Homage to the Martyrs

The professor with unconventional historical sense was fighting his mini battle of rights. He took it as his little movement against the exploiters. His pension and other funds on hold, he was waging a war in the court. It was just a week short of the first anniversary of his revolt, the fateful speech. So much tortured by the injustice to his righteous self by the stronger exploitative state force, he drew massive parallels between himself and the martyrs who had sacrificed their lives on this day, March 23. Having lost his enthusiasm for dust-raising speech, he now appeared all eager to vent out his angst in his journal. He firmly believed, and now more than ever, that those who really shed their blood for independence occupy just a few pages in the history books, and the ones who enjoyed the fruits of independence have manipulated history books. He was writing some more pages on behalf of the revolutionaries, thinking it would be handier for more convenient times under a more suitable government. His heartbeat up patriotically, he was jotting down: 

While you go full throttle on weekend enjoyments, take out a moment to remember three martyrs who on this day decades ago kissed the noose of death with such love and affection that no pining pair of lips can ever match the selfless compassion behind the lock. March 23, Sahid Divas of Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev! At each step we take liberty for granted. We see the signs of growth and prosperity for ourselves in all directions, we can go out and shout regarding the causes of our grudges, we can afford to be totally individualistic and still be counted as the best people around, we can afford to allow the greatest injustices right there before our eyes and still be counted as legally clean, we are even free to take socially permitted actions to cut down the freedom of our fellow citizen, we are free man! Free for the best and the worst. But they were not free. At each step they knew that their fates lay in outsiders' hands. Their spirit always felt the cold iron of fisticuffs. They knew one single step as a free man is far better than 100 miles travelled as a slave. Even if it meant cutting their lives in the nip, while their youth was blossoming like a spring rose. They had their sip of justice and freedom. For a larger cause they defied this strongest instinct of self-preservation. They found themselves defined by their identity as Indians, not just self-seeking individuals. They died for a vision. For freedom. Was it just from the colonial rule? No, it was a dream to set all individuals and Indians from the slaving chains inside, chains of narrow parochial means, of moral apathy, of criminal negligence of murderous assault on ones fellow human being, of blindness to self-evident acts of abuse, of saddest old eyes left on road looking at the Mercedes