Casteism: History’s Biggest Mass Exploitation

 

In India we have casteism as the history’s most obnoxious social system of mass exploitation of helpless millions for the longest period of time, for an astounding 2500 years in fact, and still going in many modern forms of the evil practice.

Elsewhere in the world you have the classes. There is fluidity in this system as Osho says. One can go from low class to high class and vice versa, but not so in the caste system in India. Once you are born in a low caste, your deprivation and disadvantages get stamped on your soul. It’s hardly possible to pick out a more evil practice where the soul is tamed to this abysmal level, where you rob dreams, love, peace and respect from the eyes of generation after generation of millions of your fellow human beings.

Beyond historical injustices and blunders, the issue fuels the Indian political system even now. Indian democracy is addicted to the system. The caste-based job reservation can make or break anyone’s chances. The issue is politically so sensitive that just an off-hand remark by the RSS chief was enough to decimate BJP's hopes in the last Bihar assembly elections. So nobody dares to touch the issue at the practical level. At least the lower castes hold this symbolic political power now.

The so called ‘lower castes’ have been systemically exploited for the last 2500 years in India. There is no doubt that they need institutional support to bring them into the mainstream. Not that the government cannot give them positive incentives in other forms. Reservation in itself is not the end. It is just one of the means to the end. However, in the present system of reservation there are flaws that need to be corrected if the real goal of Dalit upliftment is to be achieved.

I have seen three generations of elite Dalit families reaping reservation benefits to rise on the socio-economic ladder. Like someone’s father is a class one officer in railways. He raises his family comfortably in Delhi, provides best education to his children. His son, born, brought up and educated in Delhi, becomes a police officer. The police officer’s children born, brought up and educated in the best set up get reservation benefits to get still more elite governmental jobs.

On the other hand, I am surrounded by poor educated Dalit young people in the countryside who haven't benefited from reservation in any way. They have the qualifications, but in the fight within the reserved category, they are easily beaten by the elite Dalit families. So does it really serve the purpose? The cause is served if the reservation benefits spread horizontally across the social strata instead of creating vertical towers of prosperity in the same families where the reservation benefits pile up across generations.

The solution can be: Let reservation be a first generation benefit only, i.e., the children of a reservation beneficiary will not be eligible for the scheme anymore. When a Dalit gets a job on reservation, he/she is supposed to bring up his/her children in a way that they can compete against the best. It will help in spreading the reservation benefits horizontally to the other poorer Dalit families rather than the vertical compilation of benefits in the already rich Dalit families. Unfortunately it has been the trend so far. Job reservation is supposed to provide more and more people with basic amenities of life rather than some particular families reaping the benefits and get wealthy on account of the already existing benefits.

The New-age Democracy

 

Democracy, by modern day consensus, is the best—among others—form of governance. With some skepticism, it is agreed that it is best among the worst. It even appears so. But that doesn’t mean all is well with democracy. No system is perfect. Perfection is just a mirage. However, like all political systems democracy also can be better.

My main issue with democracy is with its propensity to rake up divisions to breed social disharmony, fanning the smoldering smoke to build-up a fire and then with a suave smile offer the solution on paper only and thus allowing the issue to stretch till eternity. Pitted against each other at numerous fronts, social cohesiveness, a must for collective compassion for humanity’s greater good, takes a backseat.   

My other reservation about democracy is the principle of same voting weight carried by all individuals as voters. The best and the worst carry the same political weight, at least as voters, when it comes to contributing to the process of selecting the most suitable representatives and hence the best government. Isn’t it ironical that in election as voters, the people who have been fatal to society carry the same political weight as the ones who have been of real help to the society? Shouldn’t the weightage of votes vary as per the contribution or potential of individual voters?

Under the present system of voting, Hitler, Stalin and Edi Amin, responsible for the deaths of millions of innocent lives, carry the same vote weightage as the healers of humanity like Gandhi, Vivekananda, Buddha, Jesus and Mohammad. Shouldn’t the people with proven records of being better human beings, having more understanding of the issues of common interests, have more voting power than the criminals, social degenerates and blood-shedders.

Common people, busy in the small domain of life to survive, carrying the good and bad in them, can have the value of one to their vote. The criminals, terrorists, law breakers and hate-mongers can have fraction of one in proportion to their crimes. And achievers and contributors in academics, sports, spirituality, arts, science and culture can have the multiple of one to their vote. The latter with their better selves, more awareness and more constructive nature will turn the game of democracy far more dynamic and vibrant than it is now.

Since the best and the worst just occupy a few minor edges on the fringe of society in terms of numbers, it will not shake the present system’s foundations immediately. But it will act as a system of reward and punishment for the majority to maintain and improve their political ratings. Who doesn’t want to grow? And certified more so. A better political rating on the basis of standing and achievement in life will look good on anybody’s CV. It will be as good as holding doctorate degrees, gold medals and mushy citations. A cut in the voting right, and the rating coming to a fraction of one, will add to scores of other deterrents that stop a person from going to the wrong side to be lesser of a human being in all its forms.

A voting right cannot be static. It cannot be frozen for all times irrespective of best and worst deeds of the holders. In case a person comes out worst, it should be abrogated altogether. In case of glorious achievement, the person should have multiple of one. It is a suitable political reward. It’s better to have a Hitler without any voting right and still more suitable to have Mother Teresa with multiple of one voting right.

The Election Commission has to make the voting right a bit dynamic with the possibilities of upgrade and degrade and even outright abrogation. It will save democracy from being the puppet of poor choices where masses, hardly knowing what they are voting for, barely knowing the issues involved, get swayed by selfish rhetoric and emotional rabble-rousing to elect pitiable leaders to power.

The differential voting rights will carry democracy to its next stage. The elected representatives will be better and people will have one more incentive to be better.

It will stop the politicians from digging into the foundations of society with their tools of hate and division. I just want a voter with a proven record of his loving compassionate self to carry multiple of one voting right. Shouldn’t a person, who has been planting trees for decades and has ensured that at least hundred trees survive to grow mature and big, be given at least two voting rights? This is just one example. There are scores of other small time feats that have a huge impact on the health of our main home, mother earth. Isn’t it high time that democracy now turns new-age to help build vibrant, robust, open-minded societies?   

