THe BuDDHa SoLiLoQueS

THE GREEN LEAP

2009-06-24T16:22:00.005+05:30

“Vishnu Dayal Galeria doesn’t know a solar lamp used for an hour means one kilo less carbon dioxide in the air. But a fortnight ago, when his family bought a couple of solar lanterns, they unknowingly contributed to the global green effort, thus suddenly finding a clean, affordable escape from generations of darkness. Thus, more than 15 million (1.5 crore) families are helping India combat climate change.”

Chetan Chauhan, Hindustan Times, June 5^th 2009

Frankly, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that alternative sources of energy have already made more inroads into India than I had known. Baby steps have been taken and millions across the country are benefitting from these wise decisions. While authorities who hold the reign of our futures in their clammy hands ruminate & debate over what can be done to combat climate change, people in most rural areas are already showing the way. According to various articles, something like a small environmental revolution seems to be underway. That’s definitely something to crow about! Some of the instances mentioned are truly signs of good things to come. Tamil Nadu will soon have a railway coach factory that will run on wind power. Farmers in Kerala are using manure-based gas for cooking, instead of forest wood. Villagers in Orissa are planting trees on barren land. Himachal Pradesh has provided low energy consuming CFLs for free. As I write this, the monsoons have finally arrived in Mumbai and unimaginable respite has swept across the city. The air-conditioners have been unplugged & the humble fan is back in action. Children & adults alike are literally soaking in the weather with unabashed abandon. Still, the rains have been anticipated with a sliver of fear every year since the deluge of 2005, which was one of many disasters across the globe – a small but significant aftereffect of global warming. And the painful memory of that makes these baby steps to combat climate change all the more significant and meaningful

All said & done, these are still remote instances. Can this become a reality ALL over the country? One of my respected professors had once quoted, “Where there is a will, there is a RUNWAY!” Verily, if we will to soar with purpose & enthusiasm, then the mountain shall definitely come to Mohammed. Renewable energy is the new mantra, the manna to help tackle most ills plaguing our climate. Renewable sources of energy like solar energy, wind, biomass et al need to replace the more polluting & redundant coal generated energy and nuclear energy we are so dependent on. India is among the world’s five biggest storehouses of coal and depends heavily on thermal power — a major source of carbon emissions — to generate 70 per cent of its energy. Imagine the sheer curtailment in the amount of greenhouse gases by using renewable energy! But for it to be a successful investment for the future and become the spine of energy generation, it needs to become the main source of energy rather than languish as an alternative. To an extent, this requires renewable energy to be decentralised and be offered at an affordable price. That is something our sarkaar needs to look at. On a mass scale, awareness about the benefits of renewable energy needs to be all-pervasive, consequently catching eyeballs & imaginations of concerned citizens and the government. On this front, the print media and Greenpeace India is doing it’s bit to garner popular opinion & petitions towards the Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh to pass a Renewable Energy Law as swiftly as possible to make this fledgling energy revolution an integral part of our future. The Green Idol campaign has already made its’ rounds in Mumbai & Bangalore and is headed countrywide for increased support for the Renewable Energy Law (www.greenidol.in)

Like you, even I am sceptical how gathering petitions alone will solve the crisis that we’re facing today. But if putting in my vote might get our voice & opinion across to those who make the decisions, then I’m all for it. And I’d rather know I’ve tried than sit at home & complain about mundane things. There’s so much YOU can do. Climate change is killing our planet, and consequently killing us. And before you look away, remember that the “US” includes “YOU” as well. Help save the planet for YOURSELF!

Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon had quoted a historical statement and it rings true today for every step we will take towards actualizing a cleaner, greener India.

“One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Go on, take that small step, make that giant leap …

AN EXILE UNTO ITSELF

2009-06-22T19:11:00.004+05:30

The Scream by Edward Munch

Apart from the bai-sexual jokes circulating about a shine-less actor these days, the other piece of news grabbing eyeballs has been the racist attacks on Indian students in Australia. Demonstrations were held, memorandums submitted and diplomatic relations rendered awkward. Hopefully, tensions will ease soon and life will go on as usual. Or will it?

In a world already divided by boundaries, language, religious beliefs & ideologies, further division & derision on the basis of color and features is disgusting. For long, many foreigners have taken potshots at us and have literally, made us feel like sh*t. As Indians, fortunately, we have largely been an extremely tolerant lot and forgiven many their trespasses, because as Mahatma Gandhi had wisely quoted, “An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind.” Racism in any form in any part of the world is an unpardonable offense & those who indulge in it are not fit to be called human beings.

But who says Indians are always at the receiving end? We as Indians need to see beyond ourselves and cock the mirror to be able to witness our own fractured reality and our misdirected ire against fellow Indians just because some of them look like phirangs or follow a religion contrasting that of the National sentiment or speak a language which is not spoken nationwide. Yes, our country does have its differences on the basis of caste, creed, color and religion but that’s another story altogether. My grouse, as of many who do not “look” like Indians is that how do we cope with being branded a ‘foreigner’ after we, our parents & our grandparents have lived all our lives in India? Why is the warm feeling of acceptance always a fleeting illusion? Why does “but I’m an Indian” become an oft-repeated phrase for us? Why do we face & will keep facing taunts all our lives?

Generalization is preposterous. One bad fish does not make for an oceanful, and India absolutely cannot be seen as a subconsciously racist country. I thank all those large-hearted people who’ve accepted people like me as one of their own, but on a countrywide scale, I can’t help but wonder what lies in store for us who are Chinese/ Nepali/ German/ Nigerian / British/ American and the like by blood but Indian by birth, and proudly so . Mutual respect might not stop some around the world from continuing with their disparaging attitude towards us, but the least we can do is honor the Unity in Diversity tag that we so pride ourselves in, to be one in principle and action. Unless we achieve this singular goal, we have more to fear from ourselves than our neighbouring countries.

The statement of a North-eastern character in Chak De India might have gone unnoticed in all the grandeur of the movie, but it strikes a chord with all those who face my predicament. The line went thus – “How would you feel if you were treated like a guest in your own motherland?”

Seriously, how would you feel?

BACK BEFORE YOU KNOW IT

2009-06-14T18:25:00.002+05:30

After the pleasantly salubrious South African winter, Mumbai’s fiercely unkind summer came as a rude shock. No two thoughts then, the short sojourn to Pune turns out to be just what the doctor ordered. Setting out in a pal’s swanky new car, foraging through the baleful traffic, I see the vehicles playing a teasing game, coming seductively close to one another but never touching hands, never brushing lips with each other. The swarm soon parts and the long flyover above part of the Arabian sea signals the arrival of the suburbs, or as I like to call it lovingly, the ‘jungles’ – just because it is so damn far away! The pace picks up on the expressway, and a few hours pass by indulging in conversation, some idle and some relevant, tossed with a generous helping of good music, laughter and mischief. Soon enough, we’ve left a hulking city to reach an equally chaotic junior one.

My stay with friends is at the Appointment House, a British era mansion in the Army Cantonment area, extremely reminiscent of school years spent in the lush & tranquil environ of Dehradun. . A mansion of similar architecture in school(since it was started by & for the British elite) , with slanting, thatched roofs meant to let the rain drop by and impossibly high ceilings to keep the house cool, would accommodate 28 boys, with six beds in one dormitory, a shoe room, a changing room & common toilets!!! Let me assure you it never was a tight squeeze. Not when the house was as capacious as this, not when the bathrooms are as big as kitchens and the living room alone as big as my entire house! Add to that a huge lawn and a massive backyard which hosts a servant’s quarter and a potential space for a sports facility. Once beyond the mansion’s gates, the hush becomes our consort and the outraged surroundings are mercifully placated. There in that house, I wish those moments wouldn’t slip away in a hurry and yet, there is never a dull moment, with healthy servings of laughter, cheap jokes, recollections, anecdotes and baatein kuch ankahi si :) And when the conversation threatens to die down, the pitter patter of rain on the roof adds music to an already magical setting.

In the short period of time spent in Pune, I glide dreamily through the simple pleasures of life (which I just can’t stop endorsing of late). Feeling the first rain as it runs down my body, soaking mind & body and rejuvenating the spirit with enthusiasm noveau. Sharing one puny umbrella, resulting in four very wet & cold friends. Chatting up a dear friend with whom exists an unexplainable bond over a cuppa coffee in a proper “coffee house”. Ruining a brand new shoe in a puddle of rain water. Sitting in the lawn on easy chairs, feeling the night rain give you goosebumps as it traces your face & bare arms. Facing power outages gleefully. Wrapping oneself up from head to toe to brave the cold, and still refusing to go indoors when it gets too cold. Seeing shadows where there are none, and noticing with trepidation hunching figures behind the branches, flower pots, chairs, curtains… Letting the imagination run wild, getting scared and scaring others as well.

Wanting a hug.

Wanting to give a hug.

The night in the house is spooky, with the sheer ampleness & the vacuum-like silence adding to it.

(I’m 8 years old again, waking up at abnormal hours in the night and experiencing dread in spite of the reassuring snores of dorm mates around me. My solace is to shut my eyes tight & pull the bedsheet over me, hoping it will be adequate to keep the spirits out).

When the bedsheet is pulled down, the sun has risen and it’s time to go back. The feet are dragging and the mind is unwilling to return. A hearty breakfast, a merry conversation and hugs & goodbyes later, the road is our domain again. The drive back is punctuated with more rain, a hilly landscape dotted by grey clouds, and a honeyed, dulcet voice singing sweet nothings in my ear :)

KIMBERLY - THE GHOST TOWN

2009-05-12T05:40:00.002+05:30

Another week in the Rainbow country draws to an end. There have been memorable ones before this, and before the eraser of time limits my recollection of the week past, I put virtual pen to paper and recount it, although honestly, memories are one paradise we can never be expelled from.

