The Milkman, the Dying Wick and the Invisible Hand of Fate

February 2, 2008

The cult of romantically gyrating, flute-flaunting and flirting milkmen and milkmaids was started by the most lovable of the lot, Lord Krishna.

Cutting across centuries, that legacy still survives, romantic linkups often coming dangerously close to the house-breaking taboos of extramarital affairs.

The milk-gathering sprees of milkwalas, our doodhwalas—the ones who, in fact, collect milk almost seasonlessly in the wee hours to ensure that milk reaches kitchens irrespective of cold, heat, rain, or whatever other hand the weather player might draw out.

The poor fellow gets up very early, picks up his bucket and drums, and goes on his milk-collecting spree. And in these wee hours, many romantic linkups do crop up, which act like incentives and rewards for the poor guy apart from his meagre take-home, cleverly contrived by mixing water in the milk.

One such gawala is Devender, the 30-year-old, affable, jocular, high-pitched, fair-coloured, short, square-faced and average-featured milk boy.

On the coldest of nights, when the temperature is around one degree centigrade, he gets up at 3 o'clock in the morning and sets out with his bucket and drums on his bicycle.

Now, selling milk is the most important part of household budgets in lower-middle-class rural households, where agricultural income is always falling short of meeting the budget.

The women contribute to the meagre budget through their buffaloes and cows.

Their life is full of struggle.

The husband works on small plots of land, or in some small-time business, or in some poorly paying job. Most of them drink, cramped by worries.

The hardworking women farmers take some solace and excitement with milkmen like Devender in the dark night in the barn, and the milkman duly reciprocates by giving them ample opportunities of cheating him by mixing water in the milk.

When they are caught, the poor chap has to run away after receiving a few slaps by the fuming husband, leaving his bucket there itself. Meanwhile, the poor wife has to bear the full storms of the fistwork, but nothing can be put to an end by the fistwork alone. Love, lust and romance are beyond the fear of fistwork. 

Their -- the farmer women and the milkmen -- fates are interlinked in such a manner that they cannot pull out the plugs from their respective roles. So, after a lull, after the shocking incidents, the storm strikes again.

You never know in what manner your fate is going to be affected by the sneeze and easy or uneasy turn of some unknown being in some other part of the world.

Coming to my own specific worries. The visit, after that postponement, to Djibouti had been fixed for the 4th of February, and here come the circumstances with their suddenly cropping situational snares.

Inder's would-be wife's grandmother decides to slow down the wick of her lamp of life to the barest minimum—that deathbed type of situation in which the last flicker is afraid to go down and the fuel is not enough for revival.

So, while the good old lady fights at the brink of the two worlds, the visit, after much haggling and arguments, has been postponed again.

Now I simply realize maybe our fates aren't in our hands.

We had planned meticulously, but who could have planned for the old lady's illness?

Hoping against hopes, let us hope for the best, the proposed visit might still happen somehow. Otherwise, I will have to take flight alone sometime in February itself and try to salvage our tottering business cart there in the charming, exotic chaos of Africa. 

The Phoenix, the Galloping Horses and the Road to Africa

January 31, 2008

The last day of January.

The last day of a very hectic month, which found me scurrying to Delhi, Noida and Faridabad for content writer and editorial jobs, despite knowing that I am not yet mentally prepared to take up this job, while I keep exploring business opportunities for our African setup, in which I have been actively involved for more than one year.

On both fronts, things have gone with seesaw excitement and agonies.

On the negative side, I see that things haven't progressed much, apart from the fact that we have managed to keep our so-called office-cum-residential rented apartment running by managing to export a few shipments of scrap iron and used oil from Africa to India.

But it is very costly in the sense that you have to pay at each and every step, to every individual and institution concerned, to make any type of headway. If you want your shipment to be shipped and sail off safely, then you should be prepared to let go of a lot of money from your pocket to facilitate the process, because that's the routine here.

At one moment, all the doors seem to be opening to allow me in for a sumptuous feast in lieu of all my labours. Then, in a vilifyingly chiding rebuke, the door is slammed shut in my face, hurting my already bruised red nose.

Many a time I have fallen forward to get a reddish nose.

