Condemnation, no more the lyrics

It was a stormy monsoon that wasted all. And the winter heat now, is as marring, all adjourned. Day 4 of the Parliament’s winter session saw some peace. Oh yes, there’s always some deafening silence after a slap. And that is precisely what let the Lok Sabha debate. The first ever civilized discussion of the season – How can a politician be slapped?

The media in its breathless run ran the footage of Agriculture Minister and NCP chief Sharad Pawar being assaulted by a common man. His rage evident, his anger well let out, his reason – price rise. Well that could be just one of the many. The attacker was arrested immediately, and the attack was condemned. Politicians of all clans came out criticizing the act. Anna Hazare fumbled with his doublespeak and take 2 well suited as a reaction byte. Well the first reactions are usually spontaneous, “just one?” although his team followed the socially accepted stand – condemn the act of slapping, its violence. The new age opinion thrusting, cop-judge-jury, news anchors, who slip away from reportage went on accentuating, “such acts of violence…”
”The larger question, are we as a society too intolerant?”

The netizens though speak their mind without inhibitions and the audacious Sikh is being lauded as a Hero. Why not? He stood up for himself and the rest. The rest form a society rather too tolerant; to now have been immune to all the politicians’ whims and follies. It doesn’t stop at; neither begins with the endless scam skeletons tumbling out of the closet. It is not only about inflation going through the roof, and the plummeting GDP. It’s neither because of the bungled up land reforms nor an unhealthy business environment alone. Neither the tribal issues and the Naxalism, nor the incessant terror strikes is the reason. The rotting food grains alone don’t form grounds for the slap. The waste of the public distribution system, the loot of the taxes and the failing policies too isn’t the sole explanation. It’s because of trust deficit. It’s simply about a series of deceits, broken promises and mismanagement.

Why doesn’t the House debate and unanimously condemn the lathicharge on the farmers, on the peacefully sleeping crowds of Ramlila? No! We are to be tolerant.

A slap often shakes one off his slumber. It’s sorry that Pawar became the cheek of his entire ilk, for Pawar is an honourable man. But all honourable men rather shed their drowsy illusions lest whipping is begun. Booing Steel Minister Beni Prasad in his constituency, the aam admi, wide awake and much roused, has been pushed through his tolerances. Instead of humming Kolaveri di, the House needs to set its tune. Condemnation is not the lyrics this time round.

A bag of storm and sunshine

I was flipping through one of my friends’ poems, and got absorbed in one.

"There are questions I cannot answer

And answers I cannot face

And whenever I corner ME

The heart pumps at a faster pace

There are feelings I cannot emote

And emotions I do not understand

The time plays tricks on me

And slips by the hourglass sand

There are things I cannot do

Because they do not seem right

But who is to judge the wrong

You or I, question one might

For people who judge me let them do

What matters is not their view

But what lies deep within me

Though I fear it, I will know it is true"

[source:  http://prateekshankardixit.blogspot.com/2011/09/struggling-thoughts.html ] 

One would scorn at me for this,

But I find some solace in this.

I’m not known to be a sadist

But I find some solace in this.

It just reassures that man is alike, with unanswered questions, overwhelming emotions, failing identities, and the right of wrongs and rights.

I find solace, because it suddenly shakes my egocentric sense and I realize I’m one of the all surviving men; yes the boat is the same in which we sail. So may as well we find some solace in sailing together.

Your turmoil is yours, my whirlpool mine. I would say I could weather yours and you would feel you could pass through mine; but His will is as per His strength in us to grind.

I’ll tell you how it happened, the bag of storm and sunshine.

It was dark, it wasn’t night though. You couldn’t have made out whether it was dawn or dusk; or even if it were a heavily cast day sky. I got off the carriage. Don’t quite remember whether it was pulled by a bull or a horse. I think I even saw some mules. A big bus halted close by. It was noisy – it appeared noisy, in the sense that one would expect it to be noisy where hundreds were assembling, coming in by various modes of transport. But for most part of it I heard no market clamour. It was more of numb with little whispering and rustling. I hauled up my baggage from the cart. It was quite a task, and I dropped it on the grassless ground to breathe in before heaving it on my shoulders. I looked around and saw the slope. Thousands kept pouring in. Buses, carts, cars, rickshaws, and yes on foot. One hardly spoke to anyone else but as if programmed lumbered onto the slope. It was a hill if I recollect. Or a mountain, I really didn’t pay minute attention to it. But it was brown, grassless as the starting point where all disembarked their Lorries. The trudge was more because of the backpacks. We had little idea what it contained; it was just thrust upon us to carry. Some murmured about some storm and some rain in the bag. I found it odd initially but it wasn’t late before most of us realized the bag’s contents. I breathed out a puff as I plonked it on my back. “Heavy storm child, heavy storm,” Consoled a passer-by. I hesitated and mumbled a yes. A few men guided the mass of people towards ascend. They told us about the gravity of the bags, adding that it had small oyster and by the time we had climbed up we should have had the pearl.