Trimming the Hedge to Maintain the Power Center

 

Political extremists (both left and right) and religious fundamentalists try to change the masses for the worse. They play cards to cut down the people to a fraction of their potential and you have nice governable puny-heads. They serve meow meow for instant gratification. Hate, phobias, pseudo-greatness, anger and jealousy are very convenient tools to rob someone of sanity and get cast as a hallucinated pawn in the power game.

The power hungry—individuals, groups, political parties, governments and institutions—try to disempower the masses. It cannot be otherwise. The power pyramid has few strong characters at the apex and weak masses at the base. It can never be a square, having people of the same realized potential from top to the bottom. Those ambitious for power can never think of empowering the masses. In that case the pyramid loses its standing.

With pseudoism and populist rhetoric, they rob the masses of the balance of their judgment. Hate does it. It tilts you off the balance. You fall prey to a peculiar weakness. You become lesser of a human being. The power monger’s ambition draws on the peoples’ weakness of judgment. They try their best to keep the people nearsighted to tame them in a narrow sphere, with unrealized potential, from where the launch-pad of wisdom is too far. The biggest loss is when people tend to lose faith in love, peace and harmony as the mass-managed dark cloud of hate, anger and distrust builds up.

It draws votes for the power hungry. In the day to day life, however, it is paid in terms of racial attacks in America, brutal killings by Islamic extremists, attacks on Africans in India, and scores of incidences when people pick up hate and run after each other.

Quite ironically, power politics is just the butter churned out of the milk of social disharmony.

Corridors of Organized Hate where Love Suffers

 

Jimi Hendrix  says: “When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.”

Well, it may appear too much to ask for. But aren’t the evil effects of love of power too evident to at least reconsider Jimi’s advice? More so because the corridors of power almost unerringly become the corridors of hate. The urge for power bears a directly proportional relation with breeding hate. Sadly, when hate becomes the mantra at the top, it is hardly possible to stop its cascade effect from creeping into the normal functioning of day to day life of the citizenry.

Deepak Chopra nails it completely: “Enlightened leadership is spiritual if we understand spirituality not as some kind of religious dogma or ideology but as the domain of awareness where we experience values like truth, goodness, beauty, love and compassion, and also intuition, creativity, insight and focused attention.”

Absolutely correct! Spiritually suffused leadership becomes a tool to work in the garden full of flowers for a fragrant humanity instead of stinking muck.

Cal Thomas maintains: “One of the reasons people hate politics is that truth is rarely a politician's objective, election and power are.”

Your humble brother thinks that is where the problem starts. By being power-centric you surrender a large portion of your compassionate self to feed the rapacious bug of ambition. The bigger problem is that you are able to let loose the waves of hate because you are in a position to influence.

Friedrich Nietzsche captures the grey shades of reality when he says: “All things are subject to interpretation and whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.”

So brothers and sisters, the functionaries of power end up suffering from a natural helplessness to fall in the trap of lies, conceit, falsification and what not.

Your humble brother is not inimically ill-willed against the agents of power-seeking brigade. You know there is a very thin line between one’s skill set and its honestly hardworked rewards on the one hand and the endeavor to use the same set of skills by using the disability and ignorance of the fellow human beings. The latter sadly turns an ambition into a profession called politics, which entitles the power hungry to climb the ladder for more and more glories. It’s never enough in the palace of power and politics. The misdirected self is ever dying to control the destinies of millions.

The leadership is churned out from a sleazy concoction of mudslinging, aspersion and whole lot of bull-shit. They have huffing and burning souls behind the smiling expression. It carries its momentum to the larger set of policies because more than what you are doing to make, you are focusing on breaking the opposition. You may think that by such broad generalization I am almost leaving the solution impossible. No. My only point of raising the issue of this typical political malady is to highlight the importance of more compassionate beings in leadership positions.

All we see in political systems world over is literally war-mongering among hateful brigades. Does violence and hate come so naturally to us? No, it doesn’t. It’s simply darkness in the absence of the lamp of love and compassion, which is facing furious winds as we raise storms with our stampede. In any case, I reserve my right to call a spade a spade and nurture my utopian dreams of an all-loving system because that is what we are destined for. So kindly allow me to crib over the spools of darkness formed due to the absence of the light of love!

Winning more than the Trophy

 

The Cricket world cup of 2019 will be known for many reasons that go beyond the prowess on the field. Real victories jump over the trophy, and there are many, just that one should have a humane heart to feel. My only congratulatory note to England cannot come out without this refrain: “How does it feel to be crowned champion when you actually know you haven't won?”

Well, even though New Zealand destroyed Indian march to the trophy, and thus earning the ire of millions of cricket-crazy fans, most of us supported New Zealand. The reason is simple: supporting the underdog comes instinctively to we humans. One more proof of our essentially loving self! Isn't it?

Destiny, silly cricketing rules and some umpiring goof-ups robbed New Zealand of a well deserved win. However, the heart’s domain is endless and here comes my verdict about the game: England wins trophy; New Zealand—more importantly—wins hearts!

Now the biggest take-away from the tournament! You need not be a rampaging bull, huffing and puffing with arrogance, to win at any cost. Nice guys can also win. The Kiwis played like gentleman. No hyperboles. Such composure is possible only if you take yourself to be a human first and a sports star later. They won the semifinals against one of the best teams in the world and went for a peaceful celebration with the people who matter to them. They are a product of a system that does not promote stardom over the basics of being good sportsperson. I salute their graceful walks and humble gestures as they moved back to the pavilion as the finalists. Imagine the rowdy show in case some other team had won the match!

Kane Williamson looks like a saint on hiatus from the hills, who has taken to sports for some time for the reasons best known to him only. A pleasant diversion, possibly. Whatever the reasons, it's but a treat to come across such graceful persona among hordes of mean machines designed to win at all costs. Grace in both winning and losing is what defines the basic framework of being a good sportsman, or being a good human, more importantly.

The New Zealand skipper is a saintly cricketer whose balanced demeanor teaches more than his terrific exploits both as a leader and player. His calm, bearded muse underplays the grit and dedication he brings in his boys. Winning is holistic. Apart from the trophy, we cannot ignore such gentlemanly gems. They are winsome trophies in their own regard. To me victory doesn't stop abruptly at the trophy. It's a big zone of marvelous takeaways, one such is Kane Williamson and his behavior on and off the field.