Like the proverbial Phoenix, many a time I have tried to rise from the ashes to take a golden flight, cutting across the sunrays of a vibrant new sun. But the gravitational pull of higher, stronger realities—the realities of my own frailties, the realities of the invisible throws of dice, again and again against me—finds me falling down to the receiving, ever-gleeful, ever-fiery pyre of futility.

It is the constant pain, constant depression, ever-haunting fear of failure which seems to be eating into my being.

I fear death, but more than death itself, I fear the means adopted by the angels of death. I fear these might be so gruesome, slowly, slowly bringing down your castle of physical being block by block, tonking with merciless hammers in their newer and newer painful avatars—agents which make you die every moment.

Under such circumstances, even death, provided it is blessed to you in a single swipe, taking you off from the needling rake of life and its warm offsprings, becomes a likable thing.

Nonetheless, the world is going on with its stock of pleasures and pains.

The globalized economy is facing the turbulent waves generated by the U.S. home loan market business. The expressway of the world economy is getting newer and newer entrants. We are fastly moving ahead, yet rapidly reverting back on our responsibilities also.

It is good that Asia is progressing, entailing the Western bandwagon, but what of Africa—the tropical land of jungles, mosquitoes, animals and poor humans, mired in civil wars, coups, catastrophes, dictatorships, ethnic wars and genocides, with superpowers still playing dirty to draw out from its famished pockets?

The continent presents a very sorry state in these messy affairs, but still Africa has its fabled charm, which you don't find anywhere else in the world.

So, February 4, at 2:20 a.m., I am scheduled to go to Africa with Inder and Babu from Ludhiana. I hope they find the prospects good and invest in our company.

We, the poor, simple rural group of friends from a Haryana village, who have come out of the well and are trying to punch in an honest way.

Africa as a whole is bleeding.

In fact, it has been bleeding for a few centuries now, after those initial big cuts and gashes in its poor, poorly innocent body by the squirming scimitars of the slavers.

The poor yet rich mass of land has struggled to come to terms with the times. Wars, poverty, hunger, diseases, famines and HIV are the things which symbolize Africa now.

But as they say, the darkest the night, the brightest is the day to follow.

Maybe this saying will have its political, practical example in the form of a rising, prosperous, happy Africa in the decades to come.

On the professional front, I am yet to hear from ELI Research regarding my written test.

Perhaps my style of writing does not suit a content writer's job, whose job is just to pick up facts and figures from the internet, assemble them in a prosaic, lifeless manner so that they can be given a kind glance by some fatigued, weary executive or technocrat.

Perhaps Mr. Gupta recognized and heard the loud footsteps of the galloping horses of my creativity and withdrew into his shell of business insecurity.

The Mahatma on Our Banknotes: So Near, Yet So Far

January 30, 2008

The Mahatma's Martyrdom Day.

Sixty years ago, a sudden, irritated, hatefully squirming agent of the God of Violence tried to undo the decades-long work of peace, harmony, love and nonviolence performed by the angel of the God of Love.

But did those three metallic squirts of anger and hate succeed in their mission?

Definitely not.

Such luxuriant crops, as sown by the tireless farmer of love and peace, continue feeding the souls and spirits for generations before being slowly, slowly eaten up by the worms of time. But then seeds survive, and new saplings come with newer nourishment for the generations in the future.

So the only effect of those three shots, each of which was entailed by the saintly chanting of the Lord's name, was that Nathuram became known as a famous killer and that fallen, frail body, with its trademark beneficent toothless smile, proved the inviolable principle of mortality.

Long before the moment Nathu Godse decided to pull the trigger, the Atma had become Maha, the body had become a living force, the soul had soared highest to meet the true colours of harmony among humankind.

So the poor little idiot fired inconsequentially at the sacred, inviolable, impenetrable fabric.

For the people who have at least the capacity to understand and realize the comprehensiveness of that infinitely contouring love, up-curving to augment heaven and down-curving to dilute hell, the great soul is still there.

Thankfully, I do feel like one of these few.

India might be surging ahead, driven by its ant-swarms, surging monstrously, thoughtlessly, with their tiny pickings of status, progress and wealth, but there are a few sturdy ones who can carry the big chunks of his greatness, even as a reminder.