Last night was spent in mirthful, mischievous banter with a friend, keeping me up late. When the sun peeped into my room this morning, the eyes were unwilling to open and the mind and body slow to action. Lack of sleep, the bane of billions! Whilst on a jog on the deserted Kimberly streets, I begin to wonder whether the ghosts of yore really do dwell in this sleepy town. The town wears a desolate, haunted look for the most part, with the streets devoid of humans, pets and even insects! The clean air is heavenly manna for my lungs, and the silence ... well, as Christina Rossetti puts it, the "Silence is more musical than any song." Museums, monuments, art galleries and cemeteries dot my immediate surroundings. The regular market place IS abuzz with activity and human traffic, but I avoid that in my quest for peaceful solitude. After spending the previous day in this city famous for it’s' diamonds, I had shuddered at the thought of staying longer in this place where time has stood still. Where, in some crazy, impossible way, the time line followed is that of the eighties and the night comes much before sunset. The pubs hold high spirited, friendly fellas and mateys, but few, and far in between. The fear of 'death by boredom' loomed large. But I needn't have lost sleep. The city, as if responding to my fear, embraced me and bared her secrets to me...

The Big Hole, they call it. A lava spewing volcano millions of years ago, which, post-dormancy would see a rush of miners in the quest for the ultimate prize - Diamonds! The lust for the stone would create rivers of sweat & blood and erode the hill over the next one hundred & fifty years to leave behind its namesake - A Big Hole in the ground! A mining site is something I'm familiar with, having seen coal mines in my hometown Dhanbad, but this place brings something novel - the outer facade of the mining site is maintained as it was decades ago. It stands there, a husk of a settlement straight out of an old Western, toting the gun in your face and daring you to be the faster draw. The mine was shut down in 1914, by which time it had already yielded 2472 kgs of diamonds. Now, hulks of defunct machinery, a museum, a replica of an underground mine and the hole itself remain. Inexplicably, I find this quaint, laid-back journey down the lane of history as fascinating as my spine chilling shark-dive in Capetown or the adrenaline-pumping quad-biking adventure in Port Elizabeth

A quick drive to the suburb takes me through war-fields, testimony to the ravages of the Anglo-Boer wars. Memorials have been erected in the city to honor the valor of the brave soldiers, their lives forfeit before their time. As is often said about Kimberly, this place is seeped in history, and this history is soaked in blood. Once past the battlefields, a common-sight railway line is racing us on our left. Only, something beautiful lies beyond these lines.... The Lesser Flamingos

They come to breed at the suburbs of Kimberly - the largest flamingo breeding ground in South Africa, established by a concerned conservationist and his colleagues. A bit of roughing it through knee-high grass as fiery as a lion's mane, getting stung by poison ivy & riddled with nettles, coming too close to deadly spiders and their tenacious webs, and crossing the fence around the lines gives access to the islands where the flamingos flock. They are noisy birds - a cacophony gone horribly wrong, but to watch them in flight is a sight to behold. If watching fish in an aquarium be your idea of therapy, I suggest watching flamingos in flight instead :)

Paying a visit to the flamingos also gives me an opportunity to do something I haven't done in a long time, and probably cannot do back home. I walk far and long on the railway tracks, unmindful of the overly bright sun, grateful for the gentle breeze and the fact that there is not a soul for miles around. I find my peace there in my solitude, walking, skipping, hopping across the lines and reminiscing my childhood.

(I'm running on railway lines outside my house in Dhanbad with a dear friend. We're chasing one other, stopping to put one ear to the track to determine the arrival of the next train. A child's game of leaving a coin on the track and the amazement of seeing it flattened shapeless & featureless ensues. We make faces at the passengers as the train whizzes by inches from our bodies. We trouble the buffalos and shoot rockets into the farmer's land. I watch the doodhwala adulterating the milk and do not realise whether it is right or wrong. The age of innocence. The age of Black and White. It seems like not so long ago...)

Cut to the present. I'm high up in the air, hovering above the Big Hole, over war-fields, over the Kimberly cricket stadium in a police chopper with friendly cops and a cameraman who I've grown fond of - a brusque man, rough around the edges but with glimpses of the goodness within. As the sun plays hide & seek from behind the clouds, the pilot does a sideway flip and suddenly the horizon is a vertical line. I reorient myself and soak in the view. Fireworks are going off in the stadium below. The team in yellow is celebrating a wicket. A thousand feet above, I'm celebrating my freedom, celebrating God for sharing this sight with me.

Back on ground, I go through the motions of a Presenter. Questions, anecdotes, packages, interviews, presentation, the usual. Even through the mundane, I thank God for granting me the good fortune of working with some fine human beings here, each a "diamond" in their own right. Meanwhile, the team in yellow has won and my eyes are roving for it's captain, a person I've longed to meet. The man with the genuine smile, he now leads the National Cricket Team, is from my state and is for me, as for many people, an inspiration. I sight him, and an easy conversation follows, with him reminiscing the days when he'd travel fromRanchi to Dhanbad to play cricket matches, and how the coal dust of my hometown would turn his white uniform to a peppered one in no time. A brief chat later, I find it difficult to contain my glee at having finally met one of my favorite people :)

It's late now. The stadium is empty, with the floodlights still illuminating every corner of The Oval. Tomorrow is another day, another city. Kimberly, a "boring, sleepy" city has exposed me to an unexpected fulfillment. In all it's simplicity, it has given me a sense of belonging, and I carry that warm feeling with me as I travel to a new city, a new experience....

THE 70 mm DREAM

2009-02-22T15:57:00.003+05:30

This post is for Jolene, who introduced me to Saawariya and its timeless story. Although I have attempted to put my interpretation of Saawariya across in words as best as I can, I feel I have not been able to do complete justice to this masterpiece. Nevertheless, the words are heartfelt and I hope you like it Jo …

In a well kept archive, the 70 mm larger-than-life dreams of many a director and visionary find abode. Year after year, they add to an already Himalayan stack of film reels. Some are taken out time& again, and the dream relived. The others are banished to the quoted realm of failure, nestling spiders and their intricate webs. In this banished realm of dust, cobwebs & anonymity there may lie a masterpiece, which was never recognized as one. But the haze will fail to mask its sheer brilliance from one who has the ‘eye’ for it. Saawariya turns out to be one such ethereal dream, an amalgamation of madness & brilliance.

The world of Saawariya is dark& gloomy, yet light & mirthful. It is multicolored in its vibrancy yet monochromatic in its hue. This is a place you know cannot exist, a place ever changing, crackling with energy and at the same time static & still, just like the fantastical possibilities our dreams throw up. And yet, there it is, with its other-worldly-yet familiar magical mood. In this ephemeral world live two ordinary-yet-extraordinary people.

One, the delinquent, fun-loving, philanthropic Raj, who believes in making everyone smile. He spreads joy to one and all irrespective of who or what they are. Everyone is an equal in his mind and he’s blessed with the silken voice that makes your heart ache for more. The second is the confused, alternately scared & fearless lissome lass Sakina. She has madness seeping through her laughter, and cries at the sound of a drop from the faucet joining the water in the fountain. Her smile can light a thousand lamps, her tears can melt a million resolves. She has literally “fallen” in love with a stranger she met merely for a few nights and is in a hopeless abyss she does not wish to emerge from. She’s all that and more, and yet, you never know what she has on her arsenal next.
The peals of Sakina’s laughter & the melancholy of her sobs claw at Raj’s heart. Friendship brings them together and soon he falls in love with her, well knowing she’s one with another. He is the quintessential good guy, one you would want to adore and at the same time chide for being naive in love. He is innocence & charm personified, and serenades Sakina with his honest-to-goodness voice. Masha Allah! Still, he’s human, and in a moment of weakness when he realizes his affections might go unreciprocated, he burns the letter from Sakina to her lover and sabotages her hopes of ever meeting her ‘stranger’ again.

Lost on umeed, she turns to Raj for support, and in the bargain, maybe even starts loving him.

You want to scold Raj for trying to woo the girl of his dreams by such nefarious means, but his sincerity & true love pull your raised hand back. Saawariya becomes the story of two youngsters with their own interpretations of love and how far they are willing to go to win that love. In this play of emotions, your sympathy starts drifting towards Raj. In spite of what he’s done, you wish he would become one with Sakina. He almost does, until Sakina’s past comes back to catch up with her. And in that one penultimate moment, Raj is wiped clean from her memory and left there, heartbroken, watching the boat sail away with her & her ‘stranger’ in it. In that instant, your heart breaks too. You hate Sakina for having left someone as pure as Raj, who but committed only one folly to save his love. The pain of losing it is felt not in Raj’s words which he does not utter, but in his silence - pleading, begging, cajoling her to stay. A moment’s hesistation, and she’s gone. He’s alone once more and his life becomes clouded by the hue pervading the landscape – blue. You feel the sadness dragging you down. But you know that Raj is a good chap – ek Allah ka banda, and that he will be back soon, with his guitar, his soulful voice, his carefree dance and his unmatchable love. In that moment of emptiness, a smile comes across your face knowing that he’ll be all right…

Doli mein bithaake

Sitaaro se sajaake

Zamaane se churaake

Le jaayega ek roz tera udaa ke jiya

Saawariya

THE PALETTE OF THE GODS

2009-02-21T03:00:00.006+05:30

Image courtesy : pinkpanther27, www.deviantart.com

After having savored the little joys of the railways, road travels and towns recently, it is another day at the airport. Ho-hum, I think. Flights have become so drearingly monotonous that my foolproof POA is usually to sleep through the hours - before I know it, I’m at my destination. However, this particular flight turns out to be neo-exciting, thanks to the pilots who are generous enough to invite me in the cockpit & make me feel at home in the cramped environ.

The setup is imposing! There are switches, flip panels, lights, gears, dials, radar displays everywhere. The cockpit resembles a war room straight out of the dozen Hollywood movies I’ve watched. I am instantly impressed by these charming & sophisticated pilots- these brave, well-informed & focused men, who carry a great responsibility on their shoulders every single day, and who face everything, even the possibility of the loss of their lives with a smile & a to-die-for attitude. They explain how the entire system works – the auto pilot, the navigation, the de-pressurization etcetra and I try to absorb as much knowledge as I can. The icing on the cake is the view from the cockpit. . I wonder, if God would ever sit on the clouds and look down upon his creation, this is probably how the world would look to him, tranquil and peaceful (and I wonder, how, of all days, do I forget to bring my camera along on this fateful day!!!). I preposterously attempt to explain in words what my eyes witness that evening. It looks like the palette of Gods, with colors so appealing and the mergers so heavenly- It reinforces my belief that there is definitely a higher power which has created the beautiful world that belies description by the greatest of wordsmiths & philosophers. When the plane turns, so does the horizon, as if slipping off the slant of a table. The loss of orientation is unnerving and for a while, the definitions of up and the down do not apply anymore.