After the tragedy in the final, which will be retold time and again till cricketing eternity, the Kiwi skipper didn't try to garner laurels as a martyr, even though he had every right and most of us would have taken his bitter outpours with big bear-hugs of sympathy. The pinching tragedy could not produce even a single phrase of acrimony in him. Imagine how Indians, including our cricketing stars, would have reacted in a similar situation.

Dear Kane, you are the biggest star to all those whose eyes just don't look at the trophy only. Believe me, there are millions of such eyes that appreciate gentlemanly combat within the boundaries of grace and dignity. Better luck next time—if people can't still forget about the trophy. However, I am sure you are already past the temporary storm and walking on some lonely beach carrying that stoic, meditative muse.

So guys, Kane shows it's possible to win without flashy temper, angry tattoos, throwing abuses at the opponent even after hitting century and taking wickets, proud prowls like an extra terrestrial super-species, glitz, glamour, bla bla bla. His delicate smile pacifies many a storm.

Some ladoos for our team’s effort also. Don’t hate our cricketing team. If they go off the line sometimes, we should never forget that they are the product of the social system created by us. We make them starry-eyed Gods. So, of course, the poor guys slip sometimes, like the idiotic proclamations of womanizing exploits by two of them on a silly show hosted by a terribly chatty person.

Most importantly, give them the credit they deserve. Topping the table in a round robin league format, where each team plays against the rest of the participants, proves the meticulous level of performance. The knockout stage is basically dicey. You get some bad 45 minutes on the field and you are out. It doesn't tell anything about the team's ability. Just that New Zealand clicked at the right time. It was a great game of cricket. Well done India and congrats New Zealand! Oh, yea, well done England also!

Mining Gold from the Well-beaten Dust

 

Like he is looking for pomegranate seeds in a dung cake, he looks deep into the well of nostalgic memories. “What does August 15 mean to us? It only means that rains are almost over. A mark of change of seasons. Similarly, January 26 means the end of the real cold,” he gives his innocent, but immensely practical, interpretation of the Independence Day and the Republic Day.

And the anecdotes follow. His dim eyes are looking back to enliven some memories buried deep in the layers of his brain. Well, don’t most of the citizens of India feel that way, I wonder.

Nobody grew vegetables as a cash crop during those days. It was called dum kheti, named so after a caste legendarily popular for their leisure ways, who cringed away from physical labor and survived on singing folk ditties and smashing drums, and that too on rare occasions like when a son was born. In 1952, it was the old man’s family that sowed peas, and not just sowed the seeds but chartered a new path also.

They had a huge dung disposal pit, where they would dump basketfuls of dung taken out in the morning, as the buffaloes, bulls and cows defecated freely through the night, a faculty with the domesticated cattle in that they can continue eating through the night, letting out the waste from behind. And this faculty served as a manure factory during those simple times.

In the dung pit, they would pour bucketfuls of cattle urine. Over months and years, it turned into most fertile manure. There was hardly any artificial fertilizer during those days. As the pioneers of a new trend, they sowed peas. And not only introduced a new vegetable, they sowed the prospects of a new farming way.

“The pods grew this long!” he is indicating from the top of his middle finger to the lower half of the palm. It even comes as some crude gesture. Some peasants laugh. Even he himself gets conscious and makes it more polished. “The pods had 22 grains, can you believe it? I myself counted these! In fact, I learnt counting with those pod grains.”

“Sugarcane was as thick as this much,” he has sprawled his fingers and thumb in opposite directions to accommodate maximum girth. “And what did you need to grow the sweetest wonder? It was just human effort, manure from the dung pit, and sprinkling alkaline soil from the waste land outside the village. You just chew one sugarcane stick, drink water on the village well, take a bath in its cool water, and mind you, you had to run to your house to avoid dying of hunger.”        

He is then telling about the legendary wells in the farms. Their water was so sweet that you never missed sugar during those days. Then he is telling how everybody was so healthy, so healthy in fact, the healthiest of today would still fall short of the weakest of those times. He is telling of legendary strong bulls that pulled carts, which even a tractor would struggle with. He tells of buffaloes whose bursting udders would compete with a whole dairy’s output. He tells of mighty farmers who could pull a whole cartload by themselves, in case the bull went on its knees, and still pat the animal on its back as if it was their son who needed some help.

It seems the best is long past. Gone with the wind. Well, does it mean that we are on the path of regression? If not, why would every old man in each age die with such sweet, pining nostalgia?

The Times when almost everything was Pardoned

 

Old times had their own sweet sour charms. All it proves is that the world wasn’t too serious. Seriousness is the modern-day malady. Looking at the way things happened in the past, you just can’t afford to be judgmental. There might have been grossest wrongs. No justification for that of course. Nonetheless, the small takeaway was a casualness, a sort of relaxed attitude, which dispelled the clouds of seriousness. And mass hatred, the modern-day evil, institutionally instigated to reap benefits at a big scale, hardly found a place in such relaxed environments defined by the loose strands of casualness.

In the region where my parent state stands presently, there was this Nawab of Daulta near the present town of Beri. Well, the man was a religious enthusiast. He released even the murderers if they converted to Islam. So what do you say? Any lessons for the democratically crowned kings of the nationalist party? 

Then there was this communist chap, Prakash Singh Dujana. Even politics was simple during those bucolic days. He won’t think too much before proclaiming at the rally, “I need to convince only the Jat voters. The lower castes will come along by default like a street dogs comes with ticks on its ears.” Someone said, “You don’t have a single vote.” Our politician was one-eyed. Expertly and confidently, he pointed out someone in the audience similarly placed on the vision front, “There is my brother in half vision. He at least can’t ignore me through his single eye!” Then he realized another advantage and quipped, “Ten girls from my village have been married here. And they are very social and pleasing personalities. I have faith in them. They must be in a position to influence hundreds of men around!” Well, even with its sins, this politician appears less lethal than the modern-day avatars who rouse the rabble and fury of Knights on rampage. Is old always affable, almost to the extent of appearing gold, for every succeeding age?

There was then this old man. Travelling in his bullock cart at night, he would take long detours away from any type of light visible on the horizon. “This light attracts thugs, robbers and ruffians. This is not light. This is the path of sin,” he used to say. Well, he would have preferred to keep the whole world in darkness at nights. So cutely innocent! Isn’t it?