I, for one, taking myself away from the ant-swarm, stand and feel the true multitudinous vibrancy of the rainbow of his legacy.

The vibrancy is forever.

It will remain till the final flash of light is gobbled by the eternal darkness in the universe.

That toothless, benign smile still shows its unrestrained aura of goodwill, luck and blessings from the papery symbols of our consumerist monetary gallopings.

The Father of the Nation on the banknotes, so near to the heart in our purse, and yet so far.

In this consumerist war, without any principles, without any limitations, without any morality, while we rake up the soil and dust, the papery symbols of the acme of our modern aspirations are tossed around as arrows of these new wars.

The papery arrows, lethal, fatal most—these papery pointed, poisoned ends—are now constantly hitting the sturdy mortar of the great man's legacy.

And while they rout each other in the fight to surpass each other, they take a common, rejoicing, bantering ball-thrust at his lofty visage, hung like a portrait officially over the battlegrounds.

Apart from this, it being the second phase of winter, weddings have started taking place after the chilly freeze during the second half of December and January.

A nice little chapter in the lives of two souls getting married.

It definitely means, and is, one of the most beautifully carved-out social celebrations, provided we allow it to blossom properly.

Well, good luck to all those going to be married today.

A Frozen Morning and the Whirling Wheels of Change

January 29, 2008

Yesterday the last Test at Adelaide was drawn.

The disappointment is for all of us. Hadn't RP Singh been injured midway through the game, the Aussies would have really tasted the salt of struggle with the massive 526 scored by India in the first innings.

The draw means we lost the series 2–1. This could have been the other way, or at least 1–1, hadn't there been blunders, known or unknown, by Benson and Bucknor.

Yet, on a positive note, Sehwag returned to form with his oft-usual sparkling, risky, adventurous 151 in the second innings on the last day.

Yesterday was the third coldest day of the season. The sky was partly cloudy and, in the absence of the sun's full benign smile, icy winds froze North Indians to their bones.

On my part, I was not shivering with cold. Hot, pulse-racing, exciting, challenging pinpricks kept me busy almost throughout the day.

ELI Research, the U.S.-based research and information company, had invited me for the post of content writer.

While the pre-twilight night stood almost frozen with frost, I set out at a quarter past six. I got a bus direct to Faridabad from Sonipat.

Delhi seems to have lost its identity—the particular picture that comes to your mind as the most striking, stabilizing and defining element about a particular place.

The fast wheels of development and construction are so rattlingly whirling that your eyes are caught in the blind storm. Every month sees uncountable additions to the roads, bridges, blocks, malls, more cars, more crowds.

There is no permanent image of Delhi.

It is a fastly, furiously changing, re-changing, redefining behemoth.

Even the winter seems lost in its fiery, unfolding garbs.

But then the mountain-high difference between the haves and have-nots strikes you with its poignant permanency to bring some warm feeling of familiarity and even solace.

Mobiles now keep people busy—the great homogenizer. Between the two extremities, you come across numerous small creatures lost happily in a maze with mobiles in their hands.

Faridabad, furtively and greedily suckling the teats of development and real-estate growth in the udder of Mother Metropolitan, is fattening up speedily like a live and kicking calf.

ELI's office is in Sector 16, near Sagar Cinema.

These are three-storeyed office and commercial blocks. On the first floor, you have shops of medicine, eateries, consumer items, departmental stores and groceries. On the upper two storeys, you have posh offices of nationals and multinationals.

ELI is a new entrant in the resurgent Indian market, where Western firms outsourcing their work is becoming almost a regular feature of their operations these days.

The operations of ELI started in May last year.

The director, Mr. Ajay Gupta, incidentally, is one of the most gracious, easy-mannered, uncomplicated, committed and warm-hearted team leaders I have ever come across.

He is working like a busy bee to take the company to a fully operational level. Staff is being built up, plus furnishing is being set up over the top floor of the entire block.

He is the first to come to the office and the last one to go.

He greeted me warmly, offered a still warmer cup of coffee, and talked nicely and freely.

My written test copy now goes to the USA.

If shortlisted, I will be going through a teleconference.

The Swift Horses and My Rusty-Wheeled Cart

January 28, 2008

There are a few swift horses which are running neck to neck to grab the ownership of my rusty-wheeled, lurching cart, creaking and clanking, to take it fast on the smoothly tarred road of modern society.