The clouds part way as we descend slowly, and the millions of city lights lay scattered across the landscape like tiny pieces of crushed glass. The descent creates a plummeting sensation which brings a lump to my throat. I recall a similar dread while on a Ferris wheel as a child. I buckle up & grab whatever I can to prevent myself from tumbling over, and the pilots reassure me with a calm voice & a charming demeanor. Once on terra-firma I’m the last passenger to leave, and I take away with me fond memories and smiles for miles & miles.

BACK ON TRACK: BACK ON THE ROAD

2009-01-30T22:08:00.010+05:30

After spanning continents and touring big city after big city in aero-planes, I never realized how much I missed the small-town feel until I travelled to a few, including my own hometown recently. Some of the yawning distances have to be covered by air, but fortunately I am spared the monotony of air travel with some movement on roads and tracks. There's something about travelling in a train that shifts me into an overdrive & a slumber at the same time. In an aero-plane, the suffocating silence & formality are so restraining that I long for emancipation. In a train, there is a perpetual buzz around you - the constant whirring of the fan, the slightly shifting, slightly adjusting movement of people around the compartments, the incessant chatter of people from all walks of life – discussing wives, politics, TV shows, terrorism - literally anything & everything under the sun. Some of it is relevant, most of it "time-pass". Foods from different households packed in the definitive style of that family do the rounds. The freedom to strike a conversation with the most myriad group of strangers around is liberating. One may walk about with royal indifference and get a glimpse of the REAL people of India.

The stations are hubs of activity, with its characteristic sounds & smells - the chai wallah with his shrill, monotonous drone, the chaat wallah loudly promoting his ware, the vendors selling a variety of sweetmeats, fruits, books and the like. Book stalls are stocked with the best and the inane. The toilet is filthy and I nevertheless still get charged for using it. In the meanwhile, I rest assured I'll bump into every kind of person, and observation suddenly becomes my endearing past-time. Many stations pass by, and finally I alight at my destination. Porters charge towards me, and I charge away from them. They haggle, quarrel amongst each other and I walk away with my meager baggage and an indifferent attitude. The car is waiting, and I get in for another less-frequented mode of long distance transport – by road

In the small towns I visit, I notice that in spite of the evidently newly constructed dividers & buildings, nothing takes the inherent charm away. The lanes are small & congested with a handful of boys & girls – the boys boisterously loud & cheeky, the girls shy & reticent. The children pedal away furiously on their bicycles, attempting a poor but exhilarating mimicry of the fast life of the cities. Their bodies are agile, even if slightly arched by the burden of the schoolbag on their backs. The trees are playfully teased by the wind, and I could've never imagined that mere rustling of leaves could become a heavenly form of music. The koels are cooing and the melodious sound reverberates in my memory long after the sound's gone. Over-the-top posters of various local & "imported" brands dot the landscape & the greenery acts as a sharp contrast to the dusty & dry town limits. It is heartening to see how many things that city dwellers take for granted are such joy-imparting bonuses in towns. The idyllic setting, the slowness of life draws me towards it. The city of Mumbai where I live is so crowded it looks like a mass parade, a disjointed march-past between people who are surging ahead, purposefully or aimlessly. The constant chatter of Mumbai changes to a lazy silence here. And I realize my observation begins to peak. I hear the squirrels twittering in the tree, hiding in the most impossible of thickets and branches, with their tails jerking with every twitter, as if the sound were emanating not from their tiny mouths but from their tails. Were these continuous shrill twitters mating calls? Perhaps, because in another instant, another one joins our furry friend and both disappear high up in the tree. I see colorful kites entangled in the trees – neglected souvenirs of the just concluded Kite festival. The thrill of seeing the distant hills in just the moon light with nothing in between to obstruct the view reminds of the rush I felt with my first kiss.

I spend time with my family and look at all the people gathered to see me, proclaiming to be my friends. My friends left these towns long ago, in search of greener pastures. And in celebrity starved regions, privacy comes with great difficulty. The roads in parts are a nightmare & it takes more than a warm bath & a massage to recover from it. I am a guest with the Deputy Chief Minister and he's a good host. However, the overt lavishness of the evening is in sharp contrast to the crumbling town outside – a town that is beautiful but is also falling apart at the seams, its spirit broken but not defeated, trundling towards the faintest of flickers of hope. The wastefulness of personnel, food and monies inside those walls but not beyond appalls me. What good it could do if put in for the right purpose & in the right direction… Very soon, it is time to leave by road to catch my next flight. The journey from the town to the city is long and throws up more interesting sights. The massive chimneys at the outskirts of the city spew thick, white smoke, not unlike angry, billowing dragons. I notice conical thatched huts which are epitomes of beauty in all their simplicity. The exteriors of such huts are replicated in many resorts where one must pay a fortune to use them. Here, the simple village folk make it for themselves and live in what eludes most of us. For the first time, I see flocks of birds perched asleep in dried up trees. To be honest, the sight set against a darkened sky frightens me. There are patches of dark clouds and the moon is obscured. I fall into the clutches of a deep sleep and the unforgiving cold...

The first rays of the sun pry my eyes open for what lies ahead. The brightness of the greenery is a sight to behold for a person weary of living in a concrete jungle. I instantly crave to break free of the confines of my vehicle and gallivant into the lush green fields. My dreams have always been made of such open spaces, spaces symbolizing freedom and greatness. Spaces in the manner God made them – unbridled, untouched. Suddenly, I want to be the man herding the cows scattered all over like a child's toys. I want to be the boy bathing with complete abandon in the village pond. I want to be the woman leaning forward to work the rice in the fields. I want to be the men sitting on their haunches, sipping on their tea and indulging in morning banter. I want to be the boy frolicking in a puddle of rain water with his nervous grandfather. I want to be the girls riding their bicycles to school in their crisp, blue uniforms. I want to be the lad sitting around doing nothing. I want to be the family of gulls perched on the wall, side by side like wise old men looking towards the horizon. I want to be the train chugging along with its trademark coo, taking me forward in space and back in time. A barely 5 foot high mesh separates me from my desires. What hold me back are barriers of time and barriers set in my mind. The grass is literally greener on the other side, but it's not easy to cross over. I watch sudden drops of rain slide down the car windows as I stare outside in childlike wonder. The music playing is mellifluous, with Pankaj Udhas' "Aur ahista" slowly melting inside me and making me wish that things would really go more "ahista". Fuzon's "Mora saiyyan" blurs memories of a face long lost in the recesses of the mind. Richard Marx croons "Can't help fallin' in love with you" and "Aao na" gifts me memories of a year back and tears of the now, which surprise me…

NOT A DROP TO DRINK...

2008-08-29T23:16:00.002+05:30

The recent water crisis at home had him by the horns. Early mornings became the norm as the water supply ceased at 9 AM and resumed only at 4:30 PM. To add to the water woes, he had many guests dropping in over the next few weeks when water was scarce. He was in bad shape, arranging for alternate sources of water, filling up buckets, washing machine, utensils & any container that could hold water. The extra trouble made him miserable( come as it did during his recovery days) until he thought beyond his selfish orb and was reminded of those who are victims of so much more suffering because people like him waste so much water and crib when there isn’t any left. There are thirsty millions out there for whom using water for daily ablutions & washing clothes is a liability. There are those, who walk miles, unmindful of the mortifying heat to procure potable water. The thought of those millions shake and shame him, and he knows, if there is to be water for everyone, then one must save.

He has started saving water. It’s a miniscule contribution in a country of billions, but he muses, if he can save even a glass of water everyday, imagine what it can do if like minded people across the country save a glass each …. So much water saved- So many lives improved

So when will you start saving? Does it require you to join an organization? Or does someone need to tell you more about the ill-effects of water-shortage? No, not at all. Whoever you are, you can help save. All it requires is will, and a little time out of your busy lives. Stop wasting water when you’re brushing your teeth or taking a bath – don’t let the elixir of life run unnecessarily from the taps when not in use. Check for leaks, and fix them. Make sure all water outlets are tightly shut. Don’t use more than necessary. Every drop makes an ocean. Here is our opportunity to make a difference.

On a lighter note, a saying goes thus:

“Save water. Bathe with your neighbour’s daughter”

Statutory warning : Do NOT try the abovementioned at home. It is only meant to add an element of humor and the author does not advocate this and guarantees broken bones to the defector. You can’t be expected to save water with a crippled body :)

DOES IT HELP YOU FORGET?

2008-08-04T18:24:00.005+05:30

Some drink to enjoy the freedom from the monotonous drone of everyday life while some drink to socialize with strangers, peers & superiors. Some drink to shed their inhibitions while some drink for health, since studies prove that an occasional drink might not be bad at all. And some drink … to forget

Alcohol does take one to a world free of daily worries and unleashes human emotions in exaggerated measures. While happiness is contagious and always welcome, it is shadows of anger & depression that lurk menacingly in the dark corners of the mind and are granted fiendish proportions by alcohol. Having lived in the City of Pubs, Bangalore for many years, he has had a lot of high-spirited acquaintances in whom he has observed the ‘after-effects’, so to say. More often than not, they’ve gone on the much-vaunted “happy-high”, where troubles are dispensed of and friends & loved ones and having fun is all that matters. The alcohol has made them do hilarious, fun, often silly & crazy things. Things one can be proud of or embarrassed by later. Things one can reminisce with a group of friends, and laugh about. Things that good memories are made of…

Anger… an effect of alcohol which he’s very familiar with, and detests the most. Vain seniors, egoistic friends & anti-social elements have been models of display often enough. If alcohol can give the joy to fly sky-high, it can also break the shackles of deep-seated unrest, envy, hatred or mean streak. It can give one a sense of absolute power, and of absolute scorn for consequences. It loosens the tongue, hands & feet, as well as morals. The outbreak of anger under the spell of alcohol spells havoc for those unfortunate enough to be around

But probably the most self-destructive effect of alcohol is the underlying depression it can reveal. Several films have been made on the eternal loser, the jilted lover, the social outcast, who drinks to forget. The Spirits might rid one of their woes temporarily, but once they wear off, the state of senselessness & the mask of attempted joy fade as well. If alcohol can take one away to a private heaven, it can also drag them down to a private hell, a hell of their own making. The respite from memories is but temporary. Memories always return, like an out-of-control boomerang.

