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.                                                                                       

What do I carry after all?

[This is an excerpt from the diary, based on the regular over thought, and many discussions with a couple of friends, at various instants throughout.]

I am walking. I have been walking and have walked for 22 years… This was a by lane, where I stepped onto the road some four years back. As I walk, I see some light, realize the tunnel’s end, but there are no fears, as I calculate the time, fifteen days to divert onto a different track.

These are the last fifteen days here… These are the last fifteen days with friends, the last fifteen days of a lifestyle. These are the last fifteen days of this bonding, the last fifteen days of a mindset. These are the last fifteen days of a style of breathing, the last for a different purpose of beating.

These fifteen days seem no different. They are the same steaming hot, drudging old days, the same grumbles and the same laughter of the past four years. Expectations I don’t know what I’d harboured for these fifteen days, but they resemble nothing but from the four years, any regular day.

A spring of joy or a spurge of exhilaration isn’t a stretch of months and years, or of days and hours. The spurge of bliss is subtle, concealed in tiny moments spaced in moments of thoughts. All I need to realize these tiny moments, hidden so abundantly in each hour, day, consequently so abundantly in the months and years. And so, I crib not away these moments of smiles, laughter and giggles.

As the passage of this tunnel ends, as I see the light approaching ahead, as I see moving on to a separate track, I ruminate, in vain for I knew about this lighted end, knew of the new route, of this separation, but I think, what did I collect on this four year path? I think and crave for an answer.

The purpose of course of this path, education, may be fulfilled or not, relies on the individual’s quest. But deeper I think of the purpose, not education, but the purpose of this road to pick in particular. Destiny some would mumble. I think of the bonds made, why and what next? What do I carry along?

Perhaps a company on this road, I heard a few saying; perhaps not to be lonely for the years on this route. Perhaps that true, but would be truer if I tag a meaning to it.

All I take with me ahead is a way of life, a way to walk. Perhaps some new strength to rely upon on stony ways, perhaps a self-cushioning heart now, or maybe a heart that’s no more stone carved but is little wax, or perhaps just a style of shaking a leg, dancing away in merry. Perhaps, I carry a mode of dealing the world, the newer roads – practical or spiritual.

All I take is me, moulded and structured, defined and redefined, carved and hammered, painted and finished with touches by the umpteen other souls associated with me.

My ultimate destination is Him, the complete route being service to Him, his creations – animate or inanimate. And this four years expedition brought me closer to the destination. Companionship I did find for the route, and will find ahead on several walks and several tracks, but a meaning to this company is camaraderie that eases out the journey, pedagogy that helps me walk. I’ve learnt to walk better – clubbing their tricks to what I learnt home.

Lucky are those who carry away soul mates after the four years of voyage. Luckier are those who carry not one but many strings tied to the soul, if not a soul mate but mates of the soul. Of course I’ll carry companionship from this lane back to my journey, where I carried a few before too; people who aren’t yet done with the colouring of my canvas.

For people who intend not, but drift away, am glad for the tint, texture, hue and shade you rendered to my painting, for your mould, for your style of gait, and thank you for the beautiful time and memories, my heart would need to cherish whenever it finds a void, a dullness around, or simply when it misses you.

   

  

Remembrances for me to cart...

The air was new, the land new, and so were the names,
Wondered I, the time I’d take to fit into the newer frames.
But it was quick, for one showed an instant interest and respect.
Respect? Or was it his coy formalities as that was it, now I bet.


The first day at college wandered I with a grazed head,
Ragging and the new jokes alike made my face go red.
First good morning to the one closer to my home land,
Bond with him, then I knew not I’d make a strong band.


This was a start, and newer fondness kept pouring in,
Their first incidents I forget, but know they’re really in.
And cosy I settled cherishing the days as they came,
A chain of experiments began with many a pretty dame.


Laughing, limping, lazing and loving a year passed by,
Amongst the exhilaration, books and bonds did I pry.
Hostel nights and night outs kept me on my toes,
A thousand pranks, song and dance and giggles rose.


Irritating and vexing, one, sat all while,
As he sat always, is really worthwhile.
Scolded me, one, for not wearing a jacket,
And iced my head, one, throughout the fevering racket.