So those were the days, when the best to the worst were put in the same basket and weighed in the scale and valued at the same price. And nobody got unduly jittery. Those were the times of acceptance I suppose!

Not that I overlook the flaws lurking behind these crudely simplistic statements. There are hard, serrated edges of injustice as well. In hate and mockery it never was better or worse. It is the same world, just that older times appear more tolerant and forgiving than the present one in the simple fact that people then didn’t carry malice too deep in their hearts and quickly moved on with life. There were hardly any storms in tea cups over non-issues like present when minor things go out of control and shake our foundations. Well, in a forgiving society the risks are still less than a well-ordered, law-abiding, cynical, non-accepting and judgmental society. Old has always its lessons.

The Pregnant Baby

 

It’s an effort to pass it off as a mall in this town of Haryana, even though it is no more than a street urchin in front of a self-sustaining, mature, confident young man. Delhi isn’t too far, and almost everybody, to whom the issues like malls matter, especially the teenagers and young adults, has been, one time or the other, to the famed Ambience and Sahara in Gurugram and scores of other malls in the Delhi NCR.

However, you just cannot scamper away to those famous places every time your eyes burn with desire to watch the latest release; your tongue lets loose a stream of saliva to dab into something chatpata, some pizza burger sandwich chicken fry; your wallet appears too heavy and eager to shed some bucks to get some famous brand, some trousers, underwear, undergarments, jeans, shirts, tops, trackpants, sneakers, chappal, joota and more.

We get as much itchy to spend as we are eager to earn. That’s where the consumer culture draws its lifeblood from. And these days you don’t want to hunt around in a dusty, sweaty market to get your cravings fulfilled. There are too many shops and too many provisions. You need many items of many types within shortest time. You want it at one place. So a small town, with its inhabitants having tasted the luxury a mall offers, has to have a mall.

And here it comes taking the first tottering steps of a toddler.

The three-storeyed mall has come up to at least partially fulfill the shoppers’ and idlers’ dreams. It’s an adolescent town running to meet its mature city-self down the decade. One side on the ground floor has garments, footwear and a couple of saloons. The other side has struggled. Subway struggled there, so did pizza wallas, and so did the franchisee-less efforts at cuisine by enterprising dish-makers. The peda and lassi wallah left. They left with more enthusiasm than they opened.

A Patanjali store, sure of its brand, on the nationalistic upswing, has taken the space of three stores by removing the walls in between. It has more display cases and rows than the number of people at a time. Still we survive for future. The brand gives all indication of growing, growing and still growing. Let’s see how far it goes here.

On the second floor, one side is ready to take shoppers in. But it is all shuttered up, no takers so far. The other side is yet to have its separate blocks of shops. Even the floor tiles are missing. You just have the all-clear view across the glass front along the outer side.

We missed the basement part. It has a huge, stuffed to the gills, provision store. The rest is parking lot where hardly anyone parks, apart from those who have set up business here. The teenagers just try to get suddenly invisible, now standing here, now gone, and steal some kisses behind the pillars in the basement.

A boy and a girl kissing, though still a considerable scandal, is no longer the sin it used to be a decade back when it fetched honor killings as natural consequences. Now it fetches leering, jealous remarks and sniping hooting. That much is digestible for a goddamn kiss. Of course there are many, who don’t have a girl in their lives, even in this freeway decade, when many successful macho boys claim that girls are more easily available than even the brandless shirts in rundown stores. So these pining, girlless souls prowl around to catch it preferably on camera, and leave it in the endless stream of the social media.

Domino’s arrived with a bang, “Try all new Dominos”. They had the push of their brand. Unfortunately, not many takers. It closed. Displays are still there, waiting for a new player to relieve them of their wasted duty.

On the glass-fronted marketplace side of the mall, Looks Unisex Saloon is displayed in white letters on a tar black board. Its plush interiors and golden embellishments invite with a modern smirk. To surpass the rickety level of small town modesty, both males and females are welcome. Well, that makes it modern by default. It’s a humungous effort to catch up with modernity. The rate of change has lagged a bit in the society lynched by patriarchy.

By the salon’s side, New York Slice are gone. Unique Collection, the garmenters, look over the counters to spot some serious buyers. The staff at Giani’s since 1956 broom the not so stomped floor, trying to make it swanky clean. They are trying to look damn busy, thinking their up-to-the-mark seriousness will draw people. By its side, Satyam Medical Store sells condoms, I-pills, toffees, chocolates, napkins, but hardly any takers for medicines. They must be selling some headache pills and ENO to survive.

In the lobby on the ground floor, a very smartly fixed cubicle covered with flex-boards welcomes you. It’s Batra Lemon Corner, a red cubicle with price lists of nimbu lemon, jeera lemon, milk rose, pista rose and many more displayed all along the upper half of the set-up. The lower half of the cubicle still carries the signs of its past. The previous entrepreneur, Sip and Bite, tried to seduce young boys and girls with a group of patties, aloo patties, macrony patties, chilly patties and still more. The past that never was, it hardly began, and ended. It but still survives to remind some bored eyes that there are patties in this world.

On the ground floor some shutters are closed, but they have attractive displays. These are shops in making. Auram, by Nisha. No clue what it may mean or stand for. Only time will tell. It may remain anonymous, the entrepreneur may decide to call it quits at this stage only. A nail art saloon, D’nails, get any design on your nail. It seems progressive. Till a decade back those who look at the board didn’t even realize the importance of decking up face, forget about nails that got broken while dealing with buffaloes and bulls in the fields. Dollar, always on top, upcoming. These are rich red letters bordered with white on a pitch black board. An aggressive style statement for the undergarment brand. They have been around for some time, so may storm through the initial apathy of window-shoppers.

Like a dead, open-mouthed whale, the green Subway cubicle has been closed with more enthusiasm than it was started with. Or is it open forever? Sub in white and Way in yellow, in a white elliptical background. Metal chairs and plastic tables are neatly stacked inside. At least there is grace in closing down. The owner seems to be a diligent person. There is also a plastic room cooler and glassless display case. It was a world that saw its end coming even before it was born.

