Republic Day and the Wounded Citizen

 January 26, 2008

It is Republic Day of India today.

We Indians ought to feel proud of this day, for it was on this day when all the ideals, dreams, hopes and aspirations were constitutionalized in the big fat book of the Indian Constitution.

As a law-abiding citizen of India, I should avoid all the temptations of not feeling in this supposedly ideal nationalistic way. But alas, despite the best of my patriotic efforts, I cannot do this.

Revolting feelings come surging ferociously, washing me off my romanticized patriotic coast.

What if the Constitution says that the judiciary, legislature and executive are there for the benefit of the people? But personally, and from the point of view of my batchmates, the ill-fated batch of Haryana Civil Services, HCS 2004, all the three strong arms purported to protect the interests of commoners like me and my batchmates actually proved to be the squeezing, life-drenching clutch of a predator.

I feel hunted.

Politicians, who wield authority over every branch of governance, either directly or indirectly, being the lions of this democratic jungle, we, the poor flock of deer, have been hunted down mercilessly, and that too, to add insult to our wounds, through the arrows laced with the constitutional poison brewed in the cauldron of legality.

They with the arrows, and we with just the whisker of a chance to hurtle blindly, furtively towards the fence of execution—a great sham, a notorious make-believe dream of justice, fair play and rule of law—while in actuality the dark force of illegality was continuously drawing the strings of the puppet proceedings.

Lynched so mercilessly, how can I add my faltering voice to the not-so-great chorus of nationalism on this Republic Day?

I feel ashamed of my helplessness. Even though fully aware of the injustice meted out to us by the apex of the judiciary, we can't do anything other than mull over impotent thoughts.

I am now licking my wounds like a dog licking filth, smattered over his injuries...  feeling like a dog—that wayward stray dog.

Celebration of Republic Day is perhaps the most pious ritual connected with the religion of democracy.

Now what does democracy mean?

Classically, it is the government of the people, by the people, for the people.

Does this classical definition apply to India, where feudal attitudes, class, caste and creed biases stand as smokescreens between the clamorous, crazy mob and the glittering sun of human aspirations as far as governance and the rule of law are concerned?

Is Indian democracy pulled ahead by the people for their own benefit?

Definitely not.

Analyze the broadest contours of the Indian political setup, and you will see how the leaves of the mighty Indian banyan of our democracy have been turned nastily tabby by the voracious drops of the cloying, false-smelling and carcassy birds and offspring of our political system.

I don't think that just by participating in the polls people can claim to be the real pullers of the mighty chariot of democracy. They are at best the sweat-laden, dusted slaves who pull a certain section basking in glittering exclusivity on the basis of caste, class, creed, power, family, status and other trappings of privilege.

As far as the false limitations of the people's choice, based on the emotional exploitation of the facts and figures of the last phase of our freedom struggle, are concerned, isn't the very term first political family full of autocratic values which straightaway go against the spirit of democracy?

The first political family of the country does the greatest damage to the basic structure of democracy.

The Nehru clan, the ever-persistent axis of our democracy, at-all-costs, will in all likelihood survive as the first possible choice for the purpose of governance. It seems an act of a medieval feudal mentality of clinging to the centre of power at all costs.

There are their modern versions of those strong loyalists and cronies who would go to any length to keep their masters at the helm of affairs. And in lieu of all this selfless service for the cause of keeping the legacy alive, they get power, perks, postings, nominations and recommendations.

This myth of the first political family has roots across the far-flung areas of the kingdom of Congress loyalists.

But the master's chunk of late is being overrun by brave political commanders, the revolting ones, who now carve out their own territories based on the zealous weapons of jealousy, fetching unquestioned loyalty based on caste, class, creed and religion.

Is this democracy?

Certainly not.

People have been left with just the mere job of unabashedly clamouring for the illusionary pie of freedom at intermittent intervals between polls. And the fact that they go along the path without any real interest, as if driven in a dream by some magical hypnotizing powers, is proven by voter apathy and the farty, easy relaxation over the attitude of meekly accepting the same rotten pie as a reward for being the brilliant followers of constitutionality.

So the satraps of certain colours and hues at various hierarchies rule with that criminal disinterestedness which allows them to look over most of the real issues leading to the benefit of the masses.

And people have accepted it as their fate to be always and without fail cheated by elected representatives and their mentors at the apex, to be continuously cheated by the political masters, lynched by so many blinding strikes.

What reason is left for me to celebrate Republic Day?

It sounds like the pompous, noisy and self-vaunting festival of the pimps of criminality, mostly politicians.

And there, the Italian-forged Iron Lady is going to all lengths to dig as deep into the common man's soul to put the seed of her own fruit.

Things will remain so for a long time to come.

Hers is the classic case of all powers without an iota of responsibility.

The Italian-foisted Iron Lady pulls, given the shrewd legacy of her mother-in-law, most of the strings with marvellous authority.

If the common perception about colonial times is that of shame, then it is doubly shameful presently because we are being ruled over by a foreign-hoisted Iron Lady.

I wish for her fall through the Mayawati termite, but that possible blessing is always at the risk of a great curse.

Mayawati symbolizes the rejuvenation of the historically repressed classes, which will take a long, long time to forget the humiliating gulfs of casteism.

Though she has given a clarion call for all sections and strata of Indian society to join her in her march to the Prime Minister's post in Delhi, she is not left with any alternative because, after those initial blasts of casteist politics, she now needs to spread her beam.

She is basically nastily casteist, a casteist to the core.

If she rises to the top post, there might arise a civil war-like situation between the landed classes, historically ruling the social roost on account of their swarna status, and the landless ones, aeonically licking the spit in their face borne of their poor endowments.

The possibilities are really treacherous, but one has to take the risk, because every ruling lineage has to pay for its rule with the price of ultimate downfall.

For the better blossoming of the Indian orchard of democracy, the huge shadows of the mythically broad banyan of the Nehru legacy need to be brought down.

The Many-Handed God with a Willow

January 25, 2008

In the first innings of the ongoing Adelaide cricket Test, Sachin has hit his 39th hundred.

Earlier, he had not been that successful at this ground in the land of the Don, the cricketing legend Don Bradman. But during this sparkling innings, the Don of our times, as we talk of him, and the real Don are so often spoken of in the same vein, while not taking away from the exploits of other mortals, even if their performances are not that common.