He knows someone (let’s call him Sam) who started drinking to forget his personal & professional woes. Instead, it dragged Sam into an abyss he is not strong enough to return from. It made his miseries indelible, and now alcohol is his mistress, to shed his tears with.
He has always wondered … does alcohol REALLY help forget? Is the Spirit potent enough to actually lift spirits? There are countless such Sams out there, battling the spirits and battling their inner demons, a war they’re most likely to lose. He sees them wasting away and ponders. There definitely are much better ways to forget the troubles coiled within, snake like, which won’t let one breathe.

When life becomes rough and everyone & everything seems stacked against you, try a friend you trust. It gives a different high and a definite relief. You’ll never want Spirits again. Here’s to all those people who are high…. high on life, love and friendship. Cheers!

“If friendship is your weakest point, then you are the strongest person in the world”
Abraham Lincoln

A sense of great adventure prevails prowling the roads of Mumbai at nightfall. They say life lies in the details, and observation nurtures your mind. The streets of Mumbai provide ample nourishment for an open, curious mind. Think that sleeping under the sky with only the blanket of stars for company is a great idea? Think again. Against the imposing, sometimes suffocating backdrop of huge multistoried buildings & rhythmic clatter of railway tracks under constantly rushing metal monsters, lie people on pavements under the open sky, with nothing more than a thin sheet of newspaper as their barrier against nature and the clawing, dream-breaking prods of mosquitoes, children, animals and the Policeman’s stick. Yet they do not hesitate to share their meager blanket of paper & miniscule bed with those who have neither. A beedi is half dangling from the mouth of an asleep, old man, who’s provided shelter tonight to a weak, cold stray. The calm on his face starts reflecting in mine. The waves are crashing against the fortified stone walls, and somewhere inside, a child is rejoicing.

RED BLURS MY SIGHT

2008-07-27T16:34:00.002+05:30

Image courtesy : Blackstarshine at DeviantArt

Red is on his hands
And she, tripping over his instincts
Strikes with her virgin fangs

They lay wrapped in the mist around them
In that perfect moment
Their souls were bared
They lay naked, nervous
Ecstatic, yet oh-so-scared

He counts
The goose bumps on her body
Smells the beads rushing from her forehead
Like fingers running
Searching, tearing
Up & down his unmade bed

He’s blind to the world
Senseless to his sin
And embers of her eyes
Plunging deep within

Fiery lips
Breathe venom
And lift him up
Death finally rests
In his stormy, silent, empty cup

Red blurs my sight…

THE FORCE FIELD

2008-07-19T11:19:00.005+05:30

The comedy of events & incidents usually lies in the underlying tragedy of the subject matter. What most of the world laughs at can evoke the Demon of doubts in one’s mind. I’ve been uncomfortable for a week now, what with my back rebelling against the man who’s abused and ignored it for some time now. The last few days of rest have got me back on my feet … days which were interminably long & decorated with pain. Meanwhile, the spin of the cosmos was measured by incessant phone calls, continuous web browsing, and soothing music, inspiring books and thought provoking movies. And on the night I felt my immune system had finally tamed the beast of pain admirably enough, I celebrated by subjecting myself to one & a half hours of mindless comedy. The movie was about a guy who falls in love with a girl he meets in a hostel blackout and doesn’t even get to see her face. It depicts his struggle to find out who that girl was & in the bargain realizes that men ARE chauvinists & view women in a condescending manner as mere objects, not persons. This realization & his consequent acceptance of the same make him the darling of all the hostel girls. Now there was this funny scene where he talks about the “anti-intimacy force field” that guys usually put around themselves to avoid getting involved emotionally with a girl, which had me in splits. That is when, the Demon of doubts awoke. There, in that hilarious scenario lay my tragedy. Maybe tragedy is too harsh a word to use for my predicament, but when I see people misunderstanding me & pointing a finger at me, accusing me of being insensitive & aloof, I wonder if they are right. To add to my dilemma, I KNOW that at times, they are! What is this I talk about? I talk about my personalized, super-strong, impenetrable “force field”.

I have lived away from my parents, my home since I have been little. The very time when a child needs to be nurtured with parental care & craves for their love was when I had to be sent away by extremely reluctant parents for a better future. Although this going away gave me freedom & many heart-warming experiences, it also erected the “anti-intimacy force field” around me. The numerous years of hostel life took me away physically & emotionally from my parents. I got accustomed to not seeing them for months at a stretch. I ceased to feel lonely. I got used to living without those who I cared about the most. I forgot how to care for anyone, and lost my ability to feel for another. Henceforth I could connect with few people on an emotional level. I do cry when I watch an emotionally charged movie or listen to songs of separation & longing, but try as I might, the magic required to prop up a personal alliance, be it friendship, love, family ties, seemed to have been erased from my psyche. I might be your friend, but the concern that defines friendship may always be lacking. I may be your lover, but the comfort of intimacy may always be amiss. I might be your brother, but I may never be protective about you. I might be your son and love you with all my heart, but you’ll probably never be able to tell from my actions and words.

Many term my behaviour as ‘professional’ and pass it off as normal. They say this is the perfect attitude to carry whilst in Mumbai & in this industry where people are friendly with you when you’re up in life, and strangers the moment the earth moves beneath your feet. They are mistaken. Irrespective of the good or bad people around me, this is who I am, sans pretensions.

Every face wears a mask. I wear a broken one.

Every mirror reveals less than it shows. You’ll never know what I hold within.

Every human is a flawed creation. The slate of my life is clean.

I fear I could never be the ideal son, the best friend, the perfect lover, the awesome brother….

How do I unplug this force field?

PHIR....

2008-04-26T15:09:00.005+05:30

Phir unhi raston mein aa gaye hain do-raahein
Phir goad mein uski so jaane ko jee chaahe

Phir unhi ungliyo ko thaam kar usne jaana

Wo moam ki tarah pighalta hai
Wo aarzoo ki tarah phisalta hai
Wo jaagte sapne dekhtaa hai
Aur sotey aahey bhartaa hai

Chehro mein dekhtaa hai woh usi ka chehra
Khwahishon par phir ye kaisa pehra?

Tum nahi hamaare, ye sach sheeshey saa saaf
Ek hi bahaana : Gustakhi maaf....

THE TOY SOLDIER

2008-04-18T13:55:00.002+05:30

Image courtesy = www.amrk.net

I BURIED A TOY SOLDIER
I BURIED IT MANY YEARS AGO
WRAPPED IN BANDAGES, DENTED, BROKEN
IT SURVIVED THE PENDULUM’S TO AND FRO

DESPITE RUST AND MILDEW, IT MARCHED ON AND ON
TILL ONE DAY I DUG IT OUT, WELL PAST ITS’ FINAL DAWN
THE BANDAGES HAD WITHERED
THE SOLDIER HAD CRUMBLED
BRUTALLY CRUSHED AND DAINTILY HUMBLED

MY JOURNEY HAS BEGUN, FULL OF ECSTACY AND PAIN
AND MY SOLDIER WILL NEVER BE MY COMPANION AGAIN

NO FAITH

2008-04-16T12:25:00.003+05:30

Image Courtesy = "Asphyxia" - www.jeehwang.com

NO FAITH...

My joy

My grudge

My sweat

My blood

All mine

Not yours

NO FAITH...

My love

My grouse

My genius

My flaws

All mine

Not yours

NO FAITH...

Empty facades

Broken shards

Smirking masks

House of cards

All yours

Not mine

NO FAITH...

Ink touches paper, words come slow

Why this must be, I do not know

My cup runneth over, oceans in my eyes

And emotions must flow, emotions must flow

ONE FLIGHT, MANY MUSINGS

2008-04-15T22:29:00.001+05:30

The siesta being over, my dhyaan shifts to the sight outside at 31,000 feet above sea level. The azure blue of the sky puts the mind in blissful stasis. Sunrays filter through the cotton wool of the clouds like lights from heaven above. Far in the distance, clouds & blue sky merge in a pure haze. I reach out for it in my mind, but it dissolves slowly from heavenwards view. A gaze at terra firma reveals the long, mercurial rivers forcing their path through obstacles of the land, finally relenting and snaking, cleaving the vast landscape. Glints of light reflected off my watch smile back at my narrowed eyes. The sun – a goblet of fire, is bright yet gentle, and the ocean below a silent vat of gold. The sun – descending into nothingness, changes the horizon to a mix of yellow, orange & red. Many a hide-and-seek later, the goblet is gone, and its impersonators on earth take over – a dizzy blur as the plane starts to descend…

On his flight back to Mumbai, he has many mixed feelings, the predominant one being that of regret of returning so early. He has always called Bangalore his second home, and there are so many memories & attachments in that city that he fails to get enough of it. On this occasion, knowing that the next few days are to be spent in lazy, unproductive chaos, he seriously regrets coming back so soon. Mumbai is a city of wonders & temptations – “Maya nagri” as they call it, and it draws not only foreigners but also sons of the soil to its sights, its sounds, fragrances, its histories and also its mysteries. It draws him in a similar fashion, but much to his chagrin, it might probably never be a place which he can call “home” from his heart. An inexplicable & burning hollowness and loneliness engulfs him every time he returns to Mumbai, in spite of having so many people around. Mumbai is one city which fails to breach the invisible barrier around him. He had spent a lot of money to get to and fro from Bangalore for just a few days, but it was really worth it. As the punchline for Mastercard goes, “There are some things money can’t buy…” This is probably one of those things ….peace of mind.

CHILDHOOD - LOST & FOUND

2008-04-05T00:33:00.007+05:30

Taare Zameen Par brings back many uncomfortable memories of his childhood. He wasn’t suffering from ADD (Attention Deficit Syndrome) or dyslexia, but was coaxed in a similar manner to stay at a boarding school. He was told by mother that he had been very naughty & had to go far away for disciplining. The actual reason to send him there was the paucity of good schools in his hometown. The young child did not understand that, nor did he know what the prospect of enrolling in a boarding school held for him. He assumed it bode ill and threw tantrums, begged, pleaded – any childish tactic that he’d learnt could tug at the heartstrings of an elder. It doesn’t always work - he learnt it the hard way. Within no time, items got ticked off the list of things to take along. The bags were on the verge of ripping at the seams, unable to contain the massive contents inside, much like the enormity of tears he was holding back. Dad stayed stern & stone faced through the ordeal. The child tried looking for some emotions on mother’s face, his last refuge, and was heartbroken to see none - none more than that of a silently weeping statue. He reasoned with dad, from when they left the tiny but comfortable home to the time they reached the huge, uninviting metal gates of the hostel, thousands of miles away, but to no avail. As he watched his parents leave him there & their vehicle dissolving into the distance, his world came crashing down. He withdrew into a shell for 8 long years, every moment of which took its toll on him, and his only refuge remained in his songs & his sketches…

The present: to the movie he’s watching, he realizes he’s not crying. Memories have cornered him & stifled his cry. His emotions soar high on the song “Maa”. He chokes and suddenly realizes - his feelings have gone beyond words……..

