The Rainbows of Facebook

There are more rainbows than rain this season, at least in Delhi. If not umbrellas, we have multi-hued filters to put up on our faces in our parallel digital lives. There’s enough reason. Congratulations America.

There are at least few who deem equal dignity as a given. While our land laws and leaders look astray, our courts interestingly walk backwards. However, netizens look bright and have taken to the cause. So what trended this week was an avalanche support for the LGBTQ. What also got tweeted (by the Prime Minister) and hence trended was #SelfieWithDaughter. Simple smiles that started in Harayana caught attention and how!

But that’s the thing with it. Trends fade away. And the social network ones even faster. My Facebook friend-list is retreating from a rainbow trip. The two picture frenzies of the week have little in common. These are campaigns in support of equality, campaigns to correct gross imbalance in our society. However, we might miss how these are rather imbalances in our social thinking. I wonder how much a profile picture change would help. Cynics have taken their lines too. Not discounting it being at least an iota of positive energy if nothing else, campaigns remain after all, just campaigns.

Since most of us communicating and interacting here have moderate to heavy internet lives, we see a sea change in the world around us. We see fathers from an acutely gender-skewed state Harayana putting up pretty pictures with their daughters. With terrific circulation over social networks the mainstream media picked them up. But we forget in a celebration that only a mere 19% of our population has access to the internet. The larger set of our society knows no selfie with their daughter nor paints their faces with rainbows. The root problem is deeper. The prejudice penetration is way more than the internet penetration.

Even with the lovely folks in all support for the much discriminated LGBT community, I wonder how many understand the cause they colour. I’ve come across few with their coloured pictures who say they’ve heard about it; though don’t know what BTQ stands in LGBTQ; but it was cool to update the picture. It won’t be difficult to find people who believe homosexuality is unnatural (forgetting whatever’s in nature is natural), to the extent of calling it a disorder, or a gross choice made by deviants in the society. In fact there are voices that say homosexuality is a trend, some sort of fashion that has come up recently in India (many adding, from the West). Wonder where our all accepting, all respecting, all celebrating Hindu myths have gone missing. From disowning to ostracising to brutal tortures or discrimination are few reactions, very frequently meted out to people identified as not straight, or normal as they’d say. The very idea of being repelled by a homosexual makes it an imbalance difficult to assume being corrected at large with Facebook being painted bright. The severe ripple effects are a far idea to be dealt with at this stage, even for the daughters of India.

Many educated well-read friends and family do not wholly understand what homosexuality is. And maybe they are not to be blamed for there is no education or an attempt to understand the complexities of genders and sexualities. Even if a proud rainbow filtered display picture person does understand, our social DNA usually prompts a reaction of shock, heartbreak, denial or discomfort if a close loved one steps out of the closet. It holds true for being in any of those several closets.

The PM endorsed #SelfieWithDaughter. A person well versed with the social media, I imagine must have access to volumes of information – scientific, historic and mythical to make an attempt to understand what alternate sexualities are. But perhaps that precisely is the restraint – the misplaced stigma to even make the attempt. Whatever happened to @narendramodi tweeting away #LoveWins.

Having said that, Facebook looked gorgeous with smiling fathers and pretty daughters and rainbows splashed all over it. They are a good talking point to start with and that’s precisely what we haven’t done yet – talking.     

Why in love?

Blackened with oil
Red with some vermilion.
Bells hanging big and small
With a huge hum or a tiny tinkle.
They cling to the walls
Inside and out
Wrapping each other, in stone
And in love.

Red with some vermilion
Blackened with a lathi
God! You chose your neighbour!
Your misplaced ideas of rights and duty
Forgotten that beardman's principles
Of modesty? You,
Wrapped in fabric - some passable decency
Oh! But why in love?

Pink! Let's stereotype
But colors others too you must fancy.
Your fancies; please don't cite
The sculpted ancient temples of yore .
One says, you man lie next to a man
You be stoned. What love, warring leaders of faith
Are together
Wrapped in ignorant prejudice they forget, sermons of
Touch only in love.

God belongs to them
Temples books and the priest
Guardians of faith and being
So much for love
Incarcerated
It must stand behind bars
And hate
Roams freely on the street.

Media Policing

“Delhi gang-rape case: Would have burned my daughter alive for premarital sex, defence lawyer says” in bold letters headlined Times of India on the 14th of September 2013. The battle lines were always drawn fine and clear and the agenda, if one might want to call it, was clear. The case doesn’t end. They refuse to bury it. Refused when she succumbed in Singapore, refused when the convicts were nabbed, refused when one was put in juvenile home, refused again when the sentence was pronounced and now refuse to bury it when the defence lawyer passes his defence. And maybe this is one agenda that none have qualms with the media setting in. In fact, there comes a sharp remark on the other establishments of the country for failing in what they were supposed to do.