But then it is not for us to confirm the stamp of greatness.

Greatness is made of glorious hues, the dye of this colour being honed by nature, the colour of this flower being of unusual appearance and fragrance.

Only the maker knows fully what he has made.

Greatness is a very comprehensive term. Its sprawling field cannot be defined within the narrow confines of a particular arena, like writing, science or sports. And if you do it, then do it at your own peril.

Contours of greatness reach up to the farthest, mostly unrealized limits of our consciousness. It flashes in our face, and we, the ordinary denizens of a struggling world, are taken in by its glitter and glare.

Every time Sachin flashes his willow to register a trademark boundary, we see the actualization of that ever-fleeting mirage of hopes, victory, dreams.

Sachin is a many-handed god.

He has millions of hands to hold the willow. He has countlessly wide and broad stroke-playing horizon to send the leather out of the boundary. He has uncountable bowling enemies to decimate their pride.

The predators muttering ... wicket hunt, wicket hunt. The prized wicket. 

He has a teeming swarm of fielders to scan the leather through the flesh of their palms.

If this is not Godhood, then tell me what other stuff it is made of.

A Prisoner of the Ruins at the Crossroads

January 24, 2008

Life being a very puzzling phenomenon, sometimes you come across circumstantial snares, sometimes you come across circumstantial rosebeds.

In my case, I have found myself walking voluntarily, involuntarily, into the trapping cleft, to be caught by the leg and brought down crashing in the dust.

The falls have been so many that now I no longer blame destiny or fate for my crash-landings. I am myself responsible for my crash-landings. It is me who has spoiled the script.

Maybe I have forever overestimated my calibre and skills, my capabilities, thus making the blunders of aiming for higher goals which are naturally, fundamentally beyond my capacity to achieve. Such egotistically carried-out pursuits become futile, as has been proven in my case.

It is me who has written all the lines of my script in a wrong manner. My assessment of myself is grossly skewed, hallucinated.

So naturally, I find myself surrounded by the broken shards of my half-built, unripe palaces. There are big heaps of rubble and rubbish, masonry work scattered around me.

I am imprisoned by the rubble and ruins of my immature pursuits.

A prisoner, a stark prisoner who has lost his identity among the ruins—the ruins which he has built around him.

A prisoner of the ruins.

That is what I am.

I just cannot see beyond my rubbish, garbage mounds. With every endeavour, I add to the filth on the peaks already littered with stones and rubble.

When will I reach the height, the peak of foolishness, in order to start doing things like the other people are doing? Even the so-called very dimwit people whom teachers in our class found not worth anything, even they are playing so smartly in the game of life as to have set up very nice economic bases.

So I find myself staring at the crossroads, puzzled and unsure about which way to go.

If I happen to focus on one thing, then these other options appear and tease me that they are more suitable. But just when I shift my focus to the appealing one, the nearer I move to it, the more butterflies titter in my stomach, and by the time I reach the option, it changes its shape and size to the extent of being totally unrecognizable.

In my entire life, I have never faced such a puzzling situation.

The dilemma stares with a cold, disdainful glare in my face.

Can't make much of the situation.

I know that from my own calibre's point of view, I will usually benefit from a job in publishing. But I don't have any experience, even though I have the skills to be a very good professional in the publishing world.

So content writer is the only option that seems viable as far as making a job opening is concerned, and still hoping against hope that maybe there will be a job option which will pay me just like a government officer and will give me an opportunity to use my full potential.

But I seem to have lost out on time.

Most of the people who are into such jobs start straight away after graduation. So that is the main problem here.

ELI Research, Faridabad, has contacted me several times over phone and through mail. It seems they are genuinely impressed by my portfolio, even agreed to think positively about my demand of 40,000 per month.

Just a few minutes ago—it is around five in the evening—I got one more call from them, saying they are really impressed by my CV.

The HR gave me another call.

This time she was really disappointed after hearing my hesitant, fumbling words meant to inform her that I will be out of the country for a few months, because the plan with Babu Bhai for an Africa visit seems to be now taking proper shape.

Now this means no employment opportunity as far as this company is concerned, but it seemed to be a very good company doing research and all this.

One more good opportunity gone down the gutter this time.

The indecision has been created by being tethered to the business commitment. Since all the preparations are now in their final stages, I don't have the heart to even just, you know, go to ELI Research just for the sake of it.

These are the cruel times.

Morality, ethics, friendship—all become drags in your march to boons and benefits.

How I wish that I could either get a very nice job allowing me to give my best, the vast amount of knowledge that I have gathered in almost a decade of my civil services pursuits, or get into some business opportunity that enables me to earn quite well, so that within five years I can help my family as well as make an economic base that allows me to go into writing later on.

The Chain-Cutting Past: India’s Triumph at Perth

January 23, 2008

The last week will be remembered for a long, long time in our cricketing history, or call it overall Indian history, because cricket now has a stranglehold over milestones in our cricket-crazy country, because we defeated the Aussies at Perth.

The WACA pitch has seen so many merciless, stampeding triumphs by the number one team that the impervious grains carrying the fastest bounce and exuberance on their backs must still be mulling over the fact about what went wrong this time.

The pitch bears so many kangaroo marks and milestones of triumphs, and still manifold tales of tragedies befalling the visiting teams, that the reversal in roles clashes with mighty impetuosity at the sky.

In beating the mighty Aussies at a place where their brand of cricket is utilized to the hilt, and that too after those agonizing, frustrating and distracting anecdotes during the previous Sydney Test, the Indians proved the glittering fundamentals of success in the face of all adversities.

Well, the fundamentals of the route to success are just the same.

You have to take the strongest of lessons from the past, while at the same time you have to forget all the distracting stuff while putting those lessons into application.

There is a very delicate, sharp-edged, fragile line between remaining lost and mired up in the past, and analyzing the past mishap to churn out a plan of success for the future.

The latter can very easily be replaced by the futile pangs of the former, thus dragging one further and further into the pangs of the past—the deadly snares of losses in the past.

So the past can be deadly cycles imprisoning you forever, as well as the chain-cutting tool to set you free.