Nearby, Amazing Kids is yet to come with its collection of kids wear. The starter must be keeping a close watch over the kids loitering around holding the fingers of their parents. United Colors of Benetton is operational on full pace. The spacious interior has enough privacy for flirtation among the sales staff. Shopping wise there isn’t much of botheration.

Priya Retail Store, shop and save. The invitation is very sympathetic. But is there any saving after shopping? Ever? Anywhere? It’s about spending. Baker’s Hut has nice, suave, white, brown and grey tiles. Who cares? The attendant is yawning like he has just woken up, even though it’s almost lunch time. City Heart Restaurant has claustrophobic interiors. An LED blares as if in the musty backseats of a disc. Teenagers just sit around to watch some song, drink water, do their stuff under the tables and go out. In the garments store next to it, even the notice of 50% discount offer repels more people than it attracts.

Very few people take the lift, after all it’s a matter of just two flights of stairs. But its door has advertisement stickers arranged very nicely. These are city brandmakers: Family Dentist, Verma Pathology, Rawal Retina Centre, Bansal Health Square, City Computer Point, etc., etc. Small people with big dreams. Well, isn’t world made of such people only. Those who are no longer small, hardly live.

The third floor is the liveliest one. They have two screens of Max Cinema on the one side. Opposite is a long and spacious gym, running along the full length of the mall. You can see fat middle aged women, their children gone to schools, and husbands packed off to workplaces, sweating out on the treadmill to chuck out tummy and bum fat at noontime. It’s also about getting a bit of Godsent opportunity for some fling to bear up the sinisterly boring tide of the creepy mid-life crisis and boredom.

Max Cinema entry is a bit livelier. They do some business at least. Not that they play nice movies all the time. The business puller is the fact that they provide privacy and darkness. Icing on the cake. Couples with thudding hearts sneak in to get corner seats to hold hand and do a bit more as would not make them repent the cost of INR 300 for two seats.

Two teenagers are stopped by the guard who asks them to take the Centrefresh out of their pockets and deposit on the counter. “You stick it on the seats,” he is in a position to chide. Those who don’t have a girl actually do this, possibly as revenge and a sort of rebellion by their teenaged self.  

National anthem gets played before the movie starts. Nobody wants to court controversy, so all stand up willingly, unwillingly. They get down even before the last note is finished. Nobody wants to lose even a precious second in the cool darkness.  

In the national flag, saffron and green are separated by white. How symbolic! There has to be peace between them. But who will play white?    

It’s the cinema that really makes the story for this mall in its infancy. The heaviest footfall was when Dangal was screened. It was never livelier. What a crowed! The owners may have the first night of complete sleep during Dangal screening.

Cinema is pushing the revolution of bringing boys and girls together. The surrounding area is deeply conservative. Teenagers and adolescents don’t look forward to watch hit movies. They like those lean weeks when there is no super-hit spoiling their hideout by the surging crowds. They prefer flops, when hardly anyone comes for the show. The big, dark and cool hideout is the perfect bargain for 150 rupees. A lot of intimacies unfold, with just a few dozen couples busy with their expression of love and lust in far corners, in the middle of the rows, or anywhere the contriving self of a flushed adolescent deems it fit.

You may have the best of a girl with the worst of a guy, the best of a boy with a horribly thin girl, both good looking, both average, both funny, or many combinations probable in between. As many combos as you can ever think of. It’s an eclectic mix. It’s not about choice. The floodgates have recently been opened, so you cannot be choosy. It’s only about having a boyfriend or a girlfriend. On principle. Choices, what, when, how, where and why come later.

Girls come with their faces covered with headcloth. Well hooded for secrecy. The strains of patriarchy are still surviving. Honor killings are still not totally unheard off. It’s better to be cautious. The headcloth, which kept women in almost slavery for centuries, is now an instrument of freedom, of anonymity, of facelessness. With it you just become a girl, a generality, you lose your name. You cover your face and you lose your identity to become just a girl. So the scornful eyes of elders will just curse a girl generally, instead of you particularly.

The small town girls on the path of unshackling themselves from the chains of tradition and patriarchy wear jeans, suit and salwars, in awkward imitation of the world in the movies and the Delhi NCR. Some look terribly funny though. But it’s more important to assert your independence. It can come at the cost of sounding funny. A dignified slavery is worse. A funny independence is better. Somehow. Don’t have the logic for this. Just that it feels so.  

With hooded faces they loiter around, almost on tiptoes, keeping a strict watch with their eyes, lest they be recognized by some acquaintance. If they haven’t actually seen it, at least all of them have heard of honor killings that were rampant, as little back as 5 years ago, in each and every settlement in Haryana. So it’s about flying with the wings of age, of curiosity, of sex, intimacy, kissing and holding hands. The mall thus grows in operations; month after month more people come, making it less scandalous for the young ones. Let’s hope the theft becomes a routine affair of life, to draw it out from the illegal shadows of minds to turn it just a mere simple fact of life, to stop rape, to vanquish molestation.

Let’s hope freedom brings genuine love in people’s lives. Till now it appears like a mischief and theft. Things are changing slowly though. Let it be a vibrant society, which is engrossed in higher purposes of life, instead of people being forced to explore their sexuality almost till the end of their life. Where the virtual world, defined by the so called virtues, keeps on acquiring weirder and weirder shapes, taking the person further and further from the real potential he/she is born with.  

A Day on the Railway Platform in a Small Town

 

A superfast train rubles past without stopping, raising dust and many a wearied feather. Rub of iron on iron. Packs of migrant Bihari laborers with their families descend from a not so swanky, classy train that stops at this not so illustrious district centre. Small people, they look all the same in their smallness. They carry huge gunny sacks crammed with clothes, utensils, flour and rice—the bundle of dreams.

 Linesmen are busy working on a section of rails. Vibrating sounds of hammer striking the rails chime through the cool air. Red cloth banner set on the rails under repair, nearby a man in orange shirt, holding flags, red and green, is looking in both directions for trains on the rerouted spare tract in the centre.

Two students, going to Faridabad for exams, are passing time and beating youth’s over-exuberance through friendly mock-fighting. Jhelum express is late. One of them is blaming the other for setting out late. The hoot of a fast train is approaching. It's all rumbling iron. From the dense green foliage of the banyan by the platform number one, a squirrel is tik-tiking in some serious argument.