Pick up any newspaper any day and you won’t fail to miss at least a few ‘stories’ on sexual assault, harassment, molestation or even rape. As for statistics, National Crime Record Bureau says two women are raped in India every hour. Double in a decade. What is appalling that now it’s out in the open, which otherwise I would appreciate, but an open that’s far scarier than truth. Has the society degenerated? Are we crumbling by the day? It is tough to answer that. And perhaps even intensive research might fail to resolve the proposition. We have evolved as a society, have become far more open. Is it because many more cases are now reported that we feel we have stooped much lower? Whatever the case may be, the baton is with the media which is running a tireless lap fighting for half a lot. If, today’s newspaper, September 16^th headlined black flags for Akhilesh in Muzaffarnagar, right next to it on the front page is “4 year old raped in school bus.” Page 4: “Step-father held for torturing 3 year old girl.” Page 5: “No jeans or noodle straps: Karnataka to women employees” with an insert of Times View slapping the incident. Same page, number 5: “Mechanism to monitor child abuse cases.” Page 6: “Man abducts toddler, run over by train”, a Mumbai story where the police is now probing whether the girl was sexually assaulted. Page 7: “Robbers brutalize woman in Una dist. ...Insert coins, currency note in private parts.” This again has an insert: “Jawan held for rape attempt in train.”

These are reports in one newspaper on one day. If this wasn’t enough, the world media keeps a vigil right here. Many argued of the steaming up the issue, yet what remains is the account of what happened. “The story you never wanted to hear” – Michaela Cross, a US student on an exchange program to India, had her blog creating ripples across media around the world and dire consequences in India. All news channels and papers picked it up, wrote about it, spoke about it, discussed it and called in experts. But what came about it? Is this the first time a report as such has been released? Remember Scarlett? The much stretched case of Scarlett Keeling, a British teen, brutally raped in Goa and buried 5 years thence after a prolonged case between the British foreign office, Scarlett’s mother and the Goan  authorities, passing the buck as usual and in the process maligning the character of a fifteen year old girl. The first reports that surface are clear and bold: “British teen raped, killed on Goa beach” Mumbai, March 02, 2008, Hindustan Times. And then with the probe initiate the media’s agenda of setting thing right. In another case of the same bucket, Indian Express: “German girl rape: Goa minister’s son still at large” Panaji, October 15, 2008.

Rewinding in history a little might set the frame right. January 23^rd, 1996, a 25 year old law student, Priyadarshini Mattoo, was found raped and murdered at her house. And the time it took for her culprit to be framed guilty? A decade! On October 17, 2006, the Delhi High Court after a tedious and much profiled hearings, sentenced Santosh Kumar Singh, the son of a police inspector- general, guilty on both counts of rape and murder and later sentenced him to death. The case is of much significance as the 1999 acquittal of Santosh Kumar Singh led to massive public rage and outcry. Public pressure increased much so after the acquittal verdict of another murder, Jessica Lal case, where a politician’s son, Manu Sharma, was released, despite the incident occurring in the presence of dozens of people. NDTV led a campaign then fighting for Jessica. Priyadarshini’s case too caught the heat and public demonstrations accentuated the media pressure and turned the traditional lax pace of monthly hearings to day to day trail and a judgement was reached in 42 days. Santosh Kumar Singh was found guilty.

Bhanwari devi’s case is yet another example of endless pages of pain and humiliation. Allegedly gang raped by five men from her village Bhateri, 55 km from Jaipur, in 1992, she fought with an undying courage and commitment for justice. It is a story of brutal shocks and trauma and harassment and humiliation that refuse to end with the act of rape. She is shoved away from one police station to another, from one hospital to another for examining marks of being abused. Absence of female representatives in the medical or police departments and being asked to leave her ghagara (skirt) at the police station as evidence she was forced to walk back in her husband’s blood stained turban for 3Km at 1 in the night. Abandoned by the family and the village she fought for her dignity. October 2, 1992, Rajasthan Patrika, carried an editorial ‘kroor hadsa’ (Brutal Incident). This was followed by innumerable Hindi dailies from Rajasthan and the national ones covering her case. The case caught fire in the media and justice delivered, such that women’s organizations propagated the view that she attracted the ire of her rapists because of her work. Numerous such organizations filed Public Interest Litigations in the Supreme Court under a group name of Vishakha. The judgement of August 1997 gave basic definitions of sexual harassment at workplace. Bhanwari devi received much support nationally and internationally - United Nations Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing , invited her. In 1994, she received Neerja Bhanot memorial award for extraordinary courage and commitment and in 2002, Chief Minister Ashok Gehlot allotted a residential plot to her and a grant of Rs.40, 000 for the construction of her house there.

Getting back to the defence lawyer’s curt remarks on the 14^th of September 2013, the much saddening and one of the most high profile, sordid cases of rape – that of a 23 year old physiotherapist intern in New Delhi was beaten and gang raped, brutally, in a moving bus, on 16 December 2012. The case caught attention nationally as well as internationally. The Delhi police was questioned and mass protests held across the length and breadth of the country. The media fought for her relentlessly making the case of prime importance. India’s daughter, as was the sobriquet or Nirbhaya as she was called by many news agencies fought for her survival, while the country prayed for her for over a fortnight. She was airlifted to Singapore. The media followed her there and guns were pointed towards the mute Manmohan Singh government. Sections of the media elaborated that the move was to avoid the uncontrollable public fury if the girl gave up within the country. News agencies across the country – vernacular and English were onto it and fought for her justice. One of the fastest cases solved, the four accused have been sentenced to death recently. In fact a Justice J S Verma committee was appointed by the central government to suggest amendments to the criminal law to sternly deal with sexual assault cases. The Criminal Law (Amendment) Ordinance, 2013 was promulgated by President Pranab Mukherjee, on 3 February 2013 which provides for amendment of Indian Penal Code, Indian Evidence Act, and Code of Criminal Procedure, 1973 on laws related to sexual offences. Had the media not reported and set its agenda in such aggression, it would have passed by as any other rape, reported daily in a daily’s page 6.