What we want it to become, it is for us to decide.

Much to the credit of our almost worshipped cricketers, they acted as per their status of godship that is showered on them here in India.

We have a calmly calculating and stormily applying captain at the ever-busy helm of affairs.

The way Anil Kumble handled the turbulent situation after Sydney will go a long way in defining the role and responsibility of stewardship.

Here was a man whose team had a fantastic opportunity to level up the series, and thus an opportunity of getting the rarest of opportunities—beating the Australians in their own backyard—only to be undone by all the non-cricketing stuff: seemingly provenly biased umpiring, the win-at-any-cost attitude of the opponents, drawing them into the snares of false charges, false appealing, lies, deceit, sledging and many other unsportsmanlike things.

But Kumble has seen too much in his cricketing life.

You don't reach such status and position without the basic fundamentals of greatness in you.

Such qualities are universal, not just limited to the cricketing field.

Put them in any mould, any system, any game—you get champions.

And true champions always come out smiling, triumphant, out of such nudging, testing circumstances.

Kumble, no wonder, a true champion as he is, did the same.

The veteran remained terribly focused.

Even after the humiliating losses and dustings, there is always something to look forward to, to try for victory. At least you play or plan to redeem some pride, to have some final blow, to keep the doors of the future open.

The Obsolete Swimmer and the Two Streams of Survival

January 18, 2008

Earlier there was almost no choice for me. Haryana Civil Service, HCS, appeared to be the end and beginning of the world.

But following the principles of bad politics, Mr. Hooda still did me a favour. He untethered me from this painful peg in the ground.

In one sudden, surprising, off-balancing strike, he got this dog's bone—which can't be chewed, can't be thrown away—out of my bleeding jaws.

Though thunderstruck by this injustice, yet it was relieving in the sense that from now onwards no sham play of justice will continue, and the fact that justice is the ever-obelizing courtesan of the powerful politicians is proven clearly for all to see.

This jolt was rewarding in another sense as well. Its boiling, furious waters forced the wormy myself out of the archaic cocoon.

So, frowning with pain, bleeding body, I came out under the mercilessly glaring sun of exploding realities.

There was no make-believe, pseudo-sense of getting my job through the presumed uprightness of the judiciary at the apex level.

All I was required to do was to get into the hurtling waves of the mighty stream of survival as an obsolete old swimmer.

But I have surprised even myself in tackling the first waves crashing in my face questioningly.

In the month since that hyperactive crash-landing, after that three-year-long futile fight with the help of imaginary judicial wings, I have created two opportunities for myself: that of a content writer with the web portals providing software solutions, and that of a business adventure in East Africa.

But it seems too much for my historically choiceless self.

I am in two minds. In the seesaw battle of these two choices, their gleam fluctuates intermittently, making one or the other appear attractive.

Me, Sandeep, Sajjan, Anil and Shekhar have set up the system for the scrap business at the painful cost of our meagre resources, and just when the movement for importing iron scrap from Djibouti landed down, we find ourselves running out of money to start the export-import cycle.

I went to Ludhiana to meet Babu, who had purchased our first iron scrap container. I was able to convince him to invest in order to provide an ignition spark of capital.

Babu and his brother-in-law, in turn, appear to agree to visit the place to take stock of the material and offer us some terms of partnership.

So, as I have written earlier as well, we are planning to visit Africa.

I took Babu and his brother-in-law to the embassy for their visa processing.

The Embassy of Djibouti is situated in the semi-attractive surroundings of Bhikaji Cama Place, near Safdarjung Enclave and Vasant Vihar.

It is a small, two-storeyed block without the usual hustle-bustle of visa seekers. The flag lies limply.

It is eerily quiet in the reception hall. Two ladies, the younger behind the computer, the older at the table dealing with visa procedures, do their work in a relaxed manner without being pursued by the tactically lolloping tongues of foreign-visit-aspiring applicants, like you have in the embassies of developed countries.

As you open the heavy wooden door into the reception hall, you can at the most expect to meet another visa seeker there on the sofa.

The Djiboutian national sits in his usual aloofness and sense of loneliness. He is a handsome, dark man. He ponders over the magazines about his country and spends his time silently.

Between Job Portals and African Dreams

January 15, 2008

In the afternoon, I got two more calls for the post of content writer, one from Noida, the other from Faridabad.

Again, I am clueless. Why do I spend about one hour daily on job portals on the computer while I am looking to build up our business prospects?

So possibly that shows that it is a very tough situation. Personally, professionally, things are not going well at all in the family.

My sister is facing the toughest of times in her married life. Elder sister Manju, whom we call Guddi, is also facing one crisis after another on a daily basis because her husband is a chronic drinker and he is able to provide just the littlest amount of support to run the house because he is in a very ordinary job in a factory.

So we have to support her financially, apart from running to her place now and then to sort out the issues. Because there would be times when he doesn't even go for this small-paying job and keeps on lying drunk throughout the day. And such drunken sprees, they stretch for two weeks at a stretch. During such times there is even a risk of losing even that ordinary job.

When I look at my sisters, both of them, such nice, educated girls, but happen to be in the perpetually bad-luck books of life.

Now, coming back to these interview calls for content writer, the lady online from the web firm in Noida was an expert speaker. She spoke rolling, fluent English.

Most of these HRD girls these days are very high on confidence, have an eagle's eye for spotting talent. They call you, get you interested in the job, convince you that theirs is the right place for the kind of talent you have.

She appeared a very bubbly lady, even subdued any kind of burgeoning enthusiasm from my side by saying that since I have no prior experience of content writing, I should get only 20,000 per month instead of my demand of 40.

But in the end, she was pretty accommodative in the sense that she left it to me to decide my date and time of interview with the company.

The other caller was from Faridabad. It is an online media company delving into many magazines and other publications.

It seems my sort of job because it provides more scope for oozing out of creative juices, unlike the starkly objective, professionalized, limited and reined-in world of B2B writing.

I have consented to an interview with them on Wednesday. Will I will go? I feel that I might not be devoting myself fully to the task of getting myself fully absorbed in these interviews because the issue of Africa is showing some new shoots and saplings to give us hope.

After all, the future of my friends and mine depends on earning some good bucks, and what will I earn in these petty content-writing jobs?

