It was A’s choice to visit Mumbadevi. I , after a marathon tour of Siddhivinayak,Haji Ali, and Mahalakshmi , was now, caught in a jinx. My adventurous and touring self were in a clash ….with the real , more humble persona of me. Ultimately the daring and touring one got the crown and I ceded to A’s request.
B, the third musketeer amongst us, was in mixedbag. A celebrating and undying spirit of his, both were unable to cope up with the majestic gushes of wind and the oily surface of the Haji Ali causeway. He wanted to go home, lie down in the couch, watch some news, light a smoke,I saw those snapshots of wishs in his eyes for two long minutes, but miraculously at the start of the third minute, it all went off, and for reasons unknown, he also gave it in.
The best way to roam around Mumbai ,or as a matter of fact any Indian city which has got a story to tell is, hire a taxi, sit besides the chauffeur and bombard him with your Q and As.
We took a taxi at the crossection of Bhulabhai Desai Road and Pedder Road. I literally jumped towards the front door. My eyes were like the lion’s when the king of the jungle has seen blood on the front seat.At last with some rare reflexes and with raised eyebrows of the driver ,I caught hold of my seat while things happened a bit peacefully behind me as the other two guys sat quietly in the back seat.
Soon we took off towards Peddar Road
Me : ye Peddar Road hai??
Driver : haan sahib.
Suddenly the weather changed, what was something a little more than a rainfall turned to something less than a storm. The wet and naked roads , devoid of commuters , made the Island city a lot more sexier than it normally is when the town is a financial nerve center. The incessant rain was turning the wet ,moist and salty atmosphere into a sensuous one.
Me (turning towards B) : saale ye hai Mumbai..mayanagri.
Driver looked towards me and ended up in a wry smile.
B : abe ye sab angrezon ne banaaya hai kyaa??
Me : haan, kaafi kuch.
The cab turned left bringing with it a view of the grand sea face which eventually made its way to the grandeur of Marine Drive.
Me : Bhayiaa 26/11 ko to yahaan sab sunsaan hoga
Driver : sunsaan kya sahib sab band tha..kuch allowed hii nahi thaa
C : aur train??
D : log hii kahaan the train pakadne k liye….aur frequency bhi kam ho gyi thi…abhi 5 minute me aa jaati hai..un dino aadhe ghante me 1 train aa rhi thi.
Me : matlab office woffice sab band??
Driver (taking a sharp turn thus, taking us away from Marine Drive) : Are kya office seth, lag raha tha jaise kisi doosre desh ne akraman kar diya ho….
Me : Achca ….saaalaaa…
The driver looked at me, intensely and then, smiled again. I would be lying if I’d say that I was not at all amused by that smile. But in the hindsight I can relate a lot more bravery to that smile. For that driver and many others, this city with all its roads and sea faces , was like a mother, and they had seen their mother being brutally beaten ,looted and raped on 26/11 , and on many more occasions, but at all those times, they had fought and brought their mother back to her feet and the city was again running. I recalled ,that what a soldier does for his nation,these drivers had done, many times for this city.
Me : Achchaa bhayiaajii, abhi waale blast bhi to yahiin kahiin hue the??
Driver (pointing his finger to a congested street) Wo baju me wahaan…wo
Me (partly in disbelief and partly in fear) : Achca ..mandir yahiin hai kyaa??....aas paas??
Driver(finally giving the Bumblebee’s engine a little rest): seth yahaan k baad se taxi allowed nahi hai blast k baad se ..wo raha mandir saamne ….
I am a naturally dumb guy. But in that time frame of stepping down from the taxi and getting the first look at Zaveri Bazaar, my mind was filled with a thousand and one thoughts.
“shall I tell my mother….no no no…it wil be terrible thing”, “so finally I am at the terror hot-spot….I will tell this thing to my friends, may be I could write about it”….”what if..what if Bomb has been planted ..its Saturday, so crowded…”….”shit…common….nothing wil happen….are yaar..saali kahin aakhiri yatra na ho”
Above, is the story of my mind in the first 10 minutes of my landing at Zaveri Bazaar. “Kitna sona hai be”…B’s voice came from the backdrop…and so with the jungle of thoughts in my mind , I walked ahead.
Jewelery is everywhere. No other thoughts can come to anybody’s mind when he stands in the middle of this bazaar for the first 5 mins. From hutment to palaces, everything was – if there is any word like that- jewel-phillic. It seemed to be a street of commoners where the ‘aam- aadmi’ toiled hard and gave away his sweat to bring affluence to the rich and famous.
Gold , for them was not what it meant for us. Diamond was not a lady’s best friend. They were pure and were revered. The people and those rare gems had a relationship analogous to that of the pen and the writer.
Finally we reached Mumbadevi, which to put in a more apt manner ,was intense . As if the almighty was meditating deep on the pros and cons of the recent blasts. After all Gods here had seen Mumbai grow , applauding at her achievements and praying at her struggles and hurdles.
It was my turn now, to be in a mixed bag .Nightmares were still hovering over me. And as a topping, in came a dilemma , My wish to roam around Colaba and have a pint there met in a head on collision with the aroma of the jalebi that was being prepared nearby.
Me: abe chalo be Bus pakadte hai…varna milegi nahi??
A: Abe saale jalebi khaa le. Bahut din ho gaye hain be.
B : haan be ..khaa k chalte hain…mauj aa jaaegi.