A visit to Kids r Us in Dhanbad brings with it some joyful moments. The splash of happy colors across the nursery hits him in the face & socks the early-morning haze off him. The kids look vibrant in their colorful sweaters, but their faces narrate a different story. They are dazed, sleepy, with runny noses. Some are utterly bewildered by this strange & different looking man. Some are weeping silently, some bellowing aloud. Their vacations having just got over, many are missing their parents, their cozy beds, their playthings. They’re at that early stage of life when no burden of grades, awards or expectations clouds their young minds, and their close ones are all that matter to them. He makes it a point to make them smile that morning. He sings, dances & recites rhymes for them. They follow in their own innocent manner and make everything more colorful. The chorus of little voices, some childishly innocent, some interrupted by sniffles ring out in the corridors. A one & a half year kid surprises him by singing tear-jerking songs replete with emotion. Soon, they’re all prancing around, dancing with gay abandon. Frowns start changing into smiles – some morbidly shy, some unabashedly broad. He struggles to capture the kinetic children on the little frame of his camera but finds an indelible picture of them embedded into his memory. He had come to add joy to the childrens’ morning. Instead, he finds himself going away with the gift of mirth, courtesy God’s little angels. His mouth curves into a smile…

“Dekho inhe ye hain, oas ki boondein

Patto ki goad me, aasmaan se koodein

Angdai le phir, karwat badalkar

Nazuk se moti, hans de fisalkar kar

Kho na jaye ye, Taare Zameen Par………”

ELEPHANTA BECKONS

2008-03-27T19:47:00.015+05:30

A chance visit to the Gateway of India brought with it a barrage of old memories. It was here, where for the first time 128 Idol Three contestants from all over the country & abroad had gathered together. I hardly knew a soul back then, and this is where my Idol fellowship first began. As we’d all stood against the Gateway, the waterfront had been dotted by numerous boats & steamers. One of them was to be ours for the evening. The memory of that “boat party” remains vivid in my mind. It was the beginning of an unforgettable journey…

This time round, things are different. The Gateway “beautification” project has begun. The erstwhile open space around the gateway is now congested with cement & stone, yet a sense of lingering sameness wafts around. Back then, it would have been impossible to saunter around unescorted without getting mobbed. Now, many dawns & dusks later, life is more chilled out and I dare to walk around the Gateway, oblivious of whether I’m being looked at or not. As I make a final circle around the monument, the beckoning chatter of a government guide draws my attention to Elephanta caves. I’ve been coming to Mumbai since I was little but have never visited this relic of the ancient past. Without much contemplation, I board the grandiosely christened “cruise”, which is nothing more than a rundown fishing boat, now re-styled to accommodate more people.

The boat journey is long. At the end of it, the sudden gust of soothing winds takes my attention away from the annoying humidity to the approaching pier. The backdrop of tiny hills adds a good first impression. The seagulls and the abandoned fishing boats give me an indication of the good things to come. Alighting from the “cruise”, I walk towards the toy train which runs from the docking point to the beginning of the ascent towards the caves. The “khatar-khatar” of the slow, dilapidated train adds a certain charm to the journey. The climb uphill is tedious, but I have all the time in the world and move slowly & leisurely. Innumerable monkeys dot the route and it is most amusing to see simian families playing around with, believe it or not, puppies & kittens. A hot & sweaty trek later, I face the now familiar encounter at the ticket office. As most of us know, foreigners get charged more than local tourists at all heritage sites in India. On this occasion, I’m asked to produce my identity proof (for obvious reasons). I do what I usually do in such situations – I flash my best smile & say, “Kya bhaai, ek saathi Bharatiya se ID maangogey?” (hey bro, you gonna ask a fellow Indian for an ID?) What I get in return is a sheepish smile from the ticketing fellow & the handing over of a “local” ticket.

I enter the first cave and am immediately engulfed by darkness. My eyes take some time adjusting to this new environment. There are lots of tourists at the cave, prominently groups of foreigners with their typical hats & backpacks. Among them is a woman who has come alone, confused, yet dignified. This svelte Swiss maiden is unlike any lady I’ve ever come across. A conversation is struck in those ethereal surroundings and what follows is an exchange not only of kind words & smiles, but also something special through that magical pathway called the eyes. Co-incidence or not, a romantic Hindi number is playing in the background. We part ways to feast our minds on objects other than each other, hoping to catch up at the end of that day’s tour.

There are five caves in all, but the most scenic & worthwhile is the first one. This cave was crafted as an uninterrupted tribute to Lord Shiva by his devotees and it depicts him in his utmost glory. Snapshots from various periods of his life are carved beautifully in the now crumbling stone and are a visual treat. My interest is piqued by one massive piece which depicts Shiva alone as the Holy Trinity of Hindu mythology – the Creator, the Preserver and the Destroyer (contrary to the trinity being Brahma, Vishnu & Shiva). This further engrains the theorem how mythologies of all cultures can be so contradicting. The centre of the cave has a Mahalingam, that divine symbol of male fertility, the four-sided entry of which is guarded by imposing 11 feet stone sentinels. I move from this massive cave to the other smaller caves which, much to my disappointment have nothing more than tiny dark chambers.
Surely, there must be more to see, I tell myself. The travel-bug in me wants to explore more and I hot-foot it on the small hills around. The uncharted & rubble-laden path ahead leads to the top of the hill, aptly titled Tope (cannon) hill.
There are 2 massive cannons here, which look more like giant pistols and a glance in the direction where they’re pointing gives one an idea where the enemy would’ve been most likely anticipated from. A look at its foundation surprises me. The construction of the cannon is a mix of new technology & old machinery. There are the usual inlets for cannon fodder, and systematic outlets for spent cartridges. The foundation leads to an inner chamber where not too many people venture because of the abject uninviting darkness. Since I’m armed with neither torch nor matches, I advance gingerly & place my faith in the light from the camera flash to show the way. After many well & ill-placed steps (often into animal poo), slivers of the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel shine through. What was the purpose of this cellar, not even the guides could tell. A war shelter, perhaps? I could only hazard a guess.With the sightseeing over, I move back on my tracks.

The trek downhill is brief & swift. I feel exhausted & dehydrated, and a much needed meal later, I walk my way back to the dock. I look out longingly for those hazel eyes which had taken my breath away for some brief moments at the onset of this adventure. I find silence instead. With a heavy heart, I take a quiet journey back towards Mumbai shores, staring at the waves gently sweep by....

OUT OF THE COMFORT ZONE...

2008-02-25T17:11:00.003+05:30

The rotors are whirring at full throttle, and the sunlight filters through the spinning wings into his sleep-laden eyes. He’s never really liked small planes, but the fatigue of the past few days have made him immune to the claustrophobic environment of the tiny flying box. He’s stayed awake the whole night and now, even though his body is crying out in exhaustion, he cannot really get himself to sleep. There is a bundle of thoughts between him and his conscience that morning. He has a lot of things to prove, to himself, his admirers as well as his critics. The impending show in Dimapur, Nagaland is one with individual performances after a long hiatus. He has done well in the group performances so far, and it is time to prove his mettle in solo performances as well. There have been a few uncomfortable questions raised against his ability to hold a crowd on his own, and they’ve been justified ones at that. Having been a dentist, it hasn’t been in his nature to shout out loud or to jump left, right & centre and run across the stage so as to sway the crowd along with his moves. A Doctor is calm, composed & makes the patient feel at ease by putting them into a cheerful & relaxed state of mind. In Indian Idol & in Live shows, he has been expected to be the antithesis of this – He’s supposed to be wild, unrestrained, loud - a stimulant, an aphrodisiac! But he remembers what he himself had said during an interview – “The best thing about performing live is the unparalleled thrill of having the crowd at your control …the feeling of being God for an hour or so, and then getting back to being a normal person, one among all of us.” Show business requires certain traits to be picked up, and the mantra to success is adapting to new situations, creating new scenarios and coming out of one’s comfort zone. Over the past year, he’s broken many self-placed barriers & has slowly but steadily come out of a shell, all for his own good. His vow to keep learning with time has not gone unfulfilled. Today, the learning over the recent past will be put to trial, and this gives him some anxious moments.

As the plane starts descending, he sees a welcome change on the horizon. The appearance of mountains brings back memories of school & expectedly, a smile on his face. He’s had a few friends from Nagaland, and from what he knows of them; he believes them to be a humble & talented people. He’s heard other things as well, some of which, unfortunately, has not been very good. The showdown between extremists & the general populace is not something that makes headlines but is very much a barb in the fabric of his country. Since the North East is something that most know little about, it is almost another world altogether. The dialogues mouthed in Chak De India by the north-eastern members of the hockey team are not far from the truth… He tries to banish the thoughts from his mind as the wheels grind against the tarmac. At the tiny airport of Dimapur which handles less than 5 flights a day, he’s welcomed by the organizers with their children dressed as little angels. Their cherubic smiles & the pink of their cheeks melt him instantaneously. His face is drawn into a smile but that soon changes to a stoic expression of concern when he enters the city & notices the roads to their destination - tiny, broken & dusty. He notices many places where there’s not a soul in sight. Someone explains that this is mainly due to lack of planning & an impending change in government but he can’t help assuming otherwise. The organizers make sure his fears are unfounded by ensuring that nothing obstructs the entourage on their way by having a jeep full of armed soldiers precede it. There is armed militia patrolling some roads & this reminds him of riot hit areas. This is something he’s seen only on television and never in his wildest dreams had he visualized that one day he would find himself in a sensitive zone and be flanked by such a high level of security. When he finally gets to the guest house, he notices the sense of urgency with which the gates are opened, the vehicles moved in and he’s whisked in. The Guest house is something out of old times – airy, spacious and homely with high ceilings - a trademark of the British era and which in today’s date is a luxury not many can afford. The caretaker of the house is a bubbly young lady who is professional, yet so warm & caring that he takes to her immediately. Her family is extremely sweet and her brother has a literal avalanche of a collection of DVDs. Out of this, one that catches his fancy & occupies his next one hour is Westlife – Live in Stockholm. He loses himself in the flawless performance of the four member boy-band – replete with superb co-ordination and simple yet captivating dance steps. As the songs & performances whiz by, he is transported to another world, imagining himself & his band, singing & performing to perfection and getting their teamwork right. The thought pumps him up further to do well that evening.