The cases are endless and so are the perpetrations. If it is not rape it is daily harassment and molestation that women and girls take it as a given that they’ll go through in the country. 14^th May 2013, Ghaziabad, a woman is slapped by male police officers for allegedly drinking and being in an obscene picture inside a car with a male companion, thrashed on camera, taken to the police station in the middle of the night in the absence of a female constable. So much so that a neighbourhood woman comes in and slaps the girl in police custody, while all this is being captured on national TV cameras, the boy from the car is standing pleasantly without being spoken to. Huge TV panels are set for the night on every TV channel and the clip is repeated over and over again. Many might pull a sharp remark on the sensationalism in the media, but it was this discussion that questioned the police and its duties, police forgetting its Indian Penal Code and the fundamentals of survival – right to be, freedom and expression. 

The agenda is right there, rightly set and right on track. How well are we delivering upon it, is yet to be seen. It needs persistence and involvement from all sections of the society.

Smoke

It makes me sick. Slightly sick. Sometimes.

I wonder what is wrong and what is right. Conventionally, yes am being foolish and horribly stupid. But then what is right and what is wrong - the socially constructed rights and wrongs?

He said he isn't causing harm to or he isn't disturbing anyone.

“And you?” I asked.

He smiled. “It’s one’s free will how one wants to be.”

“The emotional pain you cause to others? Hurt?” I persisted.

“People should let people be. Go find your peace.”

Since then am on my way, trying to find it everywhere. Here and there, in theories and examples, in learning and fables, in myself and in him, in rejections and acceptances. I haven’t. I haven’t really found my peace. All I could manage to find is disrespect and insult.

I delivered his love two months ago. And the belly is almost level now. And his love delivered, consumes my energies day and nights. He does love me much. And we do plan to plant yet another seed. But it’s been four years and I have not been able to find an iota of that peace.

May be to accept him doing it, accepting it altogether is the ‘correct’ frame. I must accept it as okay. I have started hiding. Secretly and covertly, when he is out, sometimes in the loo, sometimes when he’s fallen asleep and sometimes when he isn't up yet. Sometimes I even share with him, jokingly, making fun of it. Sometimes. I feel sick. Slightly. Sometimes. I might be horribly stupid, but what is right and what is wrong?

I have taken to smoking so as to accept him smoking. My love, my peace. Smokes.

Four in every minute!

I remember a time, somewhere in 2002 or 2003, an ardent debater in middle school, I was picked up for the upcoming inter-school debate competition. My mother, who usually prepared me, helping me write the speech, rehearse it and think about it, asked my younger brother to leave the room. She wanted to discuss the motion with me and thought his age wasn’t appropriate to be party to it; the rise of rape! I must confess here that I knew much about the birds and bees before as she thought she was informing me.

However, I understood the sensitivity of the subject and the debate began. I’d often remember some powerful openings of my speeches for years. And this one I never forget.

Over 8000 women were burnt alive for dowry in a single year
Over 30% of women have their first sexual experience in a forced encounter
Every hour a woman is raped
Every minute a woman is harassed
Every minute four women are molested

I remember uttering these words at the dais, and I hear these words in disbelief every day; every day, for the figures make no sense today. Every day at least four rape cases are on national television. As for statistics, National Crime Record Bureau says two women are raped in India every hour. Double in a decade. What is appalling that now it’s out in the open, which otherwise I would appreciate, but an open that’s far scarier than truth.

14^th May 2013, Ghaziabad, a woman is slapped by male police officers for allegedly drinking and being in an obscene picture inside a car with a male companion, thrashed on camera, taken to the police station in the middle of the night.

As many would want to go by the book, it is a legal crime to drink in public, so she be fined. The book also prohibits the police to arrest a woman after sunset in the absence of a woman police officer. Follow the book? So follow it to the T. But the question goes far beyond. Even ignoring the fact of being taken in police custody in the absence of female police staff, beating a woman, or for that matter anyone, is justified? Lawful? Or moral at the least? She’s called obscene for her clothes. Oh yes! Back to basics and back to where I join the dots.

If there were statistics to prove that visible skin provokes/incites libido, I would sit hush. Women clad in modest salwaar kameez see the same fear as the one in a spaghetti top and skirt would see. A Pink trouser and a white top, was what she sported. The neighbourhood complained of nuisance and a lady in a salwaar kameez comes in abusing and slaps the girl in the police custody. Where is the book? Oh and in the entire episode the male companion is all left out with the legal charges slapped on him.