So I do not feel confident at all about joining a nine-to-five job, even if they pay 50,000 per month, because business, when I think about it, can fetch me good money if I devote my full energies to it for the next five years.

And then later on I can just devote my life to reading and writing, which is exactly what I feel like doing in the end, at the end of the journey.

So, facing a peculiar dilemma, a very puzzled situation, checkmated from many fronts, I just keep applying for jobs, just as if out of certain whims.

Can't exactly have the words to sum up the feeling when I apply for the jobs while knowing fully well that I will not be taking them.

And on top of that, not only do I apply, I take all the trouble of travelling to these suburbs, which takes the entire day, and returning late at night—to Noida, Faridabad, Gurgaon, where these multinationals are situated.

I take all that trouble of going there, giving my best, and still knowing fully well that I will not be taking up that job.

So this is quite strange.

And alongside, I am trying to consolidate this new lead that we have built up with Babu Bhai from Ludhiana and his willingness to travel with us to Africa to look at things firsthand.

When a Brother’s Anger Becomes a Prayer

January 14, 2008

Binni—she is my younger sister, elder to me by about two years—a very hardworking girl. So hardworking that just sitting in the house without doing any type of work would come almost unnatural to her.

So we have seen her, right from early childhood, taking care of household chores, helping Mother within the house as well as in the fields. Even while she was doing graduation and post-graduation at the town college, she would first dispense with hard tasks in the barn—clearing the barn, taking the cattle dung away, putting fodder, milking the cows and buffalos.

A very strong girl, typical of the farming community, and on top of that very beautiful also.

But the pattern of our life, the design of bad luck, somehow keeps denting our prospects. That has been the story for the past few generations, beginning with grandfather, great-grandfather, father, and now we four siblings. The entire village says that we have been treated very harshly, unjustifiably, by destiny.

Binni's married life is on a very precariously shaky stage at the moment. In fact, now it seems as if it was destined to be this way right from the beginning.

Many a time I think, had we—Father, me and my brother Tina—been more proactive regarding finding a suitable match for her, maybe things would have been different. But then either we commit mistakes, or are led into their trap through our actions or inaction.

The fact can't be changed.

Uttam, her husband, is a weakling in every sense of the term, while his parents and sisters are the nastiest of fellows. He has never ever come forward to take responsibility for his better half. He has never ever intervened when they have unjustifiably quarrelled, shouted, schemed and plotted against my sister.

Now, to face such wretchedly dirty odds, one needs a strong partner. I think poor Binni sorely misses one. As a no-nonsense, brave girl who has been holding her dignity and position all alone, she just keeps herself busy in household chores.

Her mother-in-law is a typically horrible character, a lady with a humpbacked appearance; but the most serious contender for the not-so-good title of 'the evil incarnation' is her second sister-in-law, who is married to an army officer.

She misuses her privileges and power because she feels that she is empowered, she is protected, she is privileged enough to insult my sister at the mere drop of a pin.

Right from the days of stepping into the life of that poor army officer, the idiot has been up to all sorts of mischief-making. He beat her, to begin with, pulled her hair, thrashed her, shouted obscenities, turned her out to her parents' home—but to no use. She has turned worse than before with the passage of each day. 

The creature has such a nastily stinging tongue that it can put even prostitutes to shame as far as foul language is concerned.

The lady is ever prone to sudden outbursts of hate, anger, jealousy, maliciousness, madness. The filth and muck that burst out of her stenching interior can sway and drown many decent bodies.

Picking up a minor domestic straw, she inflamed it furiously.

Poor Binni appeared at the receiving end of a never-ending stream of fusillade thrown by this woman.

This woman, she hurls prostitute-kind of vocabulary and words. I grabbed the phone from my sister's hand, and what happened later was completely shocking and eye-opening.

I can't believe it even up to this time. How can a woman who is supposedly a part and parcel of the decent world, being the better half of an army officer, use such prostitute-like language?

Since I could never have matched her in the language of the devil, I just summarized my understanding of her character:

"You act, behave—in fact, you, from all apparent angles, can put even a prostitute to shame," I shouted.

Thankfully, the shadow-prostitute of the civilized world cut the phone, and I was spared from coming to know some more horrible words from her side, which are frequently heard in the red-light area.

Having tasted the cut, I really have sympathies with my poor sister, for she has gone through quite a few nasty experiences at the hands and tongue of that horrible woman.

The greatest punishment for that evil soul can only be to be thrashed by the angriest fellows till she bears blue welts all over her body.

I can even go to the extent of wishing that God takes her away for the betterment of life here on earth, for there is no shame in decreasing the weight of poor, meagre and humble Mother Earth.

Such dirty souls only spread filth around. The earlier they are dispensed with, the better it will be for mankind.

How I wish that I could do that.

But for a basically decent human being, removal of even such worms becomes a matter of sin.

So I have left her case with Mother Mahakali, whom I worship daily. I hope the Mother Divine, the symbol of cosmic dark energy, the purveyor of supernatural wrath to the wrongdoers, does the required work of doing away with such pathetic existence on earth.

For this creature is a stenching filth and needs to be eased of its wretched form on the earth. I just pray to God for this.

I will earnestly continue to pray to the Mother Divine to bring infinitely comprehensive sufferings to her and all those who stand up for her evil cause.

Let the curse turn her being on earth into nothing short of a moment spent in hell, because she deserves it.

A happy-sad night

The September-end damp, sultry night felt slightly sad, slightly happy. Sad for those who are facing their own tests, trials and tragedies; happy for those enjoying a nice ride on the cart of life.

And in the morning, there are teardrops on an old, not-in-use car in a poet's garden. Happy tears for those enjoying good luck at the moment; sad tears for those who are passing a difficult phase in life.

Between Old Gods and New Dreams: A Lohri Day in Delhi

January 13, 2008

It is Lohri today, the festival of North India, especially the Punjabi community. The festival is celebrated by lighting the torch of warmth, goodwill, joy and fervour against the freezing gusts of winter.

Wished Happy Lohri to Babu, Seth of Ludhiana.

Maybe the destinies of my poor group and his are linked. We plan to leave—me, Babu, his brother-in-law Inder and Shekhar—for Djibouti to explore the possibilities there, if everything goes okay.