The road is smartly smooth. It has all the trappings of a great, enjoyable ride. But a good ride needs not only a good road; it requires a smoothly running cart as well. But unfortunately, my cart cannot dare to run, being pulled by the swift horses of my choices or helplessness.

Whether I should go for a job, or seriously take up the business—not like at the moment, when I do know that I am not giving 100 percent to it—and so take our small firm beyond its current survival mode and make it profit-making. And I am sure that I can do it, provided I am able to devote 100 percent focus to it instead of being drawn in other directions, shackled by the past losses, and then this distraction of appearing for job interviews. This much can be expected from an averagely practical individual; for my own benefit and that of my friends.

The programme has already been set with Babu and Inder, after that postponement due to the yellow fever injection issue. Our scheduled departure is on February 4, at 2:20 a.m, IGI, New Delhi.

But the other horse, as if not to be left behind, has been trying to push its inviting neck ahead.

ELI Research, the U.S.-based research and information company, has been impressed with my portfolio. They have contacted me many times for the interview date.

Unsure about whether to dedicate an entire day to travelling to Faridabad and then giving the test and interview, even though I know that I won't be taking this job, horribly unsure of so many things, I have said neither yes nor no, though at one time I came perilously close to closing the door forever. Yet that slight glimmer of a settled life with a secure income kept pouring towards my heart through a tiny creek.

Now that I have another week before the flight, I have decided to take up the matter again, much to the chagrin of the HR executive. I called her and sought an interview. Giving a good example of refined breeding and education, she confirmed my interview for Monday.

Let us see how it goes.

For the next planned visit to Africa with Babu Bhai and his brother-in-law, Shekhar and Anil also got yellow fever injections, even though the latter two won't be travelling at this time. But they seem too excited about the venture. 

I already had my yellow fever injection more than a year back, when I first went to Africa to take care of affairs there.

So overenthusiastic Shekhar and Anil also got yellow fever injections at NDMC on Mandir Marg on the 24th. Babu and Inder arrived from Ludhiana to get their dose against the deadly African disease.

The injection gives you immunity against this African scourge for ten years, they say at least.

In Africa, this yellow fever card becomes virtually your second passport.

On separate days, the injection is provided at different places. Since they were coming in their Lancer car, we asked them to wait for us at Bahalgarh Chowk.

As we reached there in our little ragtag car, there they were, the larger trade sardars.

Their way of greeting is embracing you on meeting and then, when taking leave of you, again giving you a hug.

This magical jhaphi instantaneously puts you at ease, for it so marvellously removes that veil of separation and insecurity. You feel better acquainted with the person.

From Ram Manohar Lohia, we found out that Palam Domestic Centre, near Palam Arrival Terminal 1A, was the immunization venue for that day.

A look at the domestic airport's arrival and departure lounges is enough to convince you that the upwardly mobile middle class is now really a force to reckon with.

Internal air traffic is on the rise. There are enough high-end professionals and businessmen or women in the country to keep Indian Airlines and the new entrants quite busy.

The domestic airport now no longer bears that look of exclusivity. It is fast acquiring the colours of normalcy, the normal colours of everyday life. With competition, airfares are becoming quite affordable as well.

Palam Domestic Centre is an isolated, single-storeyed, nondescript block.

It has no exclusivist pretensions. In fact, you smell the typical government health sector's slovenliness and negligence all over the place.

The heavy wooden door is sharply closed in your face till exactly 2 p.m.

To keep the few people waiting there on tenterhooks, there is a notice warning that in case the last group consists of fewer than ten persons, no injections will be given, because, costing at 150 rupees per person, the government can afford only groups of ten for a vial. They would have to waste the remedy if the last group happened to be fewer than ten.

So even though you are at least a dozen people, you can smell a sense of uneasiness behind their faces.

It can be really interesting and informative to talk to the yellow fever injection aspirants.

You see people of all ages and backgrounds, from established professionals and businessmen and women to strugglers and labourers.

I can remember the thickset, stocky, 70-year-old retired bank official with dreams in his eyes of a foreign visit to his son in Africa.