I guess mamma should have asked my brother to be in the room. Out in the open as I say, it’s essential that we realize it’s gone somewhere wrong how we’re bred. I use the word we as a collective. Sensitivity needs to be instilled, for we including me, my brother and my friends would at some point somewhere be guilty of ideas or words that would poke our female friends who (too as bred) take it without protest. It’s a long way and surely a difficult one, for the hefty aunty in the green salwaar kameez on that tape would still call a woman in pants a slut. For the head of the women’s force of the police department would still say, “children need to be taught. And the rod is okay if need be.”  For the police who need to protect would continue to harass.

I guess mamma should have let him stay, and I insist the teachers at my school take it up when we’re young. It has to be now out in the open for the book clearly does not work, lest in another ten years’ time a debate would start with more horrific figures.

In question of mourning

It hits you when all is silent. A very heart wrenching version of Anuradha Podwal’s Gayatri Mantra is playing. The room smells of roses and yes the agarbattis. The thin ribbon of smoke from the incense sticks rises up in front of her picture - bright purple saree, healthy and that evergreen smile. They say the picture should reflect the personality, what better than this? My eyes steel on her face and reels of memories flash.

Everyone knows all about it – Death! Much has always been spoken about it, written about it and thought about it. Yet we refrain from talking about it. Always by the side wife, caring mother of six girls, a loving grandmother of ten and a super great-grand mom of seven. What a life, what legacy. And with all that I know of her for twenty five years, I’m left with a cheerful image with that smile frozen in my head. I’ve seen her cry and have seen her unwell. I've seen her angry and have seen her worried. But these images are retrieved only on purposeful scanning. She’s always been here. Here, there, over the phone. Even when sick, which in her number of years she’s gone through a lot, her spirit has lifted her up, oh and yes with that graceful smile. And then one fine day, she’s gone. There’s grief. Much called for.

But I wonder what mourning is. Do we mourn for the one who’s gone, or for the society, or is it for our own selves? Those who've gone are gone because they were supposed to be gone. It is quite a repetition to say this that everyone needs to move on to the next stage. Do we cry for their purpose is done? Their roles have been played? All theories, philosophies – dharma, karma, cause and effect – all speak of how a soul gets going. Do we want to send them to their next purposes, ventures, crying? Would our crying help them?

Well, then does the society ask us to mourn? It’s essential that we talk of death and talk why. There’s a gathering immediately. They are all here to pay homage to the one who’s moved on. But as we mortals are – all experts we start with our interpretations of life and death. Our interpretations of Gita! Is mourning individual or is it societal compulsion? There are blurring lines. Why does one need to be worried how many attended one’s father’s mourning meet? Why do I see a few relatives always popping their heads to see if the gathering has increased or not? Why is it that festivals aren't celebrated for a year? If I am in grief I obviously won’t celebrate, on the contrary shouldn't one be pulled out of grief? Agreed that festivals are forceful agents of sorrow, reminders of loss, but they are also a chance to remember them happily and move on. Moreover, if otherwise one has moved on has made peace with oneself and one’s loss but doesn't celebrate for what would the people around say. Is it only to show to the society that we are sad? And how imperative is it for the society to see us sad? Where is the effort of bringing people back to normalcy? Sadly, this pushes us into the cauldron; men and their morals. We, including me who writes this, end up constructing the same society. We raise our eyebrows when one moves on rather quickly from any parting.

Then we perhaps mourn for our own selves. We understand the theories and the philosophies yet we feel sad. There are times when no words can console the ones who remain behind. I wonder then what aspect of death hits us. And it is almost obnoxious to say it point blank. But it is selfish. We cry for selfish reasons – for we find it difficult to part with loved ones. We cry because we find it difficult to live on. It is never that the gone soul misses anything on this mortal land.

People never leave; they are always here in their past and present lives. The Koran (Do not say in the name of Allah, they are dead; for they are alive even though you cannot see them. - 2:154) and the Bible tell us. Then why would we want to trouble them, mourning? We refrain from talking uncomfortable subjects. For non-believers there’s another urge. Why can’t we put our individual grief of parting aside and be happy for those who have left the land of countless suffering, for those who have moved on?

Philosophies keep changing, changing as the time carries us ahead. Life and its purpose? They are deep conversations. Soul and Body? Avoidable again. What remains is a life of love - given in abundance and you receive it in abundance.

Problems with Paradigms

On one of my train journeys, I arrested a cop’s attention by not bribing a TT. Okay, call him a constable, Prakash Yadav. Our conversation took a turn after I acknowledged I was unmarried. It isn’t his fault that he thinks men have a right to philander and women don’t. Further, our decibels rose and he argued why a woman cannot love more than one man.

“Two? In succession,” I asked.

“Oh! She would be labelled a whore”

“What if she loved one but that doesn’t materialize and later settled in a beautiful relationship with another?”

It's a bogus question to even ask, most people who read this here would think. Sadly we form a miniscule percent of an ocean of thoughts.

“A boy and girl can never be friends” he slapped a cliché.

“Oh why not? I am friends with many girls. Girls whom I know are in a relationship”

“Not possible. You haven’t felt anything for them? Plus they’re cheating on their boys.”

“No.” I frowned.

“A girl should not befriend boys anyway”
My forehead lines deepened as I wondered to which era he belonged.
”You’ll allow your sister to befriend boys?”
And he mocked at my prompt yes as he got down at Mathura.