Close to the hour of the show, there is palpable anxiety in the air. The short trip to the venue gives him goose bumps, both out of excitement & by seeing the deserted roads fast filling up. The stadium had been deserted when he visited it last for a sound check, but now it is teeming with people, clawing at the gates & pounding at our vehicle. It brings back fond memories of Idol days when the fanaticism was at its peak & such things were daily occurrences for him…

The show is a sellout, for there are people as far as the eye can see. Now the challenge lies in justifying the trust of the sea of people who’ve turned up to see their favorites. Little children greet him on stage with the traditional Nagamese jacket and the show takes off from there. The crowd is not only swelling in numbers, but in their involvement as well. Only once before, in Nepal, has he seen the audience in such fervor, lapping up every word uttered and every performance dished out. They are so fantastically encouraging that he attempts a lot of things on stage which he’s never even fathomed he would do. He puts together a small composition which is appreciated & draws a lot of cat calls (had never imagined cat calls would be so satisfying one day). He jumps around, runs across …. You name it! His body’s gonna be sore for a few days but it’ll be worth it. J F4’s co-ordination is fantastic & they are in sync throughout, even in some parts which they had never prepared & performed impromptu. The singing goes up another level and he’s glad that as a band they are growing with every performance. The crowd is completely involved, enjoying every moment – they sing with us, they dance with us, they stick on till the very end. He is overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. After Nepal, this is the only show which becomes satisfying in every sense of the word – the sound, lights & the musicians have been top-notch. The performance has been good, the crowd response - outstanding, the crowd density - overwhelming (more than 15,000 people showed up, with another ten or so waiting outside the gates. Another ten did not turn up because they didn’t expect to get any tickets!!!) . The hospitality is genuine & the concern of the organizers very real. After a long time, he’s met people who see him not as a performer but as part of a family. He feels completely at home. Post-show, a party is thrown to celebrate the booming success and it goes on late into the night. The next day, the people of Dimapur get back to their normal lives & their work in politics with a smile & a sense of satisfaction. He gets back to Mumbai, with a content heart – this has been his best Valentine’s Day ever! Apart from the adulation & respect he’s gathered, he returns with the biggest prize of them all – the best compliment he’s ever received in his life – “Meiyang, you’re an inspiration and a role model to all of us here.”

TILL YESTERDAY...

2007-12-13T20:54:00.000+05:30

Till yesterday,

He was another face in the crowd

Another body grinding in the surging mass of humanity

Today,

He remains the same

Separated, yet a part of the populace

Respected, yet often misunderstood

Loved, yet often loathed

Adored, yet left alone in a sea of millions

Fulfilled, yet heartbroken

Practical, yet daydreaming

He tries to write, and knows that his words mean much more now

He starts writing, and he knows that life isn't the same anymore

He continues writing, and realises that he is happy to be a normal person, yet, some shackles stop him from doing as he wishes

He concludes writing, and rues the fact that in spite of his love for writing, his work keeps him away from it, for months together

He knows that he will write again. Love has a way of bringing things around...

Till tomorrow comes...

GUSTAKHI MAAF...

2007-10-14T14:24:00.000+05:30

Image courtesy : anachsunamon.deviantart.com/

Sonnets have been written for people in love. Love ballads get splashed all over our senses, day in and day out. Where does the inspiration come from?. Love is an all consuming emotion. Only those who feel the pangs of this 4 letter word may understand the meaning behind the mushy songs and sweet nothings. He blogs in English, but when it comes to inspired poetry, he falls back on the time-tested cupid language, Hindi. Who is it that inspired the outburst of emotion-laden words? A secret shared, between him and God ;)

Gustakhi maaf.

Dil ka khitaab de baithey.

Gustakhi maaf .

Chain bhari neend kho baithey.

Jaagey rahey saari ratiya,

Nainan me tum hi muskuraaye.

Kaleje se nikalti reh gayi

Ek bebus si uff, ek thandi si haay.

Pakad ke haath mera

Ungliyo se khelti rehi tum.

Ghabrati to nahi par

Thoda sharmati reh gayi tum.

Nazrey mil nahi paayi

Kyunki jhuki jhuki thi tumhari palkey.

In palkon par aas bithayein

Kya mere they wo sapney?

Duniya ki awaaz mein mazboot magar

Bacchey se hum tumhaari aagosh mein.

Ye aagosh bhi lekin pal bhar ka raha

Tum door chal padey, hokar befikar.

Aasani se keh diya

Jaao iss zindagi se uss zindagi tak,

Mujhe bhool jaao, mujhe yaad mat aao

Yehi badbadati rehi kismet.

Ye khamoshi Jeeney na degi

Ghol do isey ishaaro mein

Kya sochti ho, bolo zara.

Goonjney do dhadkan in hawaao mein

Ab yaadon ke kamrey me bechain kyon hoon

Is bhari bheed me bhi tanhaa kyon hoon …

Tanha, tanha

Lamha, tanha

Gustakhi maaf

AN ODE TO INDIAN IDOL

2007-10-14T13:47:00.000+05:30

Of late, he doesn't get enough time to write about experiences & journeys, because life is whizzing by at such dizzying speed that by the time his fingers are set to record one experience, he is jet setting to another one. Would that be unfortunate, but he discovers that even in the snatches of leisurely time , his thoughts turn to penning down something. And out of those snatches comes poetry, something untried, untested. He is not the best with verses, but he tries, because he believes in himself, and it is this belief that has brought him to the seventh heaven he drifts around in today. This is his ode to his journey in Indian Idol, short and sweet.

Tu hi shuruwaat thaa
Tu hi anth hai

Tuney di khushiya
Tumne hi rulaya hai
Ashq kabhi na lagey they itne meethey

Hanstey chehro ki parchaiyaan,
ab bhi un kamro mein hain

Wo mithaas, wo kadwahat
Wo haathon pe pasina
Wo maathey pe shikan

Jhilmilatey geeton pe thiraktey kadmon ki aahat
Beetey lamhon ki dastak par pyasi yaadon ki aahat

Kaise bhulaaoon tumhe, rooh ka hissa ho tum
Zindagi ko zindagi banaya who bezubaan kissa ho tum

Ab waqt ka dariya beh chala hai, ye rokey na rukega
Yaadon ka ye paimaana bharey to bhi na chalkegaa

A BIG THANK YOU !

2007-09-29T13:37:00.000+05:30

GREETINGS TO ALL !!!!!

It's been an extremely, excruciatingly painful pseudo separation that me & my blog have suffered for quite some time. Almost 5 months of Indian Idol and what do I have to write about it??? Loads, I'm sure. But at the same time I know that putting everything into words may nigh be impossible, because sometimes there are things that you can just experience and not relate. The Indian Idol journey is a part of me, and I shall try my best to put it forward. I wasn't able to keep a journal during this sojourn because I was busy and I prefer typing anyday over writing as well. Methinks I shall have to rely a lot on memory (which fails me often) and walk down that path again. So many months of speaking in Hindi (the language of choice when I speak) has taken the sheen off my English vocabulary a bit. As my favorite line goes, "I shall try my best."

But hey ! This blog isn't about my journey, atleast not yet, because the recounting of that magical voyage will take some time. For now, all I want to do is thank each and every person who has appreciated my work, my voice, my sincerity and has accepted me as I am, and in spite of what I am. Believe me, it is YOU who have given me newfound confidence and have also taught me that there is something good for good people out there :) YOU, whereever you may be, young or old, male or female - people of the world, you've made me a new person. Many people ask me , " How does it feel to be a celebrity?" - and although I've never used this answer, the reply that comes from the depths of my heart is that the best thing about being a celebrity is the power to make someone smile.... A smile is worth a thousand words, and if I can make people smile through my words, my voice and my smile ;) then I consider my life fulfilled.

Thank you very, very much. Life has changed a lot, for the better . But remember this, I remain the same always. I may not be able to reply to everyone. I may not be able to accept friend requests. All I can say is that YOU reside in my heart, and I can never ignore you.

Thank you for all the love. It takes a lovely person to give love, and I am fortunate to have recieved this love from such special people

Bye for now

KOLKATA - SIGHTS & SOUNDS

2007-05-07T18:14:00.000+05:30

The last time I’d been to Kolkata, I’d seen the majesty of the city. This time round though, I saw what I have always seen in Kolkata, but for the first time I actually noticed it. A bid to escape the monotony of sitting at home brought me to some of the more frequented & crowded pockets of Kolkata. The entire atmosphere was overwhelming. Every inch of available space is usurped for one commercial purpose or another. Like Mumbai, the “criminally” empty spaces here are dotted with filthy eateries and stalls after stalls of stolen/cheap quality wares – toys, plastics, clothes etc (calling them stalls is an exaggeration, since they’re nothing more than a piece of cloth on the floor, wares displayed on it and a sheet of tarpaulin on the head to protect the vendor from sun and rain.) Kolkata is a sea of daily wage workers, carrying on their heads / carts virtually everything from coal to cement to underwear!!! In spite of the myriad range of shops around, it is extremely painful to locate cyber cafes, pharmacies & phone booths, for which I walk long and far without much success. It surprises me to see girls barely 5 years old manning cigarette & paan shops. The endless surge of laborers find succor on the footpaths which provides them with food and the tiniest of resting places. For them, it’s not important whether the spot is clean or not, whether there is the possibility of a hundred people walking over you. What is important is that there is a space, and it must be utilized well.