He was originally from Hoshiyarpur in Punjab and became nostalgic while talking to Babu and Inder.

Another one, a fair-complexioned, moustachioed fellow provided you with interesting anecdotes from the lands he had visited, in his significantly emphasizing Hinglish.

And there was a gentleman in a business suit. He had academic features, puffy hands, and thought over every English word he spoke.

Talk of Africa and you don't come across a scrap dealer—it just can't happen.

Here was this scrap trader who had delved deep into African pockets for scrap. He had brought his wife for the injection. After all those sweet-sour experiences in the pleasantly turmoiled and tragically placed African land, he must have garnered enough experience to take his wife with him also.

It was really impressive and encouraging, in more ways than one, to see a young girl walking up to the queue.

She was the last to arrive there, with all the quickness, agility and confidence of any modern, educated girl next door.

The man with her was starkly dark, poorly clad and almost perplexing against her background. But before we could start on any surprising thought regarding a dark man having such a fair-coloured daughter, he approached us with ever-lessening timidity.

A Haryanvi culture brands you pretty stoutly. You can be recognized by your words, style of standing, your gestures and manners.

He smelled this and introduced himself.

He was a Subedar in the Army from a neighbouring village.

The girl was his General's daughter, and it was here, on this point, that she took all the appreciating points we could afford to give her from our poor kitty.

She was standing there with so much normalcy and a feeling of unassumingness, strongly unlike the gentlewomen of high-status families, just waiting for her turn.

If there had been a daughter of an IAS officer, IPS officer or politician in her place, she would have either done it without waiting in the queue, or would have arrived with her authority-splashing insignias of power and status, I thought.

It was a soothing thought.

There are still good officers with decently, normally behaving kids who obey the laws of the land, who move around like any other human being, not like power-drunk alien species. 

Meeting the Subeday was a nice experience; he belonged to the same cultural entity as we Haryanvis. We talked over Haryanvi politics while she patiently waited for her turn in the queue.

A very pleasant sight indeed.

The Hatchling, the Hawks and the Dream of a Writer

January 27, 2008

After that brutal judicial shake-up in December, this January has witnessed lots of hurry-scurrying on my part.

January has been unusually cold, with the temperature even hitting the freezing point on one mercilessly icy night. But warmed by the feeling of anguish born of that injustice, which stoned my hibernating self, I have now come to my senses.

The summation of my realization is: keeping hopes for justice, however strong and sturdy your case might be on legal, humanitarian and moral grounds, is totally wishful thinking, bordering on the illusionary utopian world.

The reason I remained in this self-congratulatory, self-wanting and artificial sense of being at ease with my status of a would-be HCS officer, waiting for his inevitable appointment—hasn't the recommending authority, HPSC, got a constitutional status?—was that I still somehow believed in the farcically utopian and obsolete principles of justice, fair play and uprightness at the highest level of the judiciary.

But as it was to inevitably, inescapably happen, I was jolted out of this make-believe world.

The palace which I had created from the masonry work of constitutionality, legality, government's obligations towards its subjects and things alike proved to be a brutal, fragile, wispy palace of cards, which was dismantled by a politically vindictive snort.

But those little papery beams and pillars of my illusionary masonry work fell on my head with a crushing weight.

That cry of being wronged was inescapable, but this cry has the force to shatter the glasses of fair play and goodness.

I know that now I have got every right to turn into a negative character. Even the law of redemption allows me to do so, for out of the cage now I fly aesthetically, flapping in the world, basking with its sky-high towers built on all the shortcutting rubble of illegalities, immoralities and inhuman wantonness.

There is always a danger.

Now that I have come out of the safe cocoon, which unfortunately was too small to fetch me any morsels of survival to fly in the larger world of bigger realities, there is always the danger that I will be arrowed down while on my straight, uncurving, undodging flight by some nastily manoeuvring arrow or a smart predator.

I need to bring a dodging, dribbling, flickering, camouflaging misdemeanour to my flight in order to save myself from the circumstantial, planned barbs and slingshots.

So, just like a funny, half-furry, tabby-adorned nestling out of the nest for the first time, I flap my wings, trying to be airborne, my heart thumping with excitement, fear and suspicion.

The big world with its bigger things appears like a miraculous maze.