A short portly woman clad in a dirty sari approaches the students. One of them gives her a coin and asks her to pray that they reach on time. If they get late, he will find her out in the evening and will take all her collection as a punishment. She is assured of the crowd where she can escape into anonymity, and shakes her grey, untidy, unwashed bun of hair in consent.

 Platforms are a favorite place for those who have lost their minds—or who knows it is actually they who have regained theirs. A woman stares at a point for so long that you fear she will drill a hole in the ground. Smell of pakoras wafts with a pungent, oily fizz. The newspaper stall looks unburdened of its load of morning news. The stationary kiosk appears to seek students’ attention.

Under the base of the footbridge on the platform, a shoe-mender has his portion of the stomped world. Polish, wax bottles and soles define his boundary. A cargo train chugs past at a high speed that is surprising for her lethargic, old woman type bearing. The long trail of faded, beaten maroon cargo bogies raises a storm. Bored commuters, waiting for their passenger trains, look at it with jealousy.

 Life seems on a mysterious pause before hitting the rails. Those who stay on the platforms rarely take bath, unless they get drenched by the rains—clothes, sweat, mud, gripe, soot and all—leaving them more stinking than ever. A fat boy is standing, looking at everybody but still nobody in particular. They have their own world, those who have something to do with a bit dissimilar functioning of the brain. Shouldn't call it malfunctioning, but yea definitely it works differently, taking them into a special world, unseen to the stomping majority around.

 His bottom on a fertilizer sack-cloth and knees drawn up to his chest, a man is taking deep draughts at a beedi. He is aged well beyond his real years. Looks 60, but don't be surprised if he turns out to be just 40. Poverty seems to be in love with old age. His gaunt features have acquired an unsparing penetration, a hawkish tenor, like he will jump into criminality at the slightest instigation.

 And here she, he, o no he, she rather, both in fact, comes. Many a head turn. A boastful, proud hybrid, cocking a snook at the dirt cheap normalcy scattered around. The prince/princess of his/her world goes cherishing a peculiar freedom beyond confinements of gender and social roles. She/he has carefree air, walking and playing two roles at the same time. Both males and females look at him/her with a strange curiosity. He/she moves with manly swag and feminine coquettery. The only emotion it creates in males and females is plain curiosity, even some traces of derision.

Let's call him a he for convenience. He wears a see-through black, body-hugging top. His shoulders are masculine in the manner they sway and swing with each step. Arms are also long, like an attractive damsel’s curvy one, but these are drawn tightly with traces of worked on muscles. He holds them like a lady of grace. His chest is flat and would have passed off as a teenager boy’s prospects of a decent manhood. He wears black track-pants having orange flowers on both bums. His legs move in a feminine rhythm, in tempo with the swings of arms with elbows drawn in and forearms slanted out.

Look from behind and you may think a slim teenager girl is walking with a bit of teasing promiscuity opening its bud. The despos may even get aroused. He is dark. His hair is also cropped midway through the length and style of a boy and a girl. Unlike, many transgenders who jump into exaggerated tones of sounding and appearing feminine, he has left his natural identify as it is, right there in the twilight, no light no dark, no shame no fame, nonchalant, lukewarm, impassive and self-absorbed. He moves creating a wave like a snake-head creating a wavy ripple as it glides through the still waters of a lake. Most of them can't help staring, some even do with a mocking laughter.

 The mother is there. Sitting like all the soot and grime has polished her misery to the extent of bleaching her bones. Her kurta and long skirt are soiled beyond the parameters of color. Her dirty, torn at many places, dupatta is spread in front of her. A child, barely a year old, is lying by her side. It is playing with a plastic cup, nibbling at its edges, touching it with its legs, taking its tiny tongue out.

Wait, there is another baby, couple of months old at the most. It is packed, like it will stay safe during conveyance, only its face out to the big, intimidating world. It is crying. She has put a bottle of milk to its lips. It cries anyway. Don't think she has enough milk in her bosom. A group of smartly clad college girls passes. The one with a backpack of books takes a moment out to look at the unfortunate mother and adds to the coins on the torn duppatta.

 And life simply moves on like it is doing around the globe and further into the deeper recesses of the cosmos. There are parallel currents of agonies and ecstasies at all points and places. Learn to observe it closely and minutely. It enlarges the perspectives. It broadens the range of your emotions. It lights up many a shady areas from your being and drives away many assumptions and insecurities. It trains you to be an aware person. And awareness straightaway takes you very close to your real self. Those who are shaking hands with their true self have the best prospects of love, happiness, joy and contentment in life.

The Story of a Cricketer

 

He never knew that his craze for cricket will turn into a dream that will be kept alive somehow. Growing up in the seventies and eighties, the madness would get into his soul on dusty, holed pitches in the playground speckled with bunch-grass and patches of alkaline waste outside the village. He could have done batter in studies if not for this obsession with the willow-lashing game.

What did the countryside urchins know about cricket, except Kapil’s famous feat at the world cup, and that two people run madly between the stacks of bricks facing each other from some yards, with a dusty land in between, somebody throwing mindlessly, and someone swinging the tattered bat still more mindlessly, and still more people running madly after the cork ball that had all the freedom of taking whatever course it preferred to take?

Well, this isn’t even the A of cricket. The real game of cricket starts many notches further. It’s a very technical game having thousand nuances and mind-games. So it was more of baseball cricket that gripped rural India during the seventies and eighties and it ate countless hours as much as it ate all other sports. Having spent a major portion of his youth in baseball cricket on dusty, holed grounds, he got into Delhi Police as a constable, a gross underachievement given his academic potential. But then cricket was the predominant thing for his soul and I cannot see him holding any regrets even decades later.

Even after getting yoked into matrimony and police duties, he kept the flame alive, and continued throwing around his bat whenever and anywhere there was a possibility. A bit of momentum he transferred to his kids. He gave the best of affordable facilities to his son. Settled in a town, sent him to coaching, pushed him to gym and gave him expert diet.

The boy rose above the level of baseball cricket to play cricket, but not beyond the city club level. He isn’t dejected. The dream is still alive. “Such big innings are played across three generations at least,” he says. “I have got him to a level where he will be able to guide his son to at least national level,” he has the patience of the Pacific Ocean in just being there for centuries.