My final round of interview with Netlink Digital Energy, Gurgaon, did not go well. From what I had done in the earlier rounds, I had gained immense confidence, which made me bold enough to demand a salary of fifty thousand.

In having so much courage, I surprised even myself. After all, only the IT people demand such figures.

Maybe at the last stage they were only planning to break my confidence so that I could be convinced to settle for a lesser figure. But the way I carried myself during the interview quelled any such action before they could even think of putting up any such effort.

I defended my salary on comprehensive grounds, covering right from professional acumen to philosophical overtones, singing lullabies for my quoted figure.

Now these days so many educated fellows wander around, and since business-to-business writing for web portals involves a prosaic, general, straightforward world of boring write-ups, it can be easily done by any averagely intelligent postgraduate or even graduate.

They can have a couple of eager, cringing, cooperative fellows for my salary, or even three or four for the sum that I quoted.

So most probably they would not have me. In any case that doesn't make any difference. 

After having gone through this drill with a successfully run portal, I went to New Delhi with Shekhar to get a yellow card for him. The yellow card is issued against yellow fever and certain other diseases after giving vaccination for the travellers bound for travel to African countries.

So we went to Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital, but it wasn't RML's turn to issue vaccinations that day. They said we could get the injection at NDMC on Mandir Marg.

Since we had enough time till 2 p.m., we decided to spend some time at the famous Birla Mandir and Saint Thomas Church on the road.

Now Birla Mandir is a big shrine complex, its yellow and reddish-violet domes shining brightly under the bright rays of the January sun.

Under the open glare of the sky, by its outer wall, you see the locker racks for mobiles and shoes, just as you take the broad, marble-paved flight of steps to the shrine facing the main gate, you see foreigners coming out of or going into the foreigners' visitor room.

On the deliciously cool marble floor, you walk with a superimposed sense of faith and sightseeing as a tourist.

In the front hall, a well-bejewelled and decorated couple, Radha-Krishna, welcomes you with beneficent blessings and cosmic love.

On the inside, you see balconies; pillars are numerous in number. On the walls you have bas-reliefs involving mythical scenes, comprising famous personalities from the world of myth, legend and religion.

Below are written commentaries, the sutras and their English translations, to allow the light of religion and faith to spread far and wide.

In the adjoining dharamshala and Gita Bhavan, you see devotees-cum-visitors thronging the pavilions.

The temple complex is worth watching, but somewhere deep in your heart you find that something is lacking.

Absent is that anciently intricate, ornate, multidimensionality-revealing sense of art and aesthetics, which was so famously carved out by numerous unsung artists during those pensively long-drawn-out hours, during those slow-paced, easy times in which our temple architecture came to acquire the rich folds and forms it is famous for.

So in modern temple architecture, you don't feel that soulful beauty, the intrinsic, basic, inherent beauty.

Modern man can only polish and varnish the outer core of stone. He can't go inside, can't penetrate deep to make the particular piece alive with the devotion of his blood and sweat.

So modern temple art is just a copy, Xeroxing, a gross imitation of the past.

You do not feel that unblemished harmony, balance and unity among different parts of a temple or temple complex.

Just a few blocks away, Saint Thomas Church stands grandly, unpretentiously, even sadly, as if brooding over those busy colonial days.

This red-bricked, long structure stands peacefully. Made in 1931, it saw sixteen years of British rule. The turret at the far end tilted, so a few metres of it had to be dismantled.

There was a quaint silence as we entered the gate and walked down the cobbled length of the wide yard along the length of the church.

The old caretaker, his other attendant and an old female servant eyed us approaching them with a bagful of mixed feelings—anxiety, suspicion, even curiosity—as I sought permission to go inside.

The caretaker waved to his attendant to open the back door by the back wall of the sanctum.

We entered the small room, parted the curtains and saw the long rows of pews.

The closed door at the other end dimly looked down the aisle.

There was pin-drop silence inside.

The fine wooden benches were as intact and compact as seventy-odd years ago. The sanctum, bearing the altar, cross and other offerings, was ordered, clean and peace-giving.

By the entrance door at the other end, there were prayer-book racks containing small-sized hardbound books.

But now it is a silent place.

God's image reposes in silence.

"Only on Sundays we have a dozen or so visitors for the prayers," the Christian caretaker mumbled with slight sadness.

But then, among Christians, the faith quotient is falling dangerously. The church now stands like a relic of the past, except on Christmas Day perhaps.

By the side of the church, St. Thomas School was buzzing with activity.

Bright-faced, energetic preteen girls in their school jerseys and skirts, scurried around the main gate with the agility of a unique type, like little squirrels—happy, curious, full of energy, full of life.

The most interesting and visible parts of their bodies were their full feminine legs. It was surprising to see them with such sturdy legs, even though most of them were just girls around the years of puberty.

We also got an opportunity to travel in the Metro.

Now this really is the pride of India, looking ultra-modern, clean, high-class.

Earlier I had doubts that the ever-jostling crowds of Indians would play spoilsport, but the Metro, its stations and escalators have been set up in the image of the Goddess of Cleanliness, and surprisingly the Indian crowd, which never goes by rules, follows the rules of smoking and cleanliness once inside the fabled precincts of the Metro station.

Metro rail is so user-friendly. You have screens showing the arrival of the next stations. There are verbal messages informing you.

Inside, people stand with decency.

All this is due to the high standards of order, facilitation and cleanliness put in place by the Metro staff.

It is just perfect, so perfect that people feel ashamed of putting a blemish on it.

So it runs ahead, chugs ahead, taking Delhiites on the paths of prosperity, career, ceremonies, get-togethers, dates and much more.

Keeping Busy to Keep the Darkness Away

January 10, 2008

Still feeling the fatigue born of yesterday's laborious, tedious, long-drawn interview process, which I underwent for the job of content writer-cum-editor in Netlink Digital Energy, situated in Udyog Vihar, Gurgaon.

Now again, I still cannot find out why I am appearing for these interviews, even though I know fully well that at the moment I won't be taking up a job, even if offered a good salary, because right now, with Babu Bhai's avid participation in our business venture and even his willingness to visit Djibouti in the coming days with me, it has sown the seeds of hope. It has refuelled the famished tanker of our rudimentary business cart.