“Actually you won’t reach atop unless you get the pearl,” calmed me an old granny. Guess she sensed my anxieties.

“I still have the oyster, it’s been 73 years.”

“But where are we plodding?”

I was whispering; it was a sight straight out of a Zombie flick. Men, women, children all flocked on the gradual rise. Mostly heads slung down.

“He’s a grand old man sitting there. We have to deposit our pearls with him. But they say he’s a loving greybeard.”  

She confused me. How could he be doting if he makes me toil so much and then take away my pearl if I ever find it? Moreover what about these monstrous bags?

It’s been a while now. I know all men carry their storm and their calm, their rain and little sunshine and carry it all. As I walked laden with mine in a crowded path with each man encumbered, I smiled at one, and said a hello to another. I once cried about my weights to one, and then once light-heartedly poked another of his baggage; a few around me exhaled a little giggle. Behold! My bag turned lighter for a moment. Oh! I just gained sunshine. We continued trudging. I heard the old granny whom I met, found her pearl. They said she’d crossed beyond. People simply guess what the pearls look like.

Here one patted me and said, "hey, aren't we all walking up there and beyond with this burden of seasons?" And suddenly I see myself walking up there and beyond with my backpack with a few men of my like. The one beside me conked my head, babbled something. We coined a word of his gibber – friend. So the next night as I walked, I cried of my storm again to this chap beside me, yes friend. He heard me and gibbered again that I couldn’t make out; I felt nice though. We started talking, crying of our rains, at times giggled and added little sunshine to our bags and are still walking up there and beyond. These gibberish people can be fun at times. As for the pearls, we’ll find them someday and see the loving graybeard. Oh! it's heavy. Yes yes, am walking. It's dark. Yes the same that you can't decide - dawn or dusk. It's silent. It's so numb.

“Isn’t it better to keep laughing while trekking up there and beyond?”

“Oh you keep crying of your bag. Here, take some sunshine.” The gibber slapped my head, tickled me and we broke into peels of laughter again.

Yet pardon me, friend

I find some solace in this

Am not a sadist nor I offend

But found we all have our bags

And gibber of this.

Our boats are same

And sense the same weather

So some solace for the tough sail

At least we all sail together.

Hazardous Hazare

As it is said, in India everything gathers some melodrama the running anti corruption tamasha for some would call it indeed is an intriguing drama.

Hazardous Hazare, as the UPA must have been racking nerves, is surely a man of substance, not for his metabolic might to fast unto death but for egging on a country of people who generally after having spilt their curry remain complacent with a ‘koi baat nai.’ Oh! And after having a basket of eggs on its face the GoI could have been a little watchful with the case.

The sonorous sordid stories of corruption should be given no time for an explanation or description. Nor should any time be wasted in settling scores of the colourful politicians debating, ‘your corruption being larger than mine’, on as many news channels. Then leave aside the petulant remarks of the spokesperson digging out corruption cases against the Anti corruption team. As it is long decades have gone by without making any apparent movement on the Lokpal Bill. The debate over the draft might be a different issue all together. Whether the government’s version is an umbrella with a hole or Anna’s draft a heavy institution for our already humungous establishment needs a debate not a drama.

With the amicable yoga baba’s stint on fast, matters worsened. Trivialization of satyagrah and ann-shan and a sad comparison of equating the revolution with that of the freedom struggle. We probably forget the intense years of the mid 20^th century, or were seeing this just after the million march of Egypt. Further the events took an ugly turn - UPA bungling up with the situation with a lathi charge, and our baba - a man of honour in a garb of a woman?

However heavy or overwhelming the Jan Lokpal draft bill might be, for our system with such despair, it might be a shot for the better. If nothing else a nation in slumber has been woken up. It has started talking of being anti corrupt, change hopefully would take its time and it would practice restraint and start being anti corrupt soon. After a chapter of embarrassments for the Congress government this was the magic wand, our reticent Prime Minister spoke of whenever he spoke, sparingly though. Sadly again, it came down on Anna and his team that now comprised a visible chunk of the nation counting in many thousands and turning them up in its much-loved Tihar.
 

God bless this courageous frail old man. He indeed is a matter of substance. And for the melodrama of this tamasha, we have always had it. And this time it’s ‘I am Anna’!!  

I've just added a year

It's my threshold

I've crossed my teens

I'm turning mature
I ought to preen

Suddenly,
they've thrown much on my shoulder
yet they hush me up
when my tongue goes bolder

Conflicts inside me
i find much to resolve

am happy they are

after all at this age they revolve

I've grown strong
Am big and i realize it
its my time to stand

its my day i simply rejoice it

- I, India!