I collected myself; perhaps I was the only one in the entire compartment who was comfortable with the notion of a girl in boys’ companies and women in multiple relationships. A little off the paradigm.

How is it when you get stared at instead of being soothed, stigmatized when you should be sympathized? Well that’s how a victim of sexual assault sustains. Where a woman chief minister says a rape victim has concocted a story, while the police divulge the name of another woman for her to face further harassment. The regular argument would be rhetoric. Yes blame the woman’s liberation for the man’s uncontrolled libido.

But that’s the problematic play of paradigm. The question is, do you feel embarrassed when you’re robbed off? Or when you’re diagnosed of cancer? Or even when one passes away? It’s all tragic. Then why humiliate a rape victim, embarrassing her for her tragic accident?

How would it be had we all accepted women as men, and realized their right to love?

How would it be had we all grown up condoling a rape victim, helping her forgo the trauma and point our stares and stigmas on the culprit? 

Have you ever wondered why we pray to the Gods?
The discussions and arguments would be incessant. Theists, atheists and to top them all, people like me, agnostics. Contemplate the idea of God without man. From where has He come? Religion – a set of righteous rules, gone horribly wrong, being the sole reason for much enmity and bloodshed across the planet? So follow any all or none. God or divine presence is the ultimate solace for many, someone or some belief that someone is forever there by their side, guiding them.

If the man means no harm and upholds morals, what good is religion to him if he’s happy like that? Ah! With such paradigmatic disgust we question him.

How would it be had we all acknowledged that not all follow our faith and have a right to think different, be different without being scorned at or forced?

How would it be had we all been comfortable with the ones in faith and with their beliefs, greeting their Gods if they wished at times, without a mock?

How would it be?

Our societies have been fixed in thought. And it takes more than many lifetimes to move the paradigm. Why should an introvert be pushed into talking more and socializing more, when he/she is equally or even more capable, efficient or good? Even as the ‘Satan in the child’ lore having been discarded centuries ago, mothers force their left handed kids into right handedness, a paradigm shift into accepting homosexuality is a far fetched reality. A trait observed in many species apart from humans, being perfectly natural for it occurs naturally in some as part of nature’s diversity would wait with its stuck up believes for some considerable time.

How would it be had we all been open to think the other way?
How would it be had we all never fallen into paradigm in the first place?

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.

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’!!  

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.

Why is it that the country runs on umpteen schemes?

The tripod was set, the camera primed. I gave a final check to the frame, noticing the Nikon banner, the boards of Adidas, KFC and Levi’s. The space was set and we were on the look out for posh ladies and pretty lasses. “Ma’am, we are from NDTV. Could you please spare a minute for us?” And most of them were running short of time.

We were taking a public opinion on the credit card CIBIL story that we followed and the crowd really amused us with the response. ‘50% SALE’, I zoomed out and focussed on the shoe behind the Woodland glass. “What story is this?” enquired a loud cheery voice. A pleasant and plump face fixed a gaze on me. “… hmm .. a story on the shopping trends… ” I replied clearing my throat.

“We’ve just opened a new shop here, would you please cover that too?” she started pleading. Ranjan and I were more than happy. We saw a pool of water in the desert. Cleaving through the market crowd, the fawn jumped with glee.

Glistening, fresh and spotless, the apparel outlet shone with all the perfect setting and keep. We stumbled upon gold. Capturing all our desired shots, and most coveted frames we had to please the budding entrepreneur. Setting her in the frame,

I started, “so since when is the shop open to public”            

“…about a week.”

“And how’s the response?”

“Hmm pretty well, actually its just a week so I’ll say good. Actually nothing in the shop is more than eleven hundred, so…”

“So there must be a lot of card payment here?”

“Oh! Yes.”

“Okay, ma’am so even you prefer credit cards? Or cash?”

“oh yes yes,.. Cards!”

“And are your bills being paid in time?”

“(Laughs) ya mostly.”

“That’s good, so ma’am, are you aware of any body called CIBIL?”

“No, I fear.”

“That’s okay ma’am. It’s a body that monitors your card bills and payments and makes a defaulters’ list.”

“Anyways, thank you ma’am.”

“Thank you. I am so excited. Thanks to NDTV for featuring our shop. When will this be aired? What time? I’ll tell all my friends.”

“Listen, why don’t even you speak and answer the questions… They are featuring our store,” she chirped in excitement to her husband.

“Perhaps tonight, 9 o’ clock bulletin” Ranjan gave a prompt reply.

“Not necessarily. It will be edited first and they’ll decide if it’s going on air or not,” I hesitated.

“Ok… But thank you so much. It was very nice of you. You shot those mannequins? Half in the wall, ones? They are nowhere here in this market.”

“Rinki, take out two bags.” She ordered her helping hand.

“You pick up anything from the store that you like. It’s a small present from our side.”

I was taken aback. Apart from shamelessly denying her gesture I could do nothing better.

We were back from our shoot, with a jackpot in hand and a little sullen heart. How excited had she been! This was just a class bulletin, was one. This was faked was entirely a scheme. Why is it, that most of the work in the country is schemed? Be it the CWG tenders or the class bulletin.

When careers should genuflect.

6th May, 2010.