Brawls and quarrels of course were a daily chore,
Just a slap here and persuasion there was much more.
Water fights were much as were days without a bath,
Chattering through the night and day’s sleep was an aftermath.


Meanwhile affections grew and drew close even the new,
“Serious or fun loving?” asked one, now a part of the crew.
This one, people mistook this sneeze-er for me earlier
God knows how a lookalike, but now indeed he’s much friendlier.


Submissions tomorrow and I ran for an assignment copy to borrow,
Journals alike, practically they being just theory were never my sorrow.
Death knell had rung, with the sword hanging over me,
Then a shame, but eleventh hour study is now just so we.


What a relief it was, a sigh and a sleep so deep,
After the exams, partying was all until results reap.
Started with a peg, then bottles turned so less,
Licking fingers, left over chicken bones were just a mess.


Splendid days I’d live, blissful air I’d breathe, spirits high,
Until, the devastating rumours of results began to fly.
Mata ka darbar, rabb da pyaar, was the only rescue,
Sins of the past, the books’ ghost now flew.


Results have always been a long story to narrate,
Skip it I now, lest my friends would berate.
Just hear you this, it was not always a setback,
For next, in flying colours we pounced right on track.


I remember some tears, that make me sad and repent,
Even a few that make me laugh at the time we spent.
“My friends were not like this”, once did this pretty girl cry.
Quiet – another one was the egg tasting guinea pig for my first kitchen try.


Petrol - partners was one out of the thousand terms so queer.
Though lucky I, two separate toppers as my pillion were always so near.
Mother of all at work, and a baby to understand our joke,
This little’s limboo – lemon drink always made the gang so broke.


A poem you’d say, is this that goes so long?
Dear my, to college days does this belong.
Lots is left, unsaid and unheard, yet in end lots would remain,
This is just an intermission, the reminiscing here I start again.


There were journeys; there were trips and travels,
Half of the time, the plans would nothing but fail in ravels.
Laugh now I, as we still managed a few outings to count,
Taxis, temples, bikes, beaches, fun and food, and trekked we amount.


Some journeys turned classmates to friends, some brought tensions,
Some taught lessons, and some, well cameras I better not mention.
Dinners were outings too, well not when the dabbas and bai gave us a miss,
But regular coffee, you and café days with pizza’s flowing and parties of finesse.


Well food was never enough; don’t know if it was the stomach or the tongue,
Hawks, we tore the canteen pao or bhatura, scorpions, the coke bottles we stung.
Shamelessly we gormandised poor girls’ and a boy’s tiffin, it was a war you’d fear,
And before Amir’s movie did we gatecrash thee weddings at the lavish park so near.


Food over it was time again for those yawn-y classes,
Getting on to my nerves, those profs., were with heavy glasses.
Some spoke Greek, some English, Hindi, Marathi, and some couldn’t any,
Sitting with them, a I forget my grammar, language and a beautiful vocabulary.


Havens for completion work, lectures meant gossip and giggles,
Sleep apart, dreams, jokes, chips and frooties, even many a heart mingles.
Fests, were another such occasion, high spirits for talents, politics and affairs to rise
With opportunities alike, to friends and foes, music and dance, limelight added spice.


Rumors and images were made, even fell down a few when a working P was said,
Committees clubs and posts were grabbed; money was always the big word in red.
Other festivities I cry for the B’day bumps, ‘?’ is my name and I’m not a preaching kid,
Gifts in combo, dancing bongo, surprising people and caking faces I don’t want to get rid.


Birthdays I’ve celebrated four, and that wakes me up from this beautiful dreamy prose,
I loom my destination, and this scintillating journey snaps away as the scent of rose.
Fragrance, colour and gorgeous words I hunt, hunt to name my heart’s saga,
Voices may die out, but in my soul this tune would forever be a vibrant raga.


As the climax is reached, the lights die down, and the curtains draw,
I stand puzzled, gripping the abundance of love, looking at Time in awe.
When I clutch on to this love, I’m marooned in grief for it’s the time to part,
A tear rolls down, for all my loves move away, leaving just remembrances for me to cart.
Leaving just remembrances for me to cart.

When ways part...

We stood together basking in the sun.