[on Her 65th birthday]

Ennui

Boredom to lousy housewives

Is a day’s task

For aged men and their wives,

Just their compulsion’s mask

Listless is but a word for the lads

Lounged displeasured on a cask

The true pleasure of boredom, ask him

For whom yet a world of errands does bask

I feel so light

I drink it every night

For a sight

And that fight

But you were right, you were right

We won’t fight

Ahead; how there’s no sight

I still hope I might

Have that sight one night, one night.

I drank it every night

It’s over and tight

I buried my heart in fright

But pleasantly I feel so light, so light.

Why do I still see their footprints?

I don't want them to read my heart, yet I yearn for someone to know my heart...

~

How earnestly one yearns to break free the shackles of emotional binding, and ironically, how desperately one craves for the very emotional bonds. Ostensibly they are two little words, but move on, translate into transcending two vast worlds; Worlds apart.

Life is a caravan, look around, there are many more; they keep reiterating. Yes many, then why is it that you get stuck to one or a few? It’s not that you don’t want to walk ahead, its not that you want to stay aloof, its not that you don’t want to laugh again, but then why is it that you just don’t move beyond little smiles, hesitant at times, plastic at others? Why? Why don’t you burst into mirth? Why is it that you are not ready to let anyone fill in that place in your system which once belonged to someone? Why do you fear replacement?

You chid yourself every morning and every night to walk ahead. Then why is it that you slip and slump into the wrong lane, one that’s just of memories. Time is the most whimsical player of the game. And you just can’t match your wit with its. Never. Shed all burden and past is one. There is still light around, still able enough to pep you up, still bright to show you ahead. Why is it that you decline their offer?

And after hauling yourself out of that lane, for the umpteenth number of time this day, as alike others, you just harangue! Move on. Replace. See ahead. They’ve walked their miles. There are others waiting to walk down with you. Yet, why do I still see the old footprints? 

My moon that night!

Well past midnight in March

A large orange moon hung

Precariously near the swishing

Tree that could have it stung.

A lone sheet on the clothesline,

I fluttered in the large balcony;

Left over to be dried, I saw

The moon, try some alchemy.

It glowed in pride.

The big circle with the marks;

It charmed me next

With such sparkling sparks

Full in shape that night,

Although I’d earlier romanced,

Hanging in forlorn nights,

Some slender crescents that’d advanced.

Reaching my hand out

I shouted and called it in,

“Careful! The frenzied twigs”

I’d seen in it some of my kin.

Gloomy I sulked back.

They gave no mouths to textile!

Feared a scratch on the delicate face,

But my screech was just futile.

The rope shivered and I

Called out the cheeks of heaven,

“Stop the ugly play of Wind or

Haul my darling away but in safe haven.”

Peeped she out, unveiling

From the ashen Cloud;

Painting a pale hapless smile,

Just to slip back in her shroud.

Wind halted to grin at me,

Towing in along heavy grey fate;

Her veil swelled up!

And started shedding weight.

I scoffed back at him

For his self goal that night;

Scary twigs quit their game, and,

I was drenched again for her delight. 

Again!

It’s pretty,

Pretty again

And I hear it again,

The violin hum;

I shake up to realize

I haven’t had any rum.

But I see it again

I see it happening now

I think

Think again

And I look forward

To live the moments

I wake up to remember

And realize their torments.

But I see it again

A half of I want it now

Not my fault

Not my fault again

It treats me such and

I forget all – now and old

I slap my head to stop

Even ere, I couldn’t be bold.

I see it again

I think of the right wrong now

It’s fervent,

Fervent again;

I remember the last

I compare the reasons and all.

And sigh as I have always done;

A faint smile and I take the call.

I’m falling again.

Falling in love again now;

If not sincere as last

’m learning to love again, now…

Summer Possum

Time has gone by

And they’d moved on

Yet on a murky night

She remembered that dawn

On a lurid march day

He kissed her brow

Gifted a tiny possum

With a red ribbon bow

She loved him much

And loved the possum

It hopped and played

And danced to her drum

It liked her much

Cuddling on the shoulder

Ran across her chest

Behind her neck, felt bolder

Seasons changed and

Months passed to summer

Possum she called hers

Made her eyes shimmer

That sunny afternoon

It ran into the wood

Her pulse paced n pounded

Shivered and wept in the hood

She looked and looked on

And remembered the kiss

Road was lonely ahead

Possum hers, she’d miss

Skies turned dark

And the rain hit her hard

She wondered of her phalange

And sang as a bard

Season’s first flakes fell

And snow made her white

Where would it be and

Wished for just a sight

The maid ran in and

Grinned and screamed

“My man saw the possum

With many others it teamed”

Sprang she with glee

And sent for her husband

Then realized clay

Had to return to sand

She’d calmed down

And verified the red bow

The little beast last wore

Smiled she, tears fell in a row

Its summer today

And she tenders little Furs

Remembers hers first, sighs

Smiles and continues to nurse

As his possum

Was he and his love

And so was hers

Painted a smile and dove

Time has gone by

And they’ve moved on

Yet on a murky night

She remembers that dawn

Jan support but not Jasmine!