But still I went. Maybe I am just trying to exhaust myself by keeping myself busy, so that I cannot reflect or think too much about the past. It's a nice way to beat the ghosts of the past -- make yourself busy, as much as possible, so that you are forcefully shackled in the present. The past ghosts die temporarily because they are not getting the oxygen of your attention. 

Now, coming to this Udyog Vihar, Gurgaon interview, first of all, reaching there was quite a ride with tough experiences.

India is struggling. India is strugglingly buzzing ahead, crowds of people hallucinated, masses of people lost in the dream world of wealth, chugging and churning around you like a busy beehive.

On the roads, potholed and smooth, vehicles and people trundle ahead nonchalantly all along. In fact, everywhere you see tiny outlets of survival, the little dots of enterprise scattered around at every available corner.

Rich ones, cozily encased in luxurious cars, cartle ahead fastly. Poor ones move ahead as a compact unit, their dreams, destinations and motivations strongly glued together. All of them, ambulating through public or private transport, lurch ahead with their fair dose of bantering, bickering and haggling.

The journey is full of sweet-sour anecdotes.

As a part of this big individuality or collectivity, you do expect—and it would be better if you do—the best or the worst, the fairest or the wantonmost, ecstasy or agony.

So, open to all these possibilities, I reached Gurgaon in an agonizingly slowly moving vehicle.

Gurgaon, with its real estate development, plus mega malls, complexes, glass-fronted official blocks, rich cars, poor crowds scattered like dots upon its entirely welcoming urban body.

After getting down from the accursed private minibus, as I caught onto my perch at the back of an auto meant for the Phase 5 area, I was horrified to find the right thigh of my trousers smeared with a big, wanton, ill-smelling blot of kerosene oil.

This dirty map on my trousers glared like the unbearable face of India's disorderly march ahead.

I have not the least idea where I could have got it from. Moving across such creepingly buzzing chaos, such things can always be expected. I should only feel lucky that it wasn't cattle dung. That would have been more problematic. 

The strange map was smiling with its deadly chuckle, its ill smell reaching my nostrils with its dirty pout.

I wanted to cry. Just 15 minutes away from my presentation, and my dress was in such a bad shape.

For the slightest of a second, I had the idea of abandoning the presentation altogether, but then, being basically a lazy sort of person and understanding the real value of all that is required to plan a visit to a place 60 kilometres away, I thought it better to move ahead on my path.

I knew that I had nothing to lose, all ends being open for the people of skill and calibre in the dreamland of enterprise that is Udyog Vihar.

So, without allowing the thought and smell of kerosene to plague my conscience, I took a rickshaw to reach Plot Number 571, the pleasantly furnished destination block.

Having penned my entry in the gate register, I went ahead to meet the enterprise- and profit-friendly ambience safely closeted in the three-storeyed block.

Its glass entrance door appeared to apply and exert some pressure against the guy with a blot on his pants.

Yet unconcerned, I went ahead.

It was a high-ceilinged reception hall, square in shape, its two walls having glass in aluminium frames. The glass panel facing the entrance door opened the work vista on four floors, including the basement. The glass front to the left side opened into a rectangular restroom with its table and chairs.

Now, one of the good things with successfully run private houses is that here chairs are padded, cushioned and comfortable even for the chance visitors.

Coming back to the reception room, it had black velvet plush sofas, but they were too plush, too soft. You just sink into their fluffy folds. It even makes you uneasy, as if it has grabbed you, holding you like a prisoner.

After all, when we need to sit, our bottoms should be supported against something holding its feet on a sound platform. Here the thing shakes and you feel as if it will slip away from under you. So you sink down, your knees protrude above, and you sit as if in the armful grasp of that thing, strangely pretending to be familiar with you.

The perky, active and agile receptionist sitting behind the circular reception table gives the whole ambience an air of alertness, aloofness, familiarity, businesswoman-like shape, etc.

She sat there in front of her desktop as the veritable conduit of the house with the outside world of clients, information seekers, job seekers, visitors, etc.

Since I had applied for the post of content writer, I was given a question paper to judge my writing prowess and skills, my style of writing, my expertise in grammar, etc.

You know, sometimes you end up writing a brilliant piece. Some other times the creative juices just refuse to flow out of the coffers of your creativity, while at many other times you just end up doing your bit as a mundane, commonplace writer.

I performed as mentioned in the third category, but in the mercilessly professional and objective world of business, even commonplace output seems a sufficient share to satisfy demand, as was proven later.

After that, I was interviewed by a young, hesitating sort of guy who, it seemed, was as hesitant and nervous as me.

Many a time, both of us came to the help of each other, and it went on without him getting the best out of me and me getting any impression of his being an expert interviewer, but he had the grace of forwarding me to the next level.

He told me that since I was new to technical writing, he would test me in this regard.

I was given a topic, Microsoft Silverlight, to search on the web and write a short, brisk account of this newest web application and why the borrowers should go for it.

Though I didn't know anything exactly about what the thing really meant, yet I picked out tidbits about the thing from the internet and wrote a coherent piece, which appeared to give a fair bit of idea about what the thing was really about.

Since I don't know typing, it was a bit tedious typing my write-up.

Then this printout and my earlier write-up were handed over to the HR head, a lady of grace, pleasant buxomness and graceful manners, yet strangely authoritative in her own way.

She did not beat around the bush and easily accepted my writing prowess. I got the stamp of approval once I showed her my two published works of poetry.

Then we came to the most important part—the salary part—which I had cleverly left blank.

She smiled and asked what I expected them to pay me.

In a very easy, honest and simple manner, I answered, "Ma'am, give me the maximum you can afford."

She was amused by it as a human being, but that appreciative smile and glint of unprofessional familiarity were soon clouded over by the business-like air of professionalism.

"No, Mr. Dahiya, we can't go like this in this manner as far as this part is concerned," she said.

So I remarked, "Ma'am, I have very sound reasons to hold myself in modestly high esteem. My work is at least 35,000 rupees per month in hand."

That meant, from the company's point of view, it was above 40,000.

She was visibly impressed with what I had written and the way I had performed.

Now I was set for the final step, the all-important interview with the CEO.