I lost. We went inside. A peaculiar combo of jalebi and papdi was served. With the very first bite , I was travelling through time. I was back to the days which started at 7 AM and ended at 1 in the noon, when tension was limited to the pending homework , where there were fights , but no hatred , and where there was fear of scolding but no terror.
Handing over the bill to the shopkeeper we walked out of that hotel.. My fear was now turning towards an intriguing curiosity. I was in a place which was one of the most testing place to be in the recent times but all what I had seen and heard were loud laughter, smiling faces and fast paced seths. I was ashamed to be in nightmares again..compared to those dare-devil jewellers, I was a selfish piece of nut.But I could not help it, the thoughts of an imminent blasts were overpowering the jovialness of the Zaveri Bazaar
A: abe raat k khaane kaa kya kare??
Me(dying to go to Colaba) : abe chalo be ..Leopold chalte hain..dekh lenge khaane kaa
A: abe aunty bhii nahi aaeng banane….
“ARE PACK KARNE LAANE KAA NAA”- a passer by remarked , and almost instantaneously started laughing. I could not control myself , gestured towards him, and laughed out.
I and B laughed out for 2 long mins. A had no idea why we were laughing. I looked back at the Bazaar saluted to it, and started to walk towards the bus stand, to head,finally to Colaba.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Bharat Durdasha- Kya Karein
That feeling came all of a sudden, grew exponentially within me, and soon I was a slave to it. It was a stroke of pride, an aura of doing something that made my relation to this country firm. In more simple(and dull) words I was filling up the Aadhar UID form.
Such feeling ‘patriotic’ ,if I may call it ,arise seldom these days. For the last 7 months , when life has been categorically defined between work and weekend , fewer have been times when I have thought about the Matrabhoomi…the land,our mother, where we are born and raised.
A month has passed when I met that guy for the first ,and the last time. He was a friend’s acquaintance ,new to Mumbai, and naïve to the zeal ,the spirit that the city sets in you. He was here for a job , and was looking out for a room. For the last two days he had toiled hard,but, without any success . Still , he had a kick, that was driving him, in those torrential Bombay Rains, to look out for more and find a place in the Maximum City which beholds all. The way he finished his tea, the amicable tone of “Bantu bhaai..ghar kab jaaoge”…it was all raining optimism.
I have not met that guy since that day, but a week later I found out that he didn’t get a flat. Well….he was a Muslim The feeling that I had at that very moment was an even mixture of amazement , frustration and helplessness. The picture of Bombay, of majestic Marine Drive and picturesque Powai, which defied tradition and embraced all ,started fading from my mind. I wanted to do something I knew I could not and was sure that I would not. A caricature of that lad came to my mind. A jovial guy, a nice guy slowly immersing in the shallow waters of religious extremism, the waters are getting deeper , the guy is falling, loosing control. Sometimes he could not do anything , sometimes he does not want to do anything……..Suddenly the rain, like lashes , started again…..I ,muttering “saala koi kaise kar sakta hai aisa” came to the serenity of my room.
It was 13th of July…the bus had not come for ½ hr….depression was looming large. I was in a dilemma whether to wait for the red beast or start walking. In the midst of my fondling with the two options,I received the news,” Bantu ,bomb blast ho gaya hai”. I, sure, that the building behind me is going to explode , turned backwards. It didn’t explode, I started walking.
I decided to walk till I found a bus. Amma’s phone came “ Dadar kahaan hai..Bantu, un logon ke area me mat jaya karo”. My phone was constantly ringing. And again I was caught in a blend of emotions- first, a black one of fear of death and destruction , and second , a more colorful thought with a more childish flavor in it- of being in the limelight.
I finally got a bus,no. 27,coming all the way from Worli, which had passed through the bomb affected areas. It was a crowded bus. Infused with the air of sweaty odour and bad breath was a hush of fear,of stories of panic. I finally found a place to stand beside a seat where a kurta clad ,old bearded man was sitting. I made out it his religion from his attire. I clenched my fist, was perplexed. Thoughts were high in my mind that the bus is going to blast. The old man’s phone rang, he said ,”blast ho gaya” and I found my nightmares coming true. I was trying to get rid of such thoughts, I was helpless, those thoughts were like gushes of wind trying to break open my logical doors.
A little later , my stop came, and the bomb blast became an incident and the bus incident was now a matter to laugh at in the office the next day.
When I started writing this article , I wanted to give it a dramatic ending something abstract, yet out of the world, like Tyson’s punch. But now , I realize that conclusion is something we don’t really want , what we need is a start.
Most of us might not have gone through the same incidents, but yes, we all go through the feeling that those incidents created inside me. We feel proud of our nation, we desperately want to do something for it, and when needed we believe in sitting in a couch , eating home cooked food getting entertained by those sensational headlines……….and throughout the bottom line remains…” Kya Kare”
Frankly speaking , I can’t believe that a nation of 1.2 billion cannot rock the whole volume of the parliament in full strength. The fact of the matter is, that most of the times we are the ones who don’t want to change. We are the ones who don’t want to throw cigarette butts in a dustbin, and we are the culprits who are reluctant to opt for a long route to get things, general things , like passport registration, Driver’s License registration, getting flat,systematically done. That guy didn’t get a flat not because of a corrupt government , but because of a sick mentality. Mentality that causes the 2-g scam. The bomb-blast , again a result of that ‘stinking mentality’….and the result of that blast…in huge amount …’stinking mentality’.
The problem is that India is not ruled by government, or by a bunch of bureaucrats . India is ruled by a mindset, That which nurtured by poverty , dreams and religion in such a way that being an IAS doesn’t mean to be changing the system, but, bringing fame and money to the family.