An interesting balance sets on the stats when one juxtaposes the figures 1.67 lakh crores and 1.21 billion! One, an estimate of an instance of loss and the other, well our strength. That’s what our worrisome population is known as when a Gandhi sits on a Satyagrah. Within hours of Anna starting his fast unto death, for bringing accountability in the governance, an unprecedented response mushroomed across the country. Saffron scarves and in skull caps, cotton sari clad and in candid denims, silver haired and the seventeen year old, all turned out from the multi strata complex society. Oh! Well that makes us 1.2 billion.

A historic revolution and naming it the second freedom struggle, the internet beings have added quite admirable fuel to the fire, fanned by the media. A rotten country, ranking 87^th on the corruption list could merely dream of flying. Only a fire in the house could have broken our slumber. The overwhelming response on the call of Hazare, roaring Anna nahi yeh aandhi hai,Desh ka doosra Gandhi hai, would bring down the lumbering government to finally pass the much coveted, 42 year grand old bill, a precaution then, but surely a cure now.

Street plays, speeches and slogans, all have been screaming of corruption and decay. Perhaps taking cue of the global trends, we’ve started smelling Jasmine in India. But, here lies a sad note. India, however mucky it may be, is a thriving and well so, democracy. Rechristening Jantar Mantar, Tahrir Square, would be disrespecting ourselves, our faith and that of Anna Hazare’s campaign. Let’s leave it to Egypt and the ilk to liberate from their non democratic regimes at Tahrir.

Although a section of the society suspects Anna’s version of the bill, and quite reasons it. Establishing an institution as super cop – super judge, might in some stray possibilities give birth to a monstrous head with no counter. Yet, it’s quite desirable to have such a Lokpal even if it questions every move of the government. Its time we get it done.

As crores gather in the width and span of the country in support of Anna, many are oblivious to the motive of their congregating, even if they do shout for the Jan Lokpal Bill, plenty don’t understand its intricacies. But what they do know is that they have assembled to question the political class of the callous corrupt governance they have been inflicted upon. And that is reason enough to join the ‘historic’ movement.

True liberation though, would only be achieved if this mass support translates into a mass will of acting against basic corruption, the aam aadmi corruption. It doesn’t lie with the government alone; it breeds in every child here. We can’t sing songs that are crooned in Arabia. Along with the check on politicos, we need to keep a tab on selves. A no to the next cop on the road for the ghoos, stands must for a Lokpal Law to be implemented well.

I look on...

I looked at the mirror

I looked at the mirror again tonight.

I looked at myself after pretty long,

I looked at how I look now.

I looked if anything had to be fixed,

I looked interested in myself, and how!

I’d never really been a Narcissist, but

I brushed with the sense after pretty long.

I used to gaze at the reflection for hours,

I used to look on until my look was fine.

I used to ask the mirror if I’d be looked at

I used to smile for the gentry that would dine.

And then, my muse was gone.

Along; had gone plenty.

I lost much, and in that was my mirror.

I was brought a new one, framed, and well lit.

I looked at it and wondered, for whom?

I was told to move on, but I rarely looked at it.

Today, was it?

Or has it been for a while?

I spoke interestedly and listened to the replies,

I smiled and kept it, till I walked home.

I looked at the mirrored face and yes, time flies.

I hooked the mirror on a wall,

I look at the mirror today and

I remember the bygone fall.

I look hesitant, I sigh for the dawn,

I look at the mirror to see a missing scar,

I look, and there’s still in me that fawn.

I look at new grey in the hair, but that wouldn’t mar.

I look on;

I’ll love the old look for on, but

I would look on for my look from now on.

Let there be no music

Let there be no music

For sometime let it be silent.

Let it settle down

A little, it has been so violent.

The cries of the hero

Longing for his love he lost.

Or the band’s drumbeats

On the floor, cheering raise a toast.

Tune off the radio,

Let there be no sound.

Knock off the earphones

They give my head a round.

You ask for a jazz?

Or skip from pop to rock,

Spare me the Raga, I’ll

Even shove away the filmy dock.

Melody melts as venom, in

My lonely self and a bottle of rum,

For I have walked miles and months,

And the iPod’s been the sole hum.

Tune it off for the

Hero’s croon; love makes me cry.

Knock off the earphones, for the

Revelling beats give nostalgia a try.

Let there be no music

For sometime let there be no noise,

Hush, I quite like this silence,

Please, I just wait to hear a voice…