I hung on to the trudging bus to NDTV. The forty five minutes distance was all for me to look back into a span of sixteen years. It was a tale of two families, closely knit in bonds of friendship. The fathers graduated together, the elder sons schooled together, and the younger sons played together, while both the mothers were simply together. My memory flashed scenes etched as old as those from class I, where we shared our lunch boxes and at weekends - hide n seek thrilled us while our parents sat discharging the week’s weariness. A flash takes me to Kasauli, where again my father and Uncle are cooling their heels, while their wives have a tough time compulsively feeding the four sons in all. A dash of light, and the serene Himachal mountains creep into my head, the sons are quite grown, and (we) trek through those beautiful valleys. I remember, Uncle falling ill, and my memory fades with just a fact that my friend put up with us at our home for some good number of months. Schools over, and we parted for graduation, but the base camp remained quite intact. And last flashed a scene right from the previous night, when Aunty shambles into the house, her face bereft of any expression or emotion, and there behind her followed Uncle, not smiling, but lying still; and still forever. Heart attack they said.

Hurrying into the class, to be in before Dr. Nigam, I settle down with all my thoughts vanished. The regular newspaper session was followed by a rarest of the rare opportunities – a visit to the Lok Sabha in the Parliament House. Electrifying, the class’ zeal was beyond bounds, spare me. I had a decision to make. Enthralling as Lalu or Gandhi, or the very soft Madame Speaker, Miera Kumar were debating over national issues, my long time school friend would be rendering the last rites to his father.

I have always wondered what salt men of this era are made of. One thing they love the most is hurrying scurrying from one desk to other, from one cabin to other, with quintals of currency making their pockets heavy. And one thing they lament is the inability to discover someone on whom to shower the weight. One needs hard labour to earn that note, but needs a stronger heart to negotiate green paper for some beautiful bonds to breathe forever.

I might have missed a fantabulous prospect to experience the world I am set to analyse, I might have skipped a step towards a finely polished career, I now might have been a place behind my colleagues, but I definitely, did complete my duties as a friend, as a son, above all as a human. I might get a chance to peep inside the Sansad, but I would not have got a chance to say a bye to a dear Uncle, or stand strong to a dear friend.

Day 1 at NDTV

Date 28th April ’10. Time 6 a.m., I drive out of Agra with my father heading towards a new life. The cliché, but had occupied my head for quite some days now. As he zooms on NH2, I dose off. Is it in my dreams or is it but a part of my conscious remembrances? Date 26th April ’10, time 8:30 p.m., there is an excitement – overwhelming emotions that I was drenched in - perplexity. There were smiles and there were tears. There were little giggles and surely there were sobs too. And little did I realize a hooting blue serpent would end it all. I woke up with a start. That was the regular honking on the highway not the thundering on the railway station, and I heaved a sigh, again venturing in my thoughts this time intentional. I had finished my graduation that day; I had finished a way of life that day.

Well in time I reported in the plush NDTV building, and I am greeted by two smiling batch mates. I smile back. People start pouring in and I continue to pass that smile. As the air settles, there is something that comes down heavily inside me. The images of the recent past flash sharp and a realization sinks in. I am out of Nagpur and forever, I’m out of my cocoon and that would return never. As if a bolt from the blue, it suddenly dawns upon me the reason some of friends wept on the 26th.

A new journey is marked, a new beginning, and new introductions is what Dr. Nigam asks for. I hear them speak, which somehow interfaces and superimposes with the sounds and noises from the past. Introducing took me back to my first year with an odd smile being painted on my face; I take a pause, for the class is in peals of laughter. She starts speaking again and I delve into my cauldron again. It is a cycle I realize, the whole process was now unfolding again, and for bonds I’d left, I had to start it all over again.

I shake myself and sternly instruct for my behaviour, saying, “all here are new and begin the process alike”, but the hurt locked inside me laments, “it’s just a day before that I’ve been lynched, at least little time I ask, to heal and start afresh.” I sit numb.

I pay a little attention, and Dr. Nigam speaks of the strong bind between an image and an emotion stitched to it. Hapless, his words drive my mercurial mind back to task. I see people around me – amiable, but I see people from inside me now far away. Friends parted away, and 31 new ones waiting to be enlisted, but somehow for the untimely start, the current image does not resonate with the emotions pinned to the word. Somehow I just want to chuck all this out and focus, but my reminiscing lingers.

One little break, and as if conspired against me, the batch of 31 treads towards the hostel staple – magi. The day ends, if not for journalism, but for me the ‘truth’ I highlight is a regular self preaching command. Old bonds just need a timely maintenance, and newer ones you keep on constructing throughout the journey. The course somehow took a backseat for the first day amidst the emotional whirlpool inside me, as I geared up to take upon a new set of friends a new batch of 31.                                                                                       

The class that bullied!

The last lecture, exhausted and bored was that of some fibers and optics. The new teacher, very young, just graduated, novice and the first attempt at teaching kinds, takes our class with a great deal of preparations. Not only making her notes for the hour, but mentally being prepared to take such a Herculean task of controlling a class like ours, of putting up a brave fight, to be tormented again. There was a video shooting scheduled for today and that was a disaster for her. The class just won’t stop teasing her, disobeying her, troubling her and bullying her.