It becomes an art to dodge people on the narrow footpaths crowded with stalls and hordes of people. Worse still is avoiding contact with people with heavy carts, cars, cycles, rickshaws, cows, among others, all on a single two-way traffic road 20 feet wide! In spite of all the chaos, people or vehicles rarely ever bang into each other, such is the efficiency (if you could call it that) of the pedestrian system. The same could be said about the serpentine driving manners of the city traffic. The traffic is among the worst in the country, but what makes it worse is the worm in every motorist’s head that it is their moral duty to blare the horn incessantly. You just realize how loud EVERYTHING is. It’s like being forced to stick your ears to a high-power loudspeaker – it’s loud and there’s nothing you can do to avoid it. The deafening sound of the traffic is enough to drive anyone insane & give them a splitting headache, but the locals are accustomed to it & walk on nonchalantly. Kolkata is a city of sensory overload – too many sounds, sights, smells and sensations. The sound of the siren of an ambulance is omnipresent and ever audible. The aroma of fish, pakodas and kababs, plus the stench of the sewage. The humidity rise to the point of intolerability. In all this, you soothe your nerves with chai in clay pots and the ever-famous Kolkata rolls & soda-shikanji.

Again and again, I find my senses assaulted in the most brutal of ways. Voices & hands are beckoning me to unbelievable deals. The buildings are majestic, relics of the colonial era; utterly neglected and the paint on the façade that has peeled off ages ago has never been relinquished since. Traces of past grandeur are all that remains – an illusion. The reality stinks as bad as the repulsive odor of urine that permeates almost all the buildings, as if every pore in the walls were bleeding urine. Offices and shops have been constructed upon existing structures. I see one such office with cubicles so tiny that I ponder whether the employees would die of suffocation or claustrophobia!!!! The boss’s office door has a beam of wood passing before it in such a way that anyone who desires to see the boss has to bend and bow, literally. I have my doubts that the beam had been placed by some sadistic ex-boss who desired to see his subservients bow before him. Later, I am told that that is not the case. The beam was actually one of the main supporting foundations of the building eons ago. Once they reconfigured the building to accommodate more businesses, this beam came in between but they couldn’t remove it, lest the whole building come crashing down. I am amused by the story!

In most of merchant India of yore, appearances aren’t all that important and it is deemed OK to conduct businesses in shady alcoves & unattractive offices. The merchants are always draped in formal clothes, albeit very old fashioned and often unwashed or stained forever by the air of the city, with gold chains peeping out innocently through shirt buttons left open deliberately – to beat the heat & to display chest hair. Garbage is everywhere, and yet, ironically, mere meters away from all this filth & grime is located the All India Institute of Hygiene & Public Health, itself as shabby & filth laden as the BurraBazaar. The heat of the day has reduced me to a bumbling dehydrated idiot, and it just gets crueler with each passing day. It’s a bath in sweat after a morning bath and the done-to-death A/C shopping malls begins to sound like a good idea. It is easier to paste a smile on your face all day long like an idiot in Bangalore, but the sheer heat of Kolkata wipes it off your face! Increasing heat means more A/C’s, which consequently mean more CFC’s and even more heat – a vicious cycle from which it seems too late to get out of. Come evening and mosquitoes the size of dragonflies are eating me alive. I buy a really good looking imitation watch for a hundred bucks & immediately regret it as the watch literally comes apart in my hands, the battery chokes to death & the dials move at will or when I tilt the watch a bit!!!! It has been put to proper health now, but as to how long it will last, your guess is as good as mine.

The public transport system of every town and city has a story of its own to relate. Kolkata runs on the archaic support beam of its buses, carriers and rickshaws. Travel by the groaning, dark & dingy buses makes me thank the efficient & clean bus system in Bangalore. Autos, cabs and private vehicles offering transport on shared basis are in abundance and offer very reasonable rates for a good distance. Of course, maximum is the norm here, and autos plying with 8 passengers when it’s meant only for 4 are a common sight. The number of passengers usually depends on how generous or greedy the driver is feeling on the given day. All Govt. cabs here are Ambassadors – an ambassador invasion, to say the least. But what impressed me the most about Kolkata was its underground Metro service – the first in the country, and it shows in the falling paint of the coaches. Still, the stations are clean (apart from the inevitable paan stains) and the service very efficient, though very loud (as with everything else here) and ruling out any possibility of conversation. My friend & I stare blankly at each other for the duration of the journey…

There’s a way in which every form of transport in Kolkata swerves uncontrollably from side to side, demanding a super sense of athletic balancing act from the passengers. Conversations of cricket are adrift everywhere, given the World Cup frenzy. In spite of that, children come out in the evenings to play football. Mind you, not cricket but football, the craze here. A group of girls are collecting donations for the Nandigram victims. The insincere smiles on their faces plant a doubt that the money collected is not going to be put to good use. Dwarfs. Eunuchs. Street barbers. Barbers flirting with the eunuchs. Truckfulls of Trinamool Congress cadres (Mamata Banerjee’s party). People playing cards outside what in the morning had been a fish market. The stench lingers on but most people are accustomed to it. In most other towns or cities, buying fish, if at all, is a morning affair, but the Kolkata fishes are not bound by time. They slither into the buyer’s bag anytime of the day – the staple diet for most inhabitants and akin to shopping for your daily aloo, doodh and other veggies. An entire street is dedicated to people selling only egg noodles, and there are innumerable stifled and openly displayed yawns. Scores of television, phone and electricity cables decorate the skyline. Blatant white faced lies are dished out to further businesses. Mother & children ravage the non-existent contents of their plate – there’s so little for some to eat that an empty plate & a full one look the same. It is a very disturbing sight. In the massive juggernaut of the crowd, they were just three souls groveling at our feet…

I notice a unique system of buying vegetables online – literally!!!!! The flat owner lowers a bag on a nylon line till the ground where the vegetable vendor sits. The exchange of money for vegetables takes place through this online bag. I wondered whether this was because people were lazy to come down for the vegetables or whether it was something with casteism as I had read in a book recently. Fortunately, a friend assures its plain laziness. Meanwhile, the sunlight plays gently with the silvery surface of the lake. The two man made ponds outside the house are frequented by boys, men and women on a daily basis. It’s a free-for-all instant heat-beater! The women stay close to shore and bathe completely clothed. The men folk have no qualms about undressing and dive right in. The boys don’t know how to swim yet, so they improvise. They collect empty plastic bottles, thermocol blocks and make their personal floaters out of it. Sheer glee, noise and the pleasant splashing follows. The constant exercise has given the boys a well toned body and an enviable stamina. Unfortunately, as a result of their daily ablutions & clothes washing at the ponds, the water has turned a murky green brown.

It was both amusing and disturbing to come back to Kolkata, and for many reasons. The thought struck me like a sledgehammer. Why do most young Chinese in Kolkata find participating in Chinese New Year celebrations a waste of time? The few times that I’ve been here at that time of year, the young crowd that I met had absolutely no interest in New Year festivities. When probed, they scowled that they’d rather spend that time in a pub guzzling down beer or in a disc, dancing the night away. They actually sneer at the non-Chinks who gather out of curiosity to witness the world famous dragon dance, as I had. What’s wrong with a slice of your own culture? Spending time with your own family? And what is wrong with someone else admiring what is yours? If one cannot respect what they have, at least another can. Does every celebration have to have drinks and dance? I don’t think so. Unless there is respect for one’s own culture, there can be no celebration without a tinge of guilt…

Karnataka is so much better. I talk not only of Bangalore, but also of the villages and smaller towns which I’ve had the fortune to travel to for Dental Community camps and or personal trips. Would you believe me if I told you that the slums in Karnataka are cleaner than the city of Kolkata? Than most North Indian cities? Kolkata seems just like one big slum, and a dirty one at that. Open lakes and canals have been overrun by some Brazilian plant, rendering the water & sludge underneath invisible to the naked eye and creating a perfect death trap. There is an all pervading smell in the atmosphere that one can’t really explain. It’s not those of what a coastal city smell is made of. Flies and dogs hover around the mounds of trash, and among this are brought up the children of tomorrow – filth ridden but astonishingly resistant to most diseases. Obviously, something is very wrong with the civic sense of the people and the responsibilities of the Municipal corporations. What appalls me is the irresponsible habit of littering any & everywhere by people- even the educated ones. The Municipal Corporation comes later, but its first the responsibility of the public to maintain cleanliness. People here aren’t as courteous and the number of smiles on their faces are fewer and often forced ones. However, my previous image of Kolkata changed tremendously on this visit. No way is it a lazy, laid back city. There’s activity enough to give Mumbai a run for its money! Just before leaving the city, I try to lunch at a popular Chinese restaurant, but get there way past lunch hour. So I walk a bit, and reach another favorite – Sabir. The food there has to be savored to know why I love it so much. In all the grime, there are still a few saving graces.

There are, of course, more glamorous & cleaner parts of Kolkata. The upcoming New Kolkata is going to be a posh, well-planned extension with hopefully much lesser traffic congestion and more green blocks. That is the rosy picture of tomorrow’s Kolkata, but what I described here so far is the ground reality of most of today’s Kolkata, the real face of the city’s underbelly. There are flashes of optimism here and there. Just minutes away from BurraBazaar stand beautiful Victorian buildings, and these are well maintained, mainly since they’ve been taken over by privatized banks for their offices. The high ceilings, sturdy infrastructure, predominant stone & iron skeleton and unsurpassable beauty are some common features in these goliaths. You’d be excused if for a moment you felt you’d been transported into the glorious past. There are pockets of Kolkata where the roads are wide, clean and very well maintained. It’s like another city altogether!!!! This is what I’ve seen and it may differ from the other faces of Kolkata, but this is my account of the city.

BIKELESS IN BANGALORE

2007-05-07T18:06:00.000+05:30

Close on the heels of the now popular Bookless in Baghdad comes a piece by aspiring but little known part-autobiographer by the name of Mr. Chang. The title of this piece has nothing in common with the best seller except for the first letters of each word of the title, Bikeless in Bangalore, the city travels and travails of a rudderless soul handicapped by the sale of his bike. This is the only chapter, and the author claims no responsibility for any torture to your senses or the waste of your time.

It now boils down to this.

Just a week left in Beloved Bangalore. A lot of work yet to be done. Dues to be cleared. Sending of the hulk size luggage package. And finally, the bike has to be sold. Once accomplished, Chang finds himself bikeless and decides to try the public transport system on his way around the city – both for the first time in four years. The first leg of the journey is easy. Buses are easily available and empty enough to park himself comfortably. He gets to the proposed area where he has someone to pick him up and take him around. The return, however, is eventful. The desired buses are not forthcoming, and an alternate route is chosen. Once at his destination, he runs helter-skelter to find his bus. All that registers is numbers blared out at him. Numbers, numbers, numbers! 19, 22, 300, 129. It goes on and on. He’s not the only one having a tough time. The locals struggle as well. The station is a picture of chaos. But he doffs his hat (!) to this system, which with all its faults can still handle the demands of India. The public transport system in Bangalore is effective. The buses are neat and clean, comfortable and connect every corner of the city. The level of efficiency is very commendable if one considers that the public transport carries more than twice to thrice its capacity at any given time of day.