The meek girl who told me about this scheduled meeting spoke in a subdued, hushed voice, as if the top boss would hear us.

Then it was quite late in the night. The boss had gone to a conference.

I was given the option of either waiting for one more hour or leaving for my place and coming back within the next couple of days.

Today I decided to take a rest after all that hurly-burly chain of experiences.

Tomorrow is lined up for the D-day—the meeting with the top boss.

I will go with a positive attitude.

I do wish to settle down for a quiet life with a secure job, safe income and secure future for my family. After all, they deserve this much after all that they have done for me all along my life.

But the problem is, again, I am iron-sure in my mind that it will be very difficult for me to convince myself to take up this job even if they offer 50,000 rupees in hand per month.

Now again the question arises: why am I taking all this trouble?

Maybe I am just peddling around to give myself a feeling that I am giving my best by putting myself in such testing conditions.

Maybe I am just creatively trying my best to engage myself in a way so that I am not lost in the darkness.

Maybe it is just a means to avoid falling into full depression.

Beyond the Boundary of Sportsmanship

January 7, 2008

Yesterday, the second Test in Sydney, Australia, ended in a farce.

Though the Australians play their game hard, from now on it would also mean that their toughness applies practically to every skill, psychology, technology, plan, demeanour and, last but not least, misdemeanour.

If you are blind about winning only, if the only aspect of sport you are acquainted with is victory, forgetting the other lesser-gleaming facets like competitiveness, sportsman spirit, attitude, etc., then you become athletic brutes who will improvise newer and newer, filthier and meaner mechanisms to dislodge the opponent who is otherwise giving you a tough fight in the conventional aspects of the game.

Now the Kangaroos, seething with the memories of the India tour and the greed to win this Test to equal their own record of 16 straight Test wins, did everything shameful to win against a toughly fighting opponent.

Everybody will accept that Anil and his men fought really hard and didn't deserve to lose.

But horrific umpiring by Steve Bucknor and Mark Benson ensured that the Australians kept their record.

It is always human to err, the umpires being no exception, but the pattern of mistakes and misjudgments, and that too to the disadvantage of only one of the teams during the entire match, leaves it beyond any shadow of doubt.

The pair was supposed to keep the principles of free, fair, frank uprightness aloft in the gloomy sea of our sleazy cricketing battle, but quite disgracefully they let the sense of justice down. They almost became participants in the cricketing duel from the Australian side.

Otherwise, why would almost a dozen misjudgments go against India only?

Australian batsmen stood their ground even though they knew they were out, while the umpires appeared gleefully ogling at their conniving faces.

A couple of stumpings were not given out, one even by the third umpire.

At one time, Ponting himself got crowned as the umpire. The umpire asked him if he had caught Ganguly, and even though he had taken the ball on the first bounce, the Punter said yes.

Disgraceful.

The Australian team and the umpires made a travesty of it.

And to rub salt into the wound, the Aboriginal fellow, Symonds, who sadly behaves in a monkey-like manner on the field, instigated Harbhajan while the latter was batting beautifully with Tendulkar, taking the Indian score to 532, 69 runs above the Australian total of 463.

So Symonds instigated Harbhajan into a verbal duel and immediately complained to the umpires that he had called him a monkey. Without any audio, video or witness proof, the match referee held the Turbanator guilty, slapping a three-Test ban on the off-spinner.

The whole of India is seething with anger. People are really demanding that the tour should be called off immediately.

It is for everybody to see that the Kangaroos have taken many a filthy, unethical, unsportsmanlike leap in romping to victory.

Let them enjoy their feat, but it is for everybody to see what type of techniques they use in every match, because the happenings in this match are just a larger version of their overall approach.

This thing should not be analysed as an exception. It is the rule with them.

They deserve to be condemned.

When Tendulkar’s Century Became My Own

January 4, 2008

A very successful day for the Indians.

On the third day of the Sydney Test, Tendulkar hit an unbeaten 154 to break that jinx of the nervous 90s which plagued him, and almost the entire India, throughout 2007.

The New Year has started on a promising note for the maestro, and we wish him to score a century in every match, to put it even beyond the minds of the following Australians, especially Ponting, any thought of equalling the maestro's record.

Tendulkar is the pulse of India. When it feels better, the country feels better. If not, then the country will shake with sickness almost.

And how do I tell you, as an ardent Tendulkar fan, when he hits a century right at the beginning of a New Year, it seems like a collective success. In fact, my very own success.

Just as 2007 was disappointing for the maestro for getting out in the 80s and 90s, the same has been with me.

But it is such a tremendously elated feeling of achieving something when you see your idol raising his bat, acknowledging the applause after hitting a brilliant century in tough conditions on seamer-friendly wickets in Australia. And to watch even the Australians, who are very enthusiastic sledgers in the game, applauding the master batsman—it gives a feeling of pride.

And encouraged by this century, I can forget my own individual losses and failures for the time being, because I know it's a celebratory day, almost a festival, and I have forgotten most of my own disappointments in the innings of this life.

How I wish that Tendulkar continues hitting centuries after centuries. Then I think many thousands like me won't need anything else at the level of personal achievement to prove anything to anybody.

We will be happy just with Tendulkar's centuries.

So you can imagine what status the great man has for us here in India.

On the Tarred Road Between Job and Business

January 3, 2008

Now, to give a clue to how much puzzled I seem to be between making a career in business or seeking a job, I set out right on the next day after the interview in Noida for a business trip to Ludhiana.

I travelled in a car, a friend's car, on the National Highway.

Travel is pretty perspective-creating these days. It is, after all, the massive drive of development, constantly being upgraded, broadened, to add more and more economic vitality, to make it flow through the country's body.

Mechanized layering of tar and stone-crush is now very easy, so they do it more often. The road-making equipment and machinery have risen in the ranks; they have brought in new machines. So road-making and repairing have become much easier now in comparison to earlier lazy road-rolling days, and it takes less time as well.

So this Grand Trunk Road has become the high-speed corridor.

Now fast-speed cars, SUVs, public and private carriers go along thundering—easily, irritably, noisily, silently—all along the highway.

On both sides, you see a massive buildup of enterprise and business. Mammoth flyovers and bridges now provide an inescapable monotony, as if the National Highway would never have borne a different look at any period in the past.