Anything bad that happens , is the case of a psychology. A psychology has been there, be it Babri, 2-G ,13/7,26/11,11/7……..
Solution, well , I am too small to give one. Personally I won’t opt for a revolution. But yes, of introspection. I would like it, many would disagree , but in the way of Gandhiji. We will get there slow, 5 years, may be 50 years, but then, we will be getting to something, maybe a better future, a better nation, a better mother.
Such feeling ‘patriotic’ ,if I may call it ,arise seldom these days. For the last 7 months , when life has been categorically defined between work and weekend , fewer have been times when I have thought about the Matrabhoomi…the land,our mother, where we are born and raised.
A month has passed when I met that guy for the first ,and the last time. He was a friend’s acquaintance ,new to Mumbai, and naïve to the zeal ,the spirit that the city sets in you. He was here for a job , and was looking out for a room. For the last two days he had toiled hard,but, without any success . Still , he had a kick, that was driving him, in those torrential Bombay Rains, to look out for more and find a place in the Maximum City which beholds all. The way he finished his tea, the amicable tone of “Bantu bhaai..ghar kab jaaoge”…it was all raining optimism.
I have not met that guy since that day, but a week later I found out that he didn’t get a flat. Well….he was a Muslim The feeling that I had at that very moment was an even mixture of amazement , frustration and helplessness. The picture of Bombay, of majestic Marine Drive and picturesque Powai, which defied tradition and embraced all ,started fading from my mind. I wanted to do something I knew I could not and was sure that I would not. A caricature of that lad came to my mind. A jovial guy, a nice guy slowly immersing in the shallow waters of religious extremism, the waters are getting deeper , the guy is falling, loosing control. Sometimes he could not do anything , sometimes he does not want to do anything……..Suddenly the rain, like lashes , started again…..I ,muttering “saala koi kaise kar sakta hai aisa” came to the serenity of my room.
It was 13th of July…the bus had not come for ½ hr….depression was looming large. I was in a dilemma whether to wait for the red beast or start walking. In the midst of my fondling with the two options,I received the news,” Bantu ,bomb blast ho gaya hai”. I, sure, that the building behind me is going to explode , turned backwards. It didn’t explode, I started walking.
I decided to walk till I found a bus. Amma’s phone came “ Dadar kahaan hai..Bantu, un logon ke area me mat jaya karo”. My phone was constantly ringing. And again I was caught in a blend of emotions- first, a black one of fear of death and destruction , and second , a more colorful thought with a more childish flavor in it- of being in the limelight.
I finally got a bus,no. 27,coming all the way from Worli, which had passed through the bomb affected areas. It was a crowded bus. Infused with the air of sweaty odour and bad breath was a hush of fear,of stories of panic. I finally found a place to stand beside a seat where a kurta clad ,old bearded man was sitting. I made out it his religion from his attire. I clenched my fist, was perplexed. Thoughts were high in my mind that the bus is going to blast. The old man’s phone rang, he said ,”blast ho gaya” and I found my nightmares coming true. I was trying to get rid of such thoughts, I was helpless, those thoughts were like gushes of wind trying to break open my logical doors.
A little later , my stop came, and the bomb blast became an incident and the bus incident was now a matter to laugh at in the office the next day.
When I started writing this article , I wanted to give it a dramatic ending something abstract, yet out of the world, like Tyson’s punch. But now , I realize that conclusion is something we don’t really want , what we need is a start.
Most of us might not have gone through the same incidents, but yes, we all go through the feeling that those incidents created inside me. We feel proud of our nation, we desperately want to do something for it, and when needed we believe in sitting in a couch , eating home cooked food getting entertained by those sensational headlines……….and throughout the bottom line remains…” Kya Kare”
Frankly speaking , I can’t believe that a nation of 1.2 billion cannot rock the whole volume of the parliament in full strength. The fact of the matter is, that most of the times we are the ones who don’t want to change. We are the ones who don’t want to throw cigarette butts in a dustbin, and we are the culprits who are reluctant to opt for a long route to get things, general things , like passport registration, Driver’s License registration, getting flat,systematically done. That guy didn’t get a flat not because of a corrupt government , but because of a sick mentality. Mentality that causes the 2-g scam. The bomb-blast , again a result of that ‘stinking mentality’….and the result of that blast…in huge amount …’stinking mentality’.
The problem is that India is not ruled by government, or by a bunch of bureaucrats . India is ruled by a mindset, That which nurtured by poverty , dreams and religion in such a way that being an IAS doesn’t mean to be changing the system, but, bringing fame and money to the family.
Anything bad that happens , is the case of a psychology. A psychology has been there, be it Babri, 2-G ,13/7,26/11,11/7……..
Solution, well , I am too small to give one. Personally I won’t opt for a revolution. But yes, of introspection. I would like it, many would disagree , but in the way of Gandhiji. We will get there slow, 5 years, may be 50 years, but then, we will be getting to something, maybe a better future, a better nation, a better mother.
602...me v/s the world
My open mouthed gaze towards one Skoda sports car was short lived because behind that slender beauty….was a voluptuous beast. The atmosphere started getting tense, a ‘hussssshhhhhh’ dominated the scene. I, accidently stepped over ‘a thin as a thread' sandal of a lady , thereby crushing her cute toe. She beemed at me, I got ready to be slapped. But nothing happened , tension was abuzz, it was 6:15 PM . 602 was coming.