And there stands another of her age, her designation, but a little charming and of course in shape. Charming for the boys just get drooled over and the girls smile as she flashes her 1000 Watt so frequently. With no offenses to her, she does her job excellently and is encouraged by her audience, by the day. The question remains why such double standards?

I imagine myself if I were to stand and get assaulted by 70 young men and women, all closely knit, keeping me out and mocking at me. I imagine my heart bleed for being haplessly scorned at and disrespected even being an authority over the mob. Her moist eyes were evidence enough of the veritable rivers that would have flown out the moment she would have left the class.

Our ugly duckling struggles and strives to adapt to the new waters, though not perfect at her swim in the job, she gets discouraged each time she dips. Weak she is. Weak she may be at designation, weak in power – weak in speech or weak in the muscles. Weak could be shy, or could be timid. She could be weak for some insecurity or some inhibition, or weak if beauty is strength. She could be weak due to lack of confidence? And she goes weaker, loses her confidence till she is broke and finally breaks down! This is the stormy stoned path marked by lack of encouragement, leading to nothing but wrecked silence.

We all have a part in us that’s she! Just some by fate get so unveiled before all that Mockery smiles wicked at them. A piece of laughter for all, their excellence in various spheres bears the dark patch when they are ridiculed, made fun of or are discouraged. (Of course regular teasing by peers differs from bullies that insult a flaw!) A hilarious pastime for others might be recurrent steps towards the gallows for her.

This is a complex balance of patience, forgiveness and retaliation due to self esteem that’s demarked by fine lines. Testing her limit of patience, once it touches her self-respect she might fight back with vengeance breaking all cordial bonds that are taken for granted and disrespected. All would culminate in bad blood, all falling apart with hatred in the silence of dead end!

So next time you bully, remember the cords or fear your Big B, your Big Bully!

Attacking Authority!

Yellow journalism in its frenzied gait does stumble upon gold at times. Yes the media is inevitably a big support system when the system itself turns monstrous. Ruchika Girhotra, the most recent prey to the voyeuristic system got some ears to her wails 19 years after, hapless, she took away her life; for of course who’d tackle the big men in khaki and pristine white.

Once a Hindi flick very aptly showed this milkman cycling back to his quarter when two young men sporting Police badges, bullied him, tapping his milk can open and threatened if he turned off the tap, as they zoomed on their white Pulsars. Authority dude! Tears rolled down as a veritable milk-fall swished onto the pavement. And there, yelling on top of their voices, these vegetable vendors are aware that the hawaldars have an unsaid stake in their aamdani that’s per paao of the sabzi ! It’s realizable that they hawk up at improper places adding to the infra woes of congestion, but isn’t imposing a law or a rule, removing them from there, mentioned anywhere in the High books?

Here zips a case that’s much closer. We leisurely enjoyed the bike ride in the post rain gale, when my bike coughed and got choked and passed off right in the middle of the crossing. It sapped out its fuel and my seconds for green light to turn red paced. Botching, I dragged the heavy black soul-less body back behind the zebra lines. As the netherworld’s book says, the cops hauled me aside and the rest of it is the well known story. Was I their day’s fish, or they really shouldn’t be genuine and considerate while at work? They spoke of the NOC and PUC papers but my wise friend knew some laws and we won the debate. Innocents, I pity my citizens, who unaware of the regulations imposed on them succumb to these imps’ whims.

Brutus prudently soliloquized in Julius Caesar that power corrupts when exercised without compassion. Authority for that matter isn’t bound to the khaki clad or the men in Gandhi topi. The system corrupts at birth. Just turn reflective and start tallying the crooked seconds from the maternity home, to your school, to the playground, to college… even testimony of your existence – the birth certificate is forged for the admissions to school. Parents crib about the birth month-year Oedipus complex, so hasn’t anyone thought of redeeming and altering the system a bit? And now you are here at college, where apart from you there are numerous others who blame the system and yet form it to be blamed.

Why are they having lunch at 2:30 p.m., an hour after the scheduled? “Was working at the window then”, I got back. And who’s responsible for the line and chaos at 2 and a half? Who isn’t aware of the red tape style at colleges? Does one need to mention the delays and hassles for every trivial errand? Each man to his own job is the decree. Why can’t on a non working day one man collect/complete petty details/formalities of a few other friends along with his? The authority trounces you down on raising a little voice for time/energy/money/ease/fuel (concerns for a failed Copenhagen too), “you’ll teach me how to do my work?” is often roared in corridors, offices across the country. Concerns, these aren’t ignorable! Can’t we take a genuine step to answer the aforesaid?
Ignorant of our rights, we grovel down, submit ourselves to their tyranny, for they handle our careers, grades, admissions, licences or of course we don’t want the court-kachaeri ke chakkar, police tormenting our families like ill-fated Ruchika’s and the way in of the neta into the scene!

This comes here in this technical paper as an urge to all budding engineers to fabricate a system wherein all its components are well greased and needn’t be dealt with oily hands, wherein no independent axle disrupts the functioning, wherein the maximum efficiency is attained. System I sigh; it’s time we realize we are an integral ingredient of the much abused system. We need to mend our souls for its soles to run.

Tales of Perfection...