But the reality is that there are hawks and predators in wait on neighbouring branches.

More than my flagging sense of new adventure and circumstantial flip-flop, it is the chance sighting by a cruel-beaked predator which will decide my fate.

A few sudden attacks, unwarranted ones and spurts will further shake me out of the still-remaining strands from the past world, and if I am still lucky enough to survive the predator's clutches, more on account of my good luck than the dexterity of new, inexperienced wings, I will, in time to come, become an expert glider on the slippery, murky path of this real world.

These newborn flappings have seen me knocking at a few corporate doors for the post of content writer also.

There have been a few feeble, meekly spoken dialogues on the shaky stage of business as well for the last two years. 

More than my own struggle by flapping wings, it will be the circumstantial snares or the incidental rosebuds, brought about by the chancey wind of fate, that will decide the outcome of my new journey.

Despite its uncertainties, this new flight is worth trying.

One more thing needs mention here. It is of quite some importance.

During that period of hibernation, and even before that, I always found the very idea of doing anything except reading and writing intolerable.

I remained there in the dream world of classical French, Russian and English literature—that world of balmy happenings, full of pains, pleasures, pathos, agonies and ecstasies, their stories etched almost permanently on the ever-fleeting, cascadingly changing face of time.

As immortals of the literary world write immortal lines which inspire generations, that world which is contained inside the pages of a classical book is beyond the swiping broom of time.

Open a classical book and you travel back to the time fabulously drawn out for mere mortals like us to become a part of it, to feel the depth of those generous nature-human bonds, to feel the pulsating, throbbing, exciting pace, so slow to us, of life taking detours through the chancey snares of fate, and humans sharing those purely loveliest moments defined by innocent talk among first-time lovers—those summers, those winters, those rains, those snows; in fact, almost anything and everything so full of grace, even the villainy of those characters appearing tolerable in the classical mould.

So for a long time, and almost full-time during these three years while waiting for the never-to-happen justice and while managing these business affairs, whenever I could find time, I remained a brooding, though happily, shadow over those ageless words.

Once you get lost in the pleasantly curving maze of that fascinating world, you get addicted to it.

You find the world outside so boring, so ignorantly kicking for mere mundane survival.

It was a classic case of addiction, to be frank.

Those were the only moments of ecstasy for me.

This was the only real world for me.

To be able to create such a world myself on paper became the driving force of my life.

So at this period of time, the only choice worth trying for was to become a writer, and that too of the category of classical writers.

But for that, I need to earn some money.

That is why I am being drawn towards business, because I do know writers struggle a lot economically.

I remember Munshi Premchand's only picture that is available, and a great writer, despite having tried his best to wear the best of clothes, one can clearly see his shoe torn, his toe visible.

So as far as surviving as a writer is concerned, it's a pretty mountainous goal indeed, especially so given the ever-existent paucity of freshly coloured, multi-hued ideas delving deep into the beautiful chamber of pseudo-reality—the pliable moulds which can be used for creating beautiful landscapes, fascinating happenings, softly soufling emotions, agonizing mischances, multiplexes of luck, fate and destiny.

Even language-wise, I don't think that I even qualify for the lowest rung of the literary staircase.

But then what is wrong in having such a delicate, supple, harmless dream?

Doesn't anything other than writing seem an exercise in futility?

As far as HCS is concerned, I always took it as a poor crutch which would help me in future to give support to my lame literary legs.

Yet every powerful flight of fancy is destined to end in a landing on the earth. Either it is the final, forever rest resulting from the crash-landing, or the betterment of senses due to painful realizations born of fatigued wings, forcing us to come back to the rest-inviting clarion call of Mother Earth.

Exactly the same happened in my course and case.

I was a ripe and ready case for the arrows of futility to shoot me down.

That judicial thunderbolt brought me down, shaken to the bones, with the charred and burnt remains of my former ideas.

I looked around and was awestruck by the real meanness of the real world.

Now, as an inexperienced participant, I feel just like a month-old hatchling out of the nest.

In these grim proceedings, I find that these forcefully marching proceedings can definitely make you oblivious of most of what you stood for in the past.

I believe that, carried by the swift currents of new happenings, I will be pushed further and further from my coast. I hope I won't be lost. 

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.