5:45- 6:00 – My down the hill walk marking the end of my office schedule often starts with a prayer ,”Lord just give me one seat in that bus…the window one will be great , but then anything worth sitting is fine”. As I reach the office gate , I slowly, narrowly, delllicattely turn my eyes towards left, watch the crowd waiting for the bus and march ,as if a freedom fighter is going to the gallows in the hope of getting his decision reversed, towards the the stop, and start waiting for BEST bus – 602.
6:00- 6:15 - The mind is all set, the body is all geared up, all prayers said , the eyes are focused firmly on the road. The crowd around is increasing, similarly my heart beat too, though at a much faster rate.’Thank God!!!’ is what I say when I see a person walking across the stop, showing no interest, although some mercy on us.”Fuck”(in Hindi), is spitted out as soon as a guy stands besides me , making his intentions clear, that of catching the red devil.
6:16- 6:20 – Like a Jew is unable to explain the Holocaust , a Japanese cannot describe the 1945 Nuclear explosion, similarly,these 4 minutes …no…240 seconds are undescribable, unexplainable and unapproachable. Well , they just happen. Those are spiritual moments. You don’t see your caste, your colour , your clothes , all of them seems to be momentary,what the sages have called ‘Maya’. You see the path towards the truth, you want to catch the bus , you, want to grab a seat.
6:20- 6:30 – I didn’t get a seat , am standing. My prayers have been shown the exit door. I am terrified, am perplexed. There is nothing sadder than this, even if I catch impotency , even if I get to know that this is the last day of my life,nothing beats the melancholy of this moment. Now, when each of my senses are blocked , my nose has become proactive.I can breathe in the stench of all the IT pros alongside me, contributing heavily in the GDP of the nation. I can feel the jasmine of the hair oil the buddy next to me, has poured over his head….I feel as if the conductor is coming towards me…”pudhe sarka..sarka pudhe”..these sounds touch my ears. I can see nothing except for a patch of road, which I am looking through an opening . I use the shape of that patch to get to know whether I am in the Powai region, or have reached the Eastern Express Highway.
6:30 - 7:00 – It has started becoming all right now. I am getting used to the stench, the jasmine, the mob. I am in a trance. Except for my I-card, I guess I have nothing, I owe nothing, I own nothing. I am a loner in this crowd who wants to reach home, feel the warmth of it. We all have transcended our bodies and have become one holy mass ,desperate to see a light, our destination. And then, IIT main gate comes , and I lose that warmth ,I come out of the holy spirit.
IIT was the place I always wanted to be a part of. I knew I wasn’t one of those but the screams of the outer world were too loud for me to hear the inner voice. I gave one year just to get an entry across that gate. I ended up being in a C grade college(though I loved every part of it). Today, I was staring across that gate. I wanted to catch just one glimpse of a student, owner of a perfect grey matter, guys who are revered nationwide,people, who study there, go to US. Study MS, stay in the US, thus ,leaving the nation to its gutters, filthiness and crowds.
7:00– 7:15 – The crowd has started dispersing,the bus is moving fast toward my stop- Kanjur marg. The journey, in hindsight can now be seen as an adventure, a story whose glorious end, I am able to see- my stop. I have gleefully stepped out of the bus, as if I have single handedly won the world cup for India, or have made her a superpower. I turn around, start gearing myself for another bus, another ride……another story.
5:45- 6:00 – My down the hill walk marking the end of my office schedule often starts with a prayer ,”Lord just give me one seat in that bus…the window one will be great , but then anything worth sitting is fine”. As I reach the office gate , I slowly, narrowly, delllicattely turn my eyes towards left, watch the crowd waiting for the bus and march ,as if a freedom fighter is going to the gallows in the hope of getting his decision reversed, towards the the stop, and start waiting for BEST bus – 602.
6:00- 6:15 - The mind is all set, the body is all geared up, all prayers said , the eyes are focused firmly on the road. The crowd around is increasing, similarly my heart beat too, though at a much faster rate.’Thank God!!!’ is what I say when I see a person walking across the stop, showing no interest, although some mercy on us.”Fuck”(in Hindi), is spitted out as soon as a guy stands besides me , making his intentions clear, that of catching the red devil.
6:16- 6:20 – Like a Jew is unable to explain the Holocaust , a Japanese cannot describe the 1945 Nuclear explosion, similarly,these 4 minutes …no…240 seconds are undescribable, unexplainable and unapproachable. Well , they just happen. Those are spiritual moments. You don’t see your caste, your colour , your clothes , all of them seems to be momentary,what the sages have called ‘Maya’. You see the path towards the truth, you want to catch the bus , you, want to grab a seat.
6:20- 6:30 – I didn’t get a seat , am standing. My prayers have been shown the exit door. I am terrified, am perplexed. There is nothing sadder than this, even if I catch impotency , even if I get to know that this is the last day of my life,nothing beats the melancholy of this moment. Now, when each of my senses are blocked , my nose has become proactive.I can breathe in the stench of all the IT pros alongside me, contributing heavily in the GDP of the nation. I can feel the jasmine of the hair oil the buddy next to me, has poured over his head….I feel as if the conductor is coming towards me…”pudhe sarka..sarka pudhe”..these sounds touch my ears. I can see nothing except for a patch of road, which I am looking through an opening . I use the shape of that patch to get to know whether I am in the Powai region, or have reached the Eastern Express Highway.