It was a casual discussion with friends, when one talk led to another and we drifted from quizzing each other on capitals, currencies, to histories, to the Raj, and to Gandhi. And often had such discussions ended in quite a dismal denouement. With a number of varied notions on the Father of the Nation, the Mahatma stands as an inarticulate dartboard for the public to opine on him. Opinion is genuine, opinion is a thought, agreed, and that keeps the Earth spinning. But it should be contained enough and not let go hay way as kamikaze pots of pitch tarnishing the stature of many a great men.

The man under the lens showed the world a path of love and peace. Many who let their angst on his deeds, may as well have been correct, should refrain from derogating him. Bhagat Singh could have dodged the gallows, claim many, had Gandhi wished. Gandhi, again lash many, slept with several girls at his ashram. First things first, the political cauldron of the first half of 1900s was simmering, with a hundred of angles and views. Deliberate acts as we think today, could well have been circumstantial or inevitable then in the interest of the masses. Secondly, of all the claims and charges being authentic, one must weigh his contributions to his shortcomings. He was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, like any person one of us, who sacrificed his career, family and life for the people of his country. He wasn’t alone of his ilk, but he was the instrument of independence – a war sans bloodshed! So much is he revered by all around the globe, that the slaves in USA, for the past many centuries, were treated humane soon when they adopted his methods.

So this prompts us to turn reflective, and one should accept the fact that all things beautiful have a sordid tale behind them. Just as a rose has thorns any success story isn’t bereft of pangs of horror, deceit, corruption, or all of them at one point or the other, is it large or a miniscule part. Its Earthy and human that breaks every man, situation or thing existing into the good and the bad. Even an atom – the smallest possible breakup scientifically, has a mass of proton (+) and electrons (-) around it. So who was Gandhi? Or for that matter the person sitting next to me, when nature itself defines the positive and negative together? The onus lies on us to enjoy the virtues and bask in the sun, or to keep lamenting of the vices of the person, cribbing of the rain.

Nature apart, even God couldn’t hold back to display the truth of the earth, when he walked in human form. Even Ram couldn’t, or was not allowed to (circumstantially) trust the purest woman, his wife.

Wake up Raj!

While returning to the hostel yesterday, my friend exasperatedly narrated an incident from his class. “You know, how happy they were when they read that Karan Johar said sorry to Raj Thackeray… just because the movie said Bombay and not Mumbai.” Well his rage is justified, do the stars in the movie calling Mumbai, Bombay, anyhow lessen the city? Has somebody legally/constitutionally challenged the name, for which such brouhaha? It’s just a movie. Even the grammar of the languages has scope for formal writing and colloquial styles. Then Bombay remains the former name or shall we say a pet name now? Raj sahib we still refer to Mumbai everywhere official.

This didn’t come as a publicity stunt, for just a couple of days back did he propose a permit for non-Maharashtrians to visit the city. Just a sorry (if that comes), would it suffice for such unconstitutionally erratic behaviour? Well now some strong heads of the country (oh! I still include aamchi Mumbai), would parade to get him jailed for stirring up lingual differences in the jannlok. Does he run a parallel government or does Raj fancies him crowned for an autocracy? Dictator on the rise, rather! Where have the policing been? I don’t count the regular stoic State Police, but the high spirited moral police. A licence to move about in my country! Isn’t he being morally bad? Hey Raj (if this pleases your ears), these very people have made Bombay, Mumbai. Alas! Such ironies are just platitude to him. Expel the apologetic Johar and his ilk, and India loses the jewel, Mumbai.

What fears you Thackeray, the loss of original Mumbaikars? Have a panoramic view on the land beyond Mumbai. Sardars have been the fuel of laughter for all at the cost of the community, taking all sportingly. Any voracious eater is pointed out as the Bengal ka bhooka. My Bihari friends have given a wonderful Bhojpuri accent to make moments lighter. And here you keep a hisaab of a rupee, there comes the remark arre re Sindhi! How do I forget the Swami of the South? When I call all a Madrasi, these hilarious movie caricatures take all in the stride. Had all these regionally divided men taken umbrage to their references, or isolated themselves on the illusion of superiority, Raj bhau, India would have disintegrated into 28 odd pieces. So is Ranbir and Konkona’s reference to Mumbai as Bombay an insult; as hurting as those to Sardars or Bengalis? Is Johar visiting you, repentant for being colloquial, justified? It degrades the spirit of Mumbai, Raj bhaiya!

Anyways the movie was superb for all us aimless beings. Oh! Thackeray saab, did you relate yourself to it? I mean, all of us, my friends thought it was ‘just so me’. I suppose it could give you an aim. Look into your Mumbai. Arre forget who’s calling the city what! Look in what mess is that city. For the love of your Mumbai, do something of it’s now Oscar winning slums. Dilapidated infrastructure! That adjective too falls short to describe the status quo infrastructure. So how were the water logging this year? Thank God it didn’t rain hell this monsoon. And the honking traffic? The wonderful Taj graded security? The power? The filth and squalor? Raj bhai, our Mumbai lists in the top 52 dirtiest cities of the world. Shanghai, New York the financial capitals of the world stand as the quintessential cosmopolitan cities, cant India’s money capital be at least a true metropolis, showcasing the entire country?

Wake up Raj! Wake up!