught daughter of revolution.
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