6:30 - 7:00 – It has started becoming all right now. I am getting used to the stench, the jasmine, the mob. I am in a trance. Except for my I-card, I guess I have nothing, I owe nothing, I own nothing. I am a loner in this crowd who wants to reach home, feel the warmth of it. We all have transcended our bodies and have become one holy mass ,desperate to see a light, our destination. And then, IIT main gate comes , and I lose that warmth ,I come out of the holy spirit.
IIT was the place I always wanted to be a part of. I knew I wasn’t one of those but the screams of the outer world were too loud for me to hear the inner voice. I gave one year just to get an entry across that gate. I ended up being in a C grade college(though I loved every part of it). Today, I was staring across that gate. I wanted to catch just one glimpse of a student, owner of a perfect grey matter, guys who are revered nationwide,people, who study there, go to US. Study MS, stay in the US, thus ,leaving the nation to its gutters, filthiness and crowds.
7:00– 7:15 – The crowd has started dispersing,the bus is moving fast toward my stop- Kanjur marg. The journey, in hindsight can now be seen as an adventure, a story whose glorious end, I am able to see- my stop. I have gleefully stepped out of the bus, as if I have single handedly won the world cup for India, or have made her a superpower. I turn around, start gearing myself for another bus, another ride……another story.
And the 'Award' goes to....
Prologue –
Time – Sometime in Feb-March 2010,not many days after Ravi Shastri announced from the commentary box at Gwalior- “Sachin, the first man in the planet to score a double hundred in ODIs”…news channels bustling all around ,should Sachin be the next Bharat Ratna??. The ‘?’ was a ‘?’ for the moneymaker media barons, while it was a decent ‘!!’ for the youth culture and the future stronghold of the nation…and a quiet ‘.’ for the millions of common Indians who , for the past 15 years,silently , yet firmly had made Sachin their Bharat Ratna.
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Place- Marine Drive ,200 metres +- Wankhede Stadium,I am standing somewhere in the middle of that 3.5 km long stretch. A place that holds true to the saying that ‘Men are from Mars and women are from South Bombay’ is alive and kicking. Cars all around, with bodies partially out of them,bodies with all the animation,waving flags from their hands and having jubilance in their faces, and faces, with nothing but screams of ‘Indeeeya..India’ from their mouths
India finally “after a generational gap of 28 years”(again in Shastri’s terms) had won the World cup and Marine Drive alongwith the whole of Mumbai and the whole nation was like something never before in the past and would never be at least in the next 4 years.
And these days..as was expected from the night of 2nd April , news channels are galore with ‘Indeeeeya..indiaaa’ spirits, be it Sachin, Dhoni, Sehwag, their mothers, wifes , relatives or sisters, there are all welcome in those supernatural, ‘out of the world’ studios ..and Hence another issue has come out of its burial ground…..Should Sachin be awarded the Bharat Ratna??
As a common man I don’t think my opinion counts but…as an ‘Indian’,I guess I should give one.
Yes…I think Sachin must be awarded this supreme accolade ,although he is already one( the supreme) in the eyes of this great nation. But for me, there is one more and only thing(as I may call it) that should be conferred this honour before Sachin. That thing, that era, that religion, that greatness is cricket.
If I may quote Wikipedia , Bharat Ratna is a civilian award awarded for highrst degree of national service including artistic, literary ,and for public service of the highest order.. if for a few minutes I ( and the people who are reading it ) assume cricket to be a human being , then this man has been doing the above mentioned things for the past 75 years., Be it Mumbai, Chennai , Malihabad, Leh, Be it Abhishek Bachchan, Atal Behari Vajpayee, or a poor farmer, the panorama of this guy over each of them is just the same ,irrespective of the fact that some of these guys own a Bentley, some own this nation, and many, doesen’t even own a rooftop for them.
There must be something in this man that for watching this stud people from jammu to kanyakumari, Rajasthan to charapoonji(I know this is a cliché but still) ‘bleed blue’. No matter if it is ’47 ,’84, 26/11, come this man and the nation is united like never before.
And now lets just convert it into a sport, and we see that it isn’t even our national sport,perhaps it needn’t be, because it is our national pride , our national emotion.. it is something greater than religion, because religion we have to follow, while this, we love to follow.
That last six from Dhoni, on that memorable night was not just a six, a winning shot, it was a moment when 1.2 billion Indians had tears in their eyes, were weak at their knees, and were dancing no matter if majority of them had no food to eat , no houses to live in and no occupation to earn from.
This game deserves something from this country, it deserves a tribute, if possible, a Bharat Ratna and if possible (and if I may have the guts to say) before Sachin.
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Epilogue
- The streets of Mumbai have turned workoholic, Dravid has made statement that Sachin is already a Bharat Ratna, and somewhere a craze ,a madness has started taking birth for the upcoming IPL.
Time – Sometime in Feb-March 2010,not many days after Ravi Shastri announced from the commentary box at Gwalior- “Sachin, the first man in the planet to score a double hundred in ODIs”…news channels bustling all around ,should Sachin be the next Bharat Ratna??. The ‘?’ was a ‘?’ for the moneymaker media barons, while it was a decent ‘!!’ for the youth culture and the future stronghold of the nation…and a quiet ‘.’ for the millions of common Indians who , for the past 15 years,silently , yet firmly had made Sachin their Bharat Ratna.