Giggled and laughed and cribbed in the run.

A movie out. 2a.m., our stomachs craved for bun.

Even in tears we smiled and made fun.

We grew and there was a rush.

Time, I don’t know how, elapsed in a hush.

Duties called and in directions opposite we did dash.

Crawling to our centre point I saw all in a mash.

You phoned and found that I knew you were bound.

I sat whistling, crooning, knowing you’d take a round.

CFC in my room, and glistened blitz around you loud.

Waited I with friends and denser got between us the cloud.

As if in a fast paced film, I couldn’t get of you even a gaze.

Flashing lights, blaring sounds, glimmer added to your race.

New air and new names revolved now, you had new ways.

People, places, positions, priorities new; we’d long left our days.

Silent now, I scan the scene when all is done,

Earlier too some souls close, climbed and were gone.

I wait patiently; see your fate, if you return in dawn,

Or with names new you remain, or ditched, stand a winner alone.

the Kite puller!

Directionless so often, I’m way-less for sure.
As glides the kite high, in the endless azures;
Had heard this analogy for long I,
But felt its depth now, smiling, I sigh!



Multihued, the open is dotted with colour,
Swishing swirling and circulating higher and more,
Bright as they pep me up, glimmer they and shimmer.
I’m one of the bubbles that life up the blues as I flutter.



I transform into a smile as I soar high,
Rage takes over me, if someone else passes me by.
Kite or me, rejoice post victory;
Even panic at times, or at others turn we greedy.



The gale carries it, as to me the air around me.
I do nothing, but follow the race with glee.
At times its peace and am free,
Storms take its test, testing my spirit my synergy.



My endurance or the string’s strength,
Determination or thread well bent.
Aimless or swaying in the wind entwined,
Enjoy it I, and it worries my mind.



Call it string or call it spirit;
That’s the soul that runs it.
It may be the kite or I,
That soul is what veers us by.

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.

ABC of Exams...

Jumping with glee, unaware of the repercussions

I was taken aback; shit! Examinations…

Each alphabet of the word has a different comprehension,

Each viewing angle causes such an altercation.

E-stands for endless studies, just to start,

As if horizons pushed back with no mark.

Marks? Is the serious question to get an answer for;

But questions on such a gamut of topics are countless and more.

Xerox copies strewn here and there,

A loose sheet of diag.; screamed I, “came out from where?”

Last day, my incomplete work invites the bundle of Photostat;

“50paisa per page bhaiya, it’s such a towering stack.”

A - Apple/atoms/Archimedes/abacus/antennas, Anxiety!

“Ab kya hoga?” is I sigh with all my lost gaiety.

Never thought I this, a week before the exams commenced.

Endless phone calls for solace now, dial a friend I, when tensed.

Mind in confusion to learn this or that,

With losing hours on the clock, nervous I sat.

Unit 4 is half, Unit 6 left. What about the 1^st unit?

Calculating my time, all my nails I bit.

I calls for interaction of subjects one into another.

“#^*&@ that’s FRS and EMF is a different subject all together.”

‘Last moment’ does the trick, I rub the chin, mind perplexed.

A firm decision, the concept belongs to this and not the next.

Non-stop studies, if it helps, are the last resort.

Syllabi outstripping the time, quite mundane chores we abort.

Bathing, shaving is luxury; two square meals are all.

Lucky are those who sleep four hours, for that’s called a ball.

A – This one stands for admonishes and not anxiety.

After our souls, our parents and teachers, for our state is such a pity.

“Kept on telling you to study, you never paid heed.”

Cycles of scolds and consoles are all that, now, breed.

Try, try, try again is the mantra.

Keep on trying till you get the funda.

Endless discussions till I finally understand it all,

Questions, doubts and revisions over the phone fall!

I is now incomplete tasks to be done.

For the left up pages in the notebook I run.

Consultancy is on a all time high,

Movement of books is all one can see by.

Overnight scanning, burning the midnight oil.

It’s not merely a phrase, for we indeed toil.

Day and night, sleep doesn’t divide.

It’s a nap of two hours, where our fears confide.

N – Now I get no N for this…

Aftermath of exams is all this and bliss.

I can grasp no more, think no more…

All the best to all if examinations knock your door.!