Well, it’s more suitable to keep the dreams alive, across generations, in fact. Then they stand a chance to get fulfilled. Isn’t it hope and dreams personified? I think only some inherent love and liking for something takes someone so leisurely with limitless patience on the path of life. And at least there is a direction and a clear sense of purpose the family is carrying. Best of luck guys! I really appreciate your loving passion for the game. With so much of love for the game, you just cannot help being bitten by the sweet bug of a really compassionate self.  

The Deadly Injured Mosquito

 

It’s the last week of August. Humidity tickles the nerves instead of the heat. The Monsoon is about to complete its trip. Once again, in this part of Haryana, it is leaving with lot many promises unfulfilled. Deficit rainfall is the norm here. In any case, the Monsoon hardly abides by the law of averages. It’s either too much or too less. Nature has, after all, lost its equanimity, its level-headedness. It’s irritated and grossly impulsive these days. The nature, I mean. And rightly so, for what wrong we haven’t done to her.

As the light peers through a humidity-soaked sky, I decide to make the most of this cool morning. Reading under the open overcast skies has its own charm. While the world gets up, yawns, stretches its arms, gets ready to dab into the birth-time energetic spirits to go jogging and exercising, I decide to pick up this nice book and use my time in the best suitable way I can think of, reading.

The light picks up from across the bluish dark curtain hung over the skies. A cool breeze is blowing. The invisible vestiges of the rain in the previous evening still loom in thin air. It appears like it stopped raining just five minutes back. The words and sentences have a lucid meaning. It is like writing on a clean slate. The brain, after all, is unclogged of extra garbage at this time.

The book is touching. The sentences fetch deeper meanings than they carry at any other time of the day. I read with a trace of smile on my lips. In fact, I feel like I am doing a holy deed early in the morning, like a sage officiating over yagna. I get attuned to the phenomenon of literature, which is nothing but one more effort to portray another aspect of truth from the endless space-time continuum of events and happenings.

If there were sages in ancient India, there were demons also, the fabled rakshasas, who threw meat and bones into the holy fires. They laughed with their deep, rumbling peals of mocking guffaws. An avid reader is the most a modern human can come close to be a rishi, sage, of ancient India. And the demons? Well, there are countless. In millions, and of course, billions. Mosquitoes. The carrier of death, fever, dengue, chicken guinea and what not.

They buzz with multiple layers of preening sounds that crawl over your skin, bruising and itching it long before it strikes with its bloodthirsty snout. They have ultrasonic precision. You feel the drone’s deadly hum from a distance before your eardrum alerts you to the hurtling missile in your direction. On top of that they are bloodthirsty. Who knows, all the demons of the past may have turned into mosquitoes of the present.

Here it drones to spoil my morning. Dengue-wallahs bite early in the morning, my alert system sends a warning against the poisoned missile. I see it then. A huge one, almost as big as a housefly. I’m sure it must have bullied a few houseflies on the way to its mission. The chopper’s buzzing wings cut across the chorus of chirping sparrows on the courtyard wall. In a panic mode, I take a swipe at it. Guess with what? With my book man. What better weapon a bookworm can arrange on such a short notice? The elegant piece of literature turning into a weapon of defense! The rascal deftly dives, enjoying the catapulting rolls in the swirls of air sent down by my papery weapon. Even a mosquito is too good for a book these days. Uffs.  

I jump from my chair, knowing fully well that it will surely succeed in its mission if I keep sitting. Still eager to keep the meanings in sentences clearer like before, I start walking and reading in leisurely circles, pacing up and down the courtyard, sure that the deadly projectile is ineffective against shifting objects. I even take consolation that now it is doubly beneficial, reading-cum-morning walk now it becomes. And here it is again. A super-mosquito, I recoil with fear. I see it just about to land on my hand decently holding the book. These are not the times of niceties after all. This time I see it clearly. It has the ill-famed black and white bands across its hull, the deadly enemy, the dengue one.

Reading takes a backseat and revenge starts. It is too big to get invisible into the cowardly mosquito anonymity in thin air. It has grown too big for its cowardly skin. Its confidence protrudes through its bubble-strong body. I track it to the end of the wall. While I strike it against the wall, the instinct stops me from using full force to avoid a dirty palm smeared with a crushed mosquito carcass. The hand moves with the agilest movement, but strikes with minimum force against the wall. Maybe I want to injure it critically and enjoy a slow death with no blood on my hands. It is too big to go into that last moment’s topsy-turvy dive to escape. And of course sometime you hit the nail on its head, hit the jackpot, win the lottery, get the best girl in the college and bla bla. Similarly, you hit your target, the mosquito, in the second attempt only. A great stroke of luck that should undo most of the miseries of life!

With the scared anticipation of a high school girl waiting for her result, I take away my palm. The feeling is worth winning a million in lottery. My trophy lies against the wall. Not crushed. The force is perfect to send the idiot into coma. One of its wings broken, the other jutting out, some legs broken, the rest swished together, its deadly snout projecting out as if in utter pain. What a sight! One of its antennas moves a bit, to make it icing on the cake that it isn’t instant death. I see the black and white checked pattern on its body. What a kill man! Can’t believe my luck early in the morning!

Well, if such a victory cannot make you happy, I doubt which huge achievement will turn you into a horse-grinned champion?

A Lollipop of Happiness for the Kid in you

 

All mundane moments lying around have their potential of happiness and joy. They are meaningless until you spot them. The moment you dispel their anonymity with your caring look, they turn into a huge treasure instantly, at least for the aesthetics-starved heart in the present times.

To me happiness is when everything is soaked in rain in the morning and the diligent newspaper boy hands you a copy of dry newspaper. You feel like proclaiming him a champion and yourself a lottery winner. You just grab your slightly damp copy—newsprint is so soft that it soaks some moisture from the air itself, so the delivery boy cannot help in this—like a prized possession.

Life is not about mountains of mighty triumphs. It's about tiny molehills of such small pleasures. Learn to be happy with scores of little, little strokes of luck that come your way on a daily basis. Simple mathematics is: At the end of the day, the sum total of our little fractions of luck is more than the big shitty stroke of bad luck. Appreciate your tiny sinews of luck, for they constitute the rope of your survival and sustenance. If not for them, things can go wrong in as many ways as the vastness of this universe.