The finger line drawn by Sher Shah Suri during medieval times has now become almost a living, growing, throbbing, tarred biological corridor, which has its own soul, perhaps even beyond the control of mankind slipping over its wheeled surface.

Ludhiana, the industrial town, is spread out like a large open-cast mine of labour, struggle, profits and gains.

It is a big city, like a big, irritable, slow-paced chariot of mammoth proportions. The mighty Sardars pull it along, possessed in a lighter, adventurous way.

Since it is a major place for scrap dealers and iron works, if you are not that energetic in your market manoeuvres, you tend to stick to any average, tolerable guy in the market instead of hunting around for better sources.

We had sold heavy metal scrap to Mr. Babu in the past.

He is a lighthearted, silently calculating young businessman, and I was successful in getting him interested in the business opportunities in Djibouti.

He has agreed to visit the place in order to see the chances of working with us in the form of a partner, and I think after some time he will fly with me to have a firsthand experience of how we are managing there.

Being a very clever businessman, he first wants to see our setup there, and he also knows that we are simple people, so seems to have some plans up his sleeve.

When our container of scrap iron landed in Ludhiana, we simply reached his scrap yard because somebody had referred his name. Since we were new to the trade, we could not bargain, and we got the average price.

But when the container was opened, he was wonderstruck because it was such heavy scrap, including heavy machinery parts and engines.

In fact, there were even heavy machinery rims of tyres which could easily be used here in India after painting.

So after that, he has been giving us some importance.

He knows that we are at a place where there is profit.

So I am happy that I have been able to gain his trust.

He has never travelled outside India, and if somebody who has never gone out of the country agrees to visit a poor country in Africa, that means he has started to trust you.

It seems to be an achievement.

Let us hope that we soon go to Djibouti with Mr. Babu and take him around on visits to various scrapyards, so that he gives us advance money, assured that he won't be losing it and that we won't run away once he sees our setup firsthand there, so that we can start a kind of business cycle.

With his advance money, we can pay the scrap owners there and bear the cost of cutting, loading and shipping.

And once the containers reach here, for the next lot again he will send us some advance money.

So this is what we expect.

As I sat with Mr. Babu in his posh office, almost as a partner, as a business owner, it gave me a very strange feeling that only yesterday I was there in the poor suburbs of Noida, in another plush office, but there as a struggling job seeker intending to join as a content writer.

So when I look at it—my destiny being stretched in two directions—it is a strange feeling. I don't know what am I seeking really. Seem to have lost the way during those hard days of civil services competition. 

The Corporate Lighthouse and the Boatful of Strugglers

January 2, 2008

New Year resolution also containing some tidbits regarding earning something, and driven by this pull, not satisfied with the way things are going at the business front, and despite knowing that I won't be taking this job and instead would be focusing on the scrap iron and used-oil business, still I went to Noida to attend the interview for a job for which I had been called—the post of content writer with a web portal for business-to-business writing, called B2B writing.

The company was IndiaMART, situated in Noida, Sector 8, B1.

But before that, let us talk a bit about Noida.

All the developmental gears have been put into place in this Delhi suburb. Most of Uttar Pradesh is still poor and impoverished, yet here the real estate business, corporate houses, business moguls, shopping malls and multiplexes provide something to a poor state to look forward to—the days of prosperity.

So it works as a kind of lighthouse for the impoverished hinterlands to look up to and be guided along the waves of development and growth.

Massive concrete pillars for the Metro project stand as a new mountainous artery to throw new life, mobility and enterprise into the city.

Coming back to the web portal, it is ranked among the first in the business, with an annual turnover of 19 crore per annum.

But the little dusty, half-stone-crusted, half-dusty bylane leading to it is dotted with pinching realities on both sides.

It seems to be the industrial section where they are operating this service enterprise. It certainly is situated in one of the poorer sections of the city.

You have meat shops on both sides, carcasses cleaned and trimmed for cooking vessels and meat lines. The air is thick with the feel of meat. It is even stinking.

Small tea shops with their rickety, shaking benches, poor people having their luxurious sips.

Tyre works and automobile repair shops have their customary greased, dirty working staff. Since it is cold, people pile up leftover tyres, putting them on fire to have some heat in this cold. But the thick black smoke makes the air unbearable.

Rickshaws roll over the uneven, uneasy paths.

People walk around, lost in the bitter struggle for survival.

Amidst this impoverished scenario stands the three-storeyed building of IndiaMART. Its yellow colour, in one way exaggerating its business, money, enterprise and well-off people, and the high walls around the main rectangular block try to keep off the real world from the world of business and enterprise, created by skilled people with the help of faith and endeavour.

Registering my entry with the security at the gate, I got my interview card, put it around my neck and entered the pleasantly furnished ground-floor reception hall.

Miss Rosie, the plump, young, energetic receptionist, in the company of a sleek, sophisticated companion, entered the hall filled with job seekers with a feeling of corporate authority.

Like all other successful private enterprises, this place too was devoid of the sickening, stagnating, strangulating government work culture.

Here you grow fast, perform highly, and if you will not do that, you perish.

There were plenty of young, energetic guys and girls, who flutteringly carried an air of hope and passion, which further carried the institution aloft on the path of progress and profits.

Against this background, I felt like an old, dispirited, energy-sapped person.

In the interview, though I performed well; yet it was a shaky performance.

The HR had understood my position.

She asked for my salary expectations. I said 30,000 plus.

But why would she have me if they can have young, fluttering energy at around half of this amount?

I have been asked to wait. Most probably, I won't be selected.

But I don't feel the pinch of it because I do know that even if they call me, even for 40,000 rupees, I will not join.

In fact, even if they offer 50,000, I don't think I will be able to convince myself to join because the priority now is just our business, which is putting up more and more challenges.

Then the question arises: why did I come here?

So that means I have lost my path somewhere and need to sort it out.

I need to sort out the thing.

And it means it turns out to be just a step taken to come out of boredom, to beat the pools of gloomy, depressive clouds around me, to get an outing.

So, all in all, it seems to be an outing.

And once you see so many people struggling in poor corners, struggling humanity on the roads in urban cities, you somehow don't feel cheated.

You feel that you are sailing in a boat full of similar people.