Back to our protagonist, who finally boards the right bus, one of the last for the day. The conductor makes hay while the moon rises – securing more passengers than the bus can handle. The bus creaks, groans and stalls a few times. He travels, hanging on for dear life with one hand on the railing and one foot on someone else’s foot!! Half his body is in free-fall. He almost loses a shoe and the book in his hands to the bizarre situation he finds himself in and promises to work hard on his forearms to aid him in the future. The river of people is in full swell and all he can do is stand perfectly still and bide his time. And then someone casually remarks that if they are caught by cops, a fine would be forthcoming for “hanging on”. The stench of alcohol on the passengers’ breath overpowers other odors of sweat & cigarettes. Chang realizes that in the frustrating rush of everyday travel, pent up frustration and a crude sense of humor floats around freely (“You can get off at Bamboo bazaar and do seva[service] to a woman with the bamboo all night long.” “No this bus does not go to Shivajinagar. If it goes to Kashmir, will you come?”). It’s easy to get frustrated, but he appreciates the humor, however crass, as it helps the passengers drive away the monotony of daily travel.

The conductors and bus drivers in most cities use some sort of a code-system, & only they understand the true meaning of it. When the bus must stop, the driver whistles at different pitches (God knows what each one means). And when it must depart, the conductor shouts something which sounds like “Reeyah / Ray-it / Reigh” [pronunciation differing from person to person]. Chang knows it means nothing in the regional language, so he assumes it means Right!!!! Let’s go! Many a times, the dynamic bus duo of conductor & driver stop the bus for insane reasons, and to get them going the passengers imitate the conductor and shout reigh, reeyah, ray-it but to no avail. It’s as if the driver is attuned only to the voice of his partner-in-crime. Public transport truly provides an intense study of human behavior.

Finally, the bus drops him a few kms from home. He waits and waits and waits for the connecting bus. Finally, giving up, he takes an auto home, tired yet rejuvenated by the amusing experience, probably one of many to come in his stint of being Bikeless in Bangalore. He looks forward to more…….Back to our protagonist, who finally boards the right bus, one of the last for the day. The conductor makes hay while the moon rises – securing more passengers than the bus can handle. The bus creaks, groans and stalls a few times. He travels, hanging on for dear life with one hand on the railing and one foot on someone else’s foot!! Half his body is in free-fall. He almost loses a shoe and the book in his hands to the bizarre situation he finds himself in and promises to work hard on his forearms to aid him in the future. The river of people is in full swell and all he can do is stand perfectly still and bide his time. And then someone casually remarks that if they are caught by cops, a fine would be forthcoming for “hanging on”. The stench of alcohol on the passengers’ breath overpowers other odors of sweat & cigarettes. Chang realizes that in the frustrating rush of everyday travel, pent up frustration and a crude sense of humor floats around freely (“You can get off at Bamboo bazaar and do seva[service] to a woman with the bamboo all night long.” “No this bus does not go to Shivajinagar. If it goes to Kashmir, will you come?”). It’s easy to get frustrated, but he appreciates the humor, however crass, as it helps the passengers drive away the monotony of daily travel.

The conductors and bus drivers in most cities use some sort of a code-system, & only they understand the true meaning of it. When the bus must stop, the driver whistles at different pitches (God knows what each one means). And when it must depart, the conductor shouts something which sounds like “Reeyah / Ray-it / Reigh” [pronunciation differing from person to person]. Chang knows it means nothing in the regional language, so he assumes it means Right!!!! Let’s go! Many a times, the dynamic bus duo of conductor & driver stop the bus for insane reasons, and to get them going the passengers imitate the conductor and shout reigh, reeyah, ray-it but to no avail. It’s as if the driver is attuned only to the voice of his partner-in-crime. Public transport truly provides an intense study of human behavior.

Finally, the bus drops him a few kms from home. He waits and waits and waits for the connecting bus. Finally, giving up, he takes an auto home, tired yet rejuvenated by the amusing experience, probably one of many to come in his stint of being Bikeless in Bangalore. He looks forward to more…….Back to our protagonist, who finally boards the right bus, one of the last for the day. The conductor makes hay while the moon rises – securing more passengers than the bus can handle. The bus creaks, groans and stalls a few times. He travels, hanging on for dear life with one hand on the railing and one foot on someone else’s foot!! Half his body is in free-fall. He almost loses a shoe and the book in his hands to the bizarre situation he finds himself in and promises to work hard on his forearms to aid him in the future. The river of people is in full swell and all he can do is stand perfectly still and bide his time. And then someone casually remarks that if they are caught by cops, a fine would be forthcoming for “hanging on”. The stench of alcohol on the passengers’ breath overpowers other odors of sweat & cigarettes. Chang realizes that in the frustrating rush of everyday travel, pent up frustration and a crude sense of humor floats around freely (“You can get off at Bamboo bazaar and do seva[service] to a woman with the bamboo all night long.” “No this bus does not go to Shivajinagar. If it goes to Kashmir, will you come?”). It’s easy to get frustrated, but he appreciates the humor, however crass, as it helps the passengers drive away the monotony of daily travel.

The conductors and bus drivers in most cities use some sort of a code-system, & only they understand the true meaning of it. When the bus must stop, the driver whistles at different pitches (God knows what each one means). And when it must depart, the conductor shouts something which sounds like “Reeyah / Ray-it / Reigh” [pronunciation differing from person to person]. Chang knows it means nothing in the regional language, so he assumes it means Right!!!! Let’s go! Many a times, the dynamic bus duo of conductor & driver stop the bus for insane reasons, and to get them going the passengers imitate the conductor and shout reigh, reeyah, ray-it but to no avail. It’s as if the driver is attuned only to the voice of his partner-in-crime. Public transport truly provides an intense study of human behavior.

Finally, the bus drops him a few kms from home. He waits and waits and waits for the connecting bus. Finally, giving up, he takes an auto home, tired yet rejuvenated by the amusing experience, probably one of many to come in his stint of being Bikeless in Bangalore. He looks forward to more…….

[This post was drafted in March, when the author was a week away from leaving his beloved second home, Bangalore. Circumstances prevented him from posting this...until now]

JUNKET = BELUR, HALEBID, SRAVANABELAGODA

2007-03-08T17:29:00.000+05:30

I hate early morning journeys, but you gotta lose some to gain some. Early morning heralds the take off to Belur, Halebid and Sravanabelagoda. Some journeys have little to do than twiddle your thumbs in transit. This is one of them. The time spent at the monuments though, proves worth its while.

After stale idlis and watery sambhar, Sravanabelagoda is the first destination. Six hundred and eighteen steps are all it takes to get the top of the hillock to get a glance of the temple and the famous Jain statue. Six eighteen is a large number, and palkhis [palanquins] are available. In true adventurous & religious spirit, I intend to conquer those six hundred & eighteen steps (that I don’t have money to spare for the palkhi is irrelevant banter). The sluggishness of daily life & the sins of zero exercising catches up when only on the 50^th step itself, the lungs are screaming for air, the feet are trembling and buckling under their own weight. But grit and determination (and a resolve not to embarrass myself) gets me going anew to the summit. This gargantuan task is accomplished bare foot, creating a record of sorts of banging my toes painfully into every rock or stone I encounter on the way up.

The Mahamastakabhisheka festival [anointing of the statue with milk, ghee & the like, along with big-time ceremonies & worship] happens once every 12 years, and the arrangements made for the festival held 2 years back still stand, decaying – bamboo & thermocol arches on the verge of being blown away by the strong gale of wind, worn signs and scaffolding for the tourists/pilgrims. The statue of the Jain Tirthankara stands at 58 feet, much smaller than I expect it to be. One of the largest monoliths in the world, it depicts a naked God with stone vines growing from a rock around him onto his thighs. The posture – erect. The expression – serene. The view from the top? Breathtaking – literally!!!! The tikka finds a place on my forehead, and proceeds with giving me an allergic rash.

The descent is deceptive. Though it looks easy, it is so easy to trip & go rolling down the hill. No Jack & Jill here. One tumble and hello Humpty-Dumpty. As always, hordes of hawkers selling everything from postcards to chess boards to imitation Ganeshas storm troop me. A cold, indifferent glance is all they get…

Surprisingly good noodles for lunch in a South Indian restaurant pave the path to Belur and Halebid. Both these places could pass off as the poor-man’s Hampi. The temples belong to the same dynasty and the same time period, hence the uncanny similarity in the architecture. From a distance, I can’t tell one from the other, but a closer look at the thousands of stone human figures, elephants, warriors, Gods and Goddesses adorning the temple clearly sets a clearer picture. The sculpted inner & outer walls of the temple tell a tale of dedication and sheer hard work by the craftsmen. Each figure is carved to perfection and straining to come to life any moment.

Each figure carries a different story, sometimes amusing, sometimes amazing and sometimes downright insane. Like how once Lord Vishnu was so pissed with a demon that he literally ripped the skin off his face [a la autopsy]. Also, how the word GOD actually stands for the Holy Hindu Trinity –

G - Generator (Brahma)

O – Operator (Vishnu)

D – Destroyer (Shiva)

That one has me rolling on the floor.

Two figures that really catch my eye are of figures attired in what appears like the European judges’ wig and coat, and also space suits of astronauts. And these temples were built in the 12^th century!!!! I wonder if these guides just make up these fantastic stories to make us believe our ten bucks is worth the banter!

The peripatetic tour of the temples becomes a game of hop-scotch as the sun-heated stones play havoc with our bare feet. I won’t walk easy for many days, but the entire trip is a feast for the eyes, and an artist’s delightful dream come true. Though I keep wondering why the women in stone are depicted with such enormous breasts!!! Is this the same country which denotes much of its time on sexual taboos and on debates on how western influence is corrupting us sexually? Two sides of the same coin…

Journeys back home after an enjoyable trip are never happy ones, knowing that the getaway from the mundane daily routine has come to an end. I still find my bike where I left it, and zoom back home. The tired body has taken a beating, and it calls it a day.