The Sweet Feminine Push

 

Some sweet moments stand out from the dust of time on the well-trodden path even years down the line. They haven’t actually changed your life with a huge jolt, nor let loose a tsunami cascading down the corridors of your memory. Rather they are very small happenings whose smiling smell defies dying in the ever-crowding chambers of your brain. They are simply like some small wayside flower you came across and whose smile you retain with you as you waft through the turbulent sea of life.

One such moment stands out, its imprint as solid like any other substantial event of my life. The memory leaves me with a nostalgic smile. It happened more than a decade back when I used to lumber along the sea of humanity struggling to complete one more day in the behemoth that Delhi is. Delhi was changing and females were seen jostling in the struggle shoulder to shoulder with the men-folk.

A petrol pump and its female keepers womanning the oil machines! After guzzling fuel from the efficient hands of the sweet girl attendant, my cart, a very old battered car, won’t start, its battery gone weaker than the body. Embarrassed, sheepishly I looked around for help. Gracious heavens, two petrol attendant girls came manly—if we may say so, although given the men’s ways in Delhi, it’s no matter of pride to be manly—forward and pushed the old hag and its owner with such dignified force and refined purpose that my buffalo cart surrendered its obstinacy to the feminine purity of their purpose.

‘Salutes! We are a gender-neutral, vibrant nation-in-making now,’ my heart exulted with the starting jolts of the old engine. I looked back and there they were with a smile on their faces. The moment seems etched in stone in my memory chambers. Millions of chit-chatty things come and go and fall off like inconsequential flakes, some things but stay with you.

Take out such moments of life on some early winter day and relive those moments. As you smile with the recollection of those moments, and preferably sip ginger tea, you find life slightly better than before. And meaningful also. Happy winters guys! Or whatever the season when you happen to read this.

Flower and Snake caught in a Single Loop of Memory

 

Some moments just get etched in your memory. Their empowering aesthetics or intimidating impulses can still tickle the senses even a decade later. Such moments define life, make it momentous. These moments stand as the real milestones notifying the flow of invisible, unstoppable stream of time. Such moments stand out in two ways: a) raising your hair, jolting your senses and giving scary goosebumps; b) massaging your aesthetic senses in a way that you retain the touch almost throughout life. I can recall two such moments.

The first one occurred a decade back at the start of winters in Delhi. As the metro's first ladies-only coach eased its beautiful burden, I found myself walking down the stairs among a fragrant swarm of few dozen beautiful young ladies. Colorful woolens…Deo and perfume...grace and beauty. Smiling, chirpy flowers in the garden of life swaying to the teasing pulls of youth and exuberance. I felt like in a perfumery and walked sheepishly like a guilty black-bee in a garden.

It was really overpowering in a mysterious swathe of truth, beauty and love. I can still smell and see those moments as vividly as it happened a decade ago. Some moments just refuse to fade from your heart’s horizon. It somehow stands out as a memento of love, beauty, grace and freedom. The girls walking so confidently, carried by the morning verve taking them to their colleges and offices, the air redolent with empowerment, and those self-standing women on the path of carving their own destiny.

The second one still sees me swathed with swirling emotions of scared ecstasy, awe, plain fear and genuine appreciation, all at the same time: a real cocktail of emotions and feelings. Flashing the ultimate message that nature is neutral and has all the possibilities for our version of reality, truth and feelings. In a way, it means that it’s your cosmos, my cosmos, as much as anyone’s cosmos.

The moment stands erect almost a decade back on the highway of time. I saw two snakes mating. Not on TV guys but in real life in the cooing calls of the countryside solitude. Surrendered to slithery, coiled and hissing passion, their venomous stalking turned to submission. The kiss of death morphed into the kiss of love. Their fangs and poison took a backseat. Horrified initially, my shaken self felt the coiled fluidity of those two slithery bodies forming love loops. Shocking majesty! Ecstatic creeping! Those vivid images still crawl in my mind as if it’s happening now itself.

Well, everything is equally good, bad, neutral, passive and impassive to nature in isolation. Then we arrive on the scene and define the picture as per our knowledge, emotions, motivation and convenience.

On a parting note out of this memory, I can say with personal experience that love defines the empty canvas on which we paint our version of truth. The colors of love are the same for everyone. Just that we draw various panoramas with our individual perception.

Nostalgia: Virginal Sensation of Love

 

There are tiny specks of golden memories carrying far more nostalgic weightage than you can imagine. Use their rasping, filing power to smoothen the painful edges of a stressed self. Cumbersome memories have the tendency to dull the screen of your being, clouding your vision, making you feel lost. On the other hand, the incredibly fascinating anecdotes can actually help you in getting a firmer hold on your present.

The enchanting haze of nostalgia can wipe out the trace of many a pinching real-life fact plaguing your present. And then who knows you may even nurture fresh perspectives on life because looking with a detached musing self, you acquire a mystical objectivity of looking at things. The warm glow of lilting memories melts the iron hard blockages in the course of life. It has a tendency to spread the self. And spreading is freedom. Believe me! Try it!

Nostalgia is your seductive lover. It will pull you through the cloud of pain. It's a free lease to your loving self as it finds itself cramped for space due to chaotic present. The ephemeral notes of these disjointed anecdotes weave a sweet harmony. There is a malleable softness that titillates one's heart. It triggers a balmy effect, you smile, you get an installment of self-love. A loving nature is just the bonus you draw.

These moments stand out with an eternal calmness. It has a bouquet of emotions. You feel restful sadness and smiling gratitude for the things that came your way and laid the foundation for what you became later. It nurtures gratefulness.

You somehow find your ground with this thin cord relating you to what you were, showing a small milestone reached by you. It's beyond big bang events. They are your moments that refuge to be swashed down the drain. There is no logic why they stand out so prominently because on the surface they are almost inconsequential to your life's journey. These are simply the milestones on the highway of your march.

You simply cannot miss the exhilaration you feel as they tug at your sleeve with the innocence of a little child. Reciprocate. Smile back. Give them your finger to hold onto for some time. You will never feel losing something while you slow down to give them a hearing.

Slow notes of romance seize you. You become aware of a universal sense of mundane things. A few soft shades beat the vibrant, exaggerated colors of the present.

Such balmy moments never fail to give a smile to my lips. A deep sense of purpose surfaces. I quite interestingly find myself more humane and more loving after entertaining these small time guests.