-----------------*-----------------------*----------------------*---------------------*---------------------
Place- Marine Drive ,200 metres +- Wankhede Stadium,I am standing somewhere in the middle of that 3.5 km long stretch. A place that holds true to the saying that ‘Men are from Mars and women are from South Bombay’ is alive and kicking. Cars all around, with bodies partially out of them,bodies with all the animation,waving flags from their hands and having jubilance in their faces, and faces, with nothing but screams of ‘Indeeeya..India’ from their mouths
India finally “after a generational gap of 28 years”(again in Shastri’s terms) had won the World cup and Marine Drive alongwith the whole of Mumbai and the whole nation was like something never before in the past and would never be at least in the next 4 years.
And these days..as was expected from the night of 2nd April , news channels are galore with ‘Indeeeeya..indiaaa’ spirits, be it Sachin, Dhoni, Sehwag, their mothers, wifes , relatives or sisters, there are all welcome in those supernatural, ‘out of the world’ studios ..and Hence another issue has come out of its burial ground…..Should Sachin be awarded the Bharat Ratna??
As a common man I don’t think my opinion counts but…as an ‘Indian’,I guess I should give one.
Yes…I think Sachin must be awarded this supreme accolade ,although he is already one( the supreme) in the eyes of this great nation. But for me, there is one more and only thing(as I may call it) that should be conferred this honour before Sachin. That thing, that era, that religion, that greatness is cricket.
If I may quote Wikipedia , Bharat Ratna is a civilian award awarded for highrst degree of national service including artistic, literary ,and for public service of the highest order.. if for a few minutes I ( and the people who are reading it ) assume cricket to be a human being , then this man has been doing the above mentioned things for the past 75 years., Be it Mumbai, Chennai , Malihabad, Leh, Be it Abhishek Bachchan, Atal Behari Vajpayee, or a poor farmer, the panorama of this guy over each of them is just the same ,irrespective of the fact that some of these guys own a Bentley, some own this nation, and many, doesen’t even own a rooftop for them.
There must be something in this man that for watching this stud people from jammu to kanyakumari, Rajasthan to charapoonji(I know this is a cliché but still) ‘bleed blue’. No matter if it is ’47 ,’84, 26/11, come this man and the nation is united like never before.
And now lets just convert it into a sport, and we see that it isn’t even our national sport,perhaps it needn’t be, because it is our national pride , our national emotion.. it is something greater than religion, because religion we have to follow, while this, we love to follow.
That last six from Dhoni, on that memorable night was not just a six, a winning shot, it was a moment when 1.2 billion Indians had tears in their eyes, were weak at their knees, and were dancing no matter if majority of them had no food to eat , no houses to live in and no occupation to earn from.
This game deserves something from this country, it deserves a tribute, if possible, a Bharat Ratna and if possible (and if I may have the guts to say) before Sachin.
------------*--------------------*----------------------*---------------------------*----------
Epilogue
- The streets of Mumbai have turned workoholic, Dravid has made statement that Sachin is already a Bharat Ratna, and somewhere a craze ,a madness has started taking birth for the upcoming IPL.
TRIVANDRUM.......
It was my third visit to Kovalam and my first interaction with the sea with the taste of alcohol in my mouth. Craving for beer at one of the best beaches of India did cost me 15 bucks more but then,with that ‘Palone’ kick I saw the Arabian sea in a different avatar. It was like an unlimited or rather limitless expanse of 5:30 in the evening which seemed to me like a combo of darkness nestled intimately with a blurred sunshine coming out of nowhere, it seemed that the sea carrying almost everything and then ,as soon as it kissed and made love to the rocks it was exactly penniless, as if the sea was like Mira who left everything just to be with his very own Krishna which was there on the sides of Kovalam ,from time immemorial, in the form of rocks.
And in the middle of the tsunami of thoughts attacking me that evening ..I uttered “ek bar biwi lo le k aoongaa zaroor”.
Life at Kerala , I thought at that point of time, was becoming interesting. A thought that didn’t come to my mind when I arrived at Trivandrum Central on 14th of Nov ,2010 followed by a failed bargain negotiation with the driver and coolie, only to be dumped , in a greenish ,’kabootarkhaana’ ish room no. 204. And then time started improvising things, it didn’t heal because somewhere I was feeling that there was something missing, but yes, it definitely improvised.
The training done at the tip of this great nation seemed to me in agreement with the premonition that I had on the day when I was interviewed for TCS. “Achcha ye bataao ,tumhe le kyun” was asked by the interviewer umpteen number of times ,and an equally umpteen no. Of times I retorted back..”Sir I have got the hunger ,I will fight it out”. I finally was selected ,but, in those hours between the announcement and the interview I thought-”Am I made for it??,is this the right place for me??”. Incidentally, the same thoughts that I had on the eve of my J2EE lab test.
Java , a word that I hated in college , now became a necessity ,and due to that a phobia of this tremendous language was instilled in me. Sometimes I fell in love with this Gosling’s creation, other times…it was like a web knitted with the poisonous strokes of classes and objects , made only to capture my free spirits. My relation with this ‘programmers’s delight’ started as a challenge to be conquered , went on becoming a phobia , and ended up , still remaining a challenge unconquered.
Technically ,I feel proud to say I came out as failiure. I was proud of this fact because I didn’t run away from the programming intricacies , I faced them all ,although in the end my grey matter losing out to the theory of ‘Platform Independence”.
Friends , were something that I hadn’t expected in the training. I thought it would be all a very ruthless ,dogged professional exercise, where there will be a flurry of associates and a famine of mates, but things turned out to be otherwise . Aruvi Tourist Home , seemed to me as the extension of the hostel life that I had lived and cherished for the last 4 years of my life and needless to say ,was cherishing this period too. Those starry nights, midnight smokes, exuberant bakar(courtesy Ishan and Frusty) were real gem of moments. Kerela , a place which seemed to be a bit strange at first ended up being one where we romed in the nights just to get a cup of tea with fried eggs.
Apart from all the case studies , deadlines and LAAP fears , on 12th feb when when I was boarding a flight to Mumbai for a furthur battle, Kerala didn’t seem all that bad. I had developed a longing for the chettas, was missing the juices of Pattom, and the elegant architecture of Peepul Park. More that God’s own , I think kerala was India’s own, with an awesome literacy rate, co-operatinf people and mesmerizing beauty. It is a state that has clung to its root and is a lesson for the rest of India to look up to and the answer to all those who say “Is desh ka kuch nahi ho sakta”.
All I was able to utter to myself when finally leaving Kochi Airport lounge was …”ek baar saala (biwi ko le k ) aoonga zaroor.
And in the middle of the tsunami of thoughts attacking me that evening ..I uttered “ek bar biwi lo le k aoongaa zaroor”.
Life at Kerala , I thought at that point of time, was becoming interesting. A thought that didn’t come to my mind when I arrived at Trivandrum Central on 14th of Nov ,2010 followed by a failed bargain negotiation with the driver and coolie, only to be dumped , in a greenish ,’kabootarkhaana’ ish room no. 204. And then time started improvising things, it didn’t heal because somewhere I was feeling that there was something missing, but yes, it definitely improvised.
The training done at the tip of this great nation seemed to me in agreement with the premonition that I had on the day when I was interviewed for TCS. “Achcha ye bataao ,tumhe le kyun” was asked by the interviewer umpteen number of times ,and an equally umpteen no. Of times I retorted back..”Sir I have got the hunger ,I will fight it out”. I finally was selected ,but, in those hours between the announcement and the interview I thought-”Am I made for it??,is this the right place for me??”. Incidentally, the same thoughts that I had on the eve of my J2EE lab test.
Java , a word that I hated in college , now became a necessity ,and due to that a phobia of this tremendous language was instilled in me. Sometimes I fell in love with this Gosling’s creation, other times…it was like a web knitted with the poisonous strokes of classes and objects , made only to capture my free spirits. My relation with this ‘programmers’s delight’ started as a challenge to be conquered , went on becoming a phobia , and ended up , still remaining a challenge unconquered.
Technically ,I feel proud to say I came out as failiure. I was proud of this fact because I didn’t run away from the programming intricacies , I faced them all ,although in the end my grey matter losing out to the theory of ‘Platform Independence”.
Friends , were something that I hadn’t expected in the training. I thought it would be all a very ruthless ,dogged professional exercise, where there will be a flurry of associates and a famine of mates, but things turned out to be otherwise . Aruvi Tourist Home , seemed to me as the extension of the hostel life that I had lived and cherished for the last 4 years of my life and needless to say ,was cherishing this period too. Those starry nights, midnight smokes, exuberant bakar(courtesy Ishan and Frusty) were real gem of moments. Kerela , a place which seemed to be a bit strange at first ended up being one where we romed in the nights just to get a cup of tea with fried eggs.
Apart from all the case studies , deadlines and LAAP fears , on 12th feb when when I was boarding a flight to Mumbai for a furthur battle, Kerala didn’t seem all that bad. I had developed a longing for the chettas, was missing the juices of Pattom, and the elegant architecture of Peepul Park. More that God’s own , I think kerala was India’s own, with an awesome literacy rate, co-operatinf people and mesmerizing beauty. It is a state that has clung to its root and is a lesson for the rest of India to look up to and the answer to all those who say “Is desh ka kuch nahi ho sakta”.
All I was able to utter to myself when finally leaving Kochi Airport lounge was …”ek baar saala (biwi ko le k ) aoonga zaroor.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
I Thought a lot about the title....but somethings are better left without one..hence...UNTITLED
Although I had watched The King’s Speech ,the inaugural scene of Colin Firth stepping towards a majestic crowd at Wembley deserved a ‘second time’.
Standing in my way of seeing two minutess of impeccable shooting was a lady- turning or just about turned 35 craving for a packet of Nachos and an incredibly chilled can of Pepsi(Diet). The boy selling the junk item was not comfortable with the ‘smooth as the flow of Royal Blue in a Parker’ english the lady was jabbering. “No Pepsi …thandi nahi hai Madam “ was all he could muster, but the lady ,unperturbed with his impediment carried his silken Anglicized touch…”Hey hang on..pass on a packet of cheesed popcorn(watch out for that delicate yet all important touch of grammer – Cheese-ed)
The battle of orient v/s the Occident carried on until after 20 minutes I got to utter “2 nachos kay packet Bhayiaa” which could easily have been under 10 minutes.
English ,is often regarded as a gift given to us by the Britishers. A domain .most of the elite Indians are revered to be expert at. It is a language and probably one of its kind which I guess has been a status symbol for the past 100 years, and looking at the respect that the vendor had for that Madame , I guess it will be there for another 100 years.
But along with that respect I was able to catch a glimpse of fear that gripped the guy instantaneously, an inferiority complex that had caught hold of him and this effect is also one of its kind that only English can produce in a country that has a growth rate of 7-8 % amidst dubious recession.
64 years after independence ,many of Gandiji’s teachings are considered to be deprecated. One of these is his theory where he told that an Indian should respect ,know and speak Hindi. If I try my hand at it ,then I would say that Ganndhi wanted a sort of an inner revolution to take place in India, a revolt Which would lead the nation to have pride in itself, to have a satisfaction attained with a glass of Rooh-Afza rather than a diet-Coke, and most of all which would have avoided a scar India is now facing – CULTURAL IMBALANCE.
An imbalance that I experience while going to the office in the envious skyscrapers of Powai via the equally piteous slums of Mulund(both of them in Mumbai) . An inequality that I observe between IT guys like me and the unemployed- forced to be militants Kashmiris.
Language is a fluid that always has to be refined if we want to polish our civilization with smooth development .Language is the simplest definition of a culture which in turn is the granite of the building blocks of any nation. And we all are well aware that this stone is somehow, somewhere crumbling. A scorn at Munshi Premchand ‘s classics for a craze at GRE Barron’s is an ultimate proof of that.
China, Russia , certainly larger in area than ours reached the status of ‘developed ‘ in a comparatively shorter period of time because they had there thoughts to be told and applied in the language they revered and loved and most importantly spoken with pride by all of them.
India today , on the other hand is in a state of confusion..not able to decide what is apt for it- ‘Allah tero naam ‘ or ‘oonce se ooncha banda …poty pe baithe nanga’. The cause – lack of communication because we are not able to gel..’not able to gel ’ due to awkward reasons like avoiding a UPite ,not because of his body odor but because of his simple yet solid Bhojpuri.. Due to some excellent communication we have caught hold of most of the Silicon Valley , and due to the lack of the same we haven’t been able to stop a Naxalbari or a Kashmir.
Problems , be it economical or religious have started sadly, from this imbalance and amazingly the solution lies in that culture itself,in its scriptures ,philosophies and stories which can only do good if each and every Indian understands in the same way, in the same feel , in the same spirit , in the same language-HINDUSTANI..so that in these day when we are bleeding blue …we can live that old adage which has been limited only to our songbooks----HINDI HAIN HUM WATAN HAI..HINDUSTAN HAMAARA………
PS – King’s Speech(though in English) was a feast to watch.
PPS – Sorry for writing this up in English.
Standing in my way of seeing two minutess of impeccable shooting was a lady- turning or just about turned 35 craving for a packet of Nachos and an incredibly chilled can of Pepsi(Diet). The boy selling the junk item was not comfortable with the ‘smooth as the flow of Royal Blue in a Parker’ english the lady was jabbering. “No Pepsi …thandi nahi hai Madam “ was all he could muster, but the lady ,unperturbed with his impediment carried his silken Anglicized touch…”Hey hang on..pass on a packet of cheesed popcorn(watch out for that delicate yet all important touch of grammer – Cheese-ed)
The battle of orient v/s the Occident carried on until after 20 minutes I got to utter “2 nachos kay packet Bhayiaa” which could easily have been under 10 minutes.
English ,is often regarded as a gift given to us by the Britishers. A domain .most of the elite Indians are revered to be expert at. It is a language and probably one of its kind which I guess has been a status symbol for the past 100 years, and looking at the respect that the vendor had for that Madame , I guess it will be there for another 100 years.
But along with that respect I was able to catch a glimpse of fear that gripped the guy instantaneously, an inferiority complex that had caught hold of him and this effect is also one of its kind that only English can produce in a country that has a growth rate of 7-8 % amidst dubious recession.
64 years after independence ,many of Gandiji’s teachings are considered to be deprecated. One of these is his theory where he told that an Indian should respect ,know and speak Hindi. If I try my hand at it ,then I would say that Ganndhi wanted a sort of an inner revolution to take place in India, a revolt Which would lead the nation to have pride in itself, to have a satisfaction attained with a glass of Rooh-Afza rather than a diet-Coke, and most of all which would have avoided a scar India is now facing – CULTURAL IMBALANCE.
An imbalance that I experience while going to the office in the envious skyscrapers of Powai via the equally piteous slums of Mulund(both of them in Mumbai) . An inequality that I observe between IT guys like me and the unemployed- forced to be militants Kashmiris.
Language is a fluid that always has to be refined if we want to polish our civilization with smooth development .Language is the simplest definition of a culture which in turn is the granite of the building blocks of any nation. And we all are well aware that this stone is somehow, somewhere crumbling. A scorn at Munshi Premchand ‘s classics for a craze at GRE Barron’s is an ultimate proof of that.
China, Russia , certainly larger in area than ours reached the status of ‘developed ‘ in a comparatively shorter period of time because they had there thoughts to be told and applied in the language they revered and loved and most importantly spoken with pride by all of them.
India today , on the other hand is in a state of confusion..not able to decide what is apt for it- ‘Allah tero naam ‘ or ‘oonce se ooncha banda …poty pe baithe nanga’. The cause – lack of communication because we are not able to gel..’not able to gel ’ due to awkward reasons like avoiding a UPite ,not because of his body odor but because of his simple yet solid Bhojpuri.. Due to some excellent communication we have caught hold of most of the Silicon Valley , and due to the lack of the same we haven’t been able to stop a Naxalbari or a Kashmir.
Problems , be it economical or religious have started sadly, from this imbalance and amazingly the solution lies in that culture itself,in its scriptures ,philosophies and stories which can only do good if each and every Indian understands in the same way, in the same feel , in the same spirit , in the same language-HINDUSTANI..so that in these day when we are bleeding blue …we can live that old adage which has been limited only to our songbooks----HINDI HAIN HUM WATAN HAI..HINDUSTAN HAMAARA………
PS – King’s Speech(though in English) was a feast to watch.
PPS – Sorry for writing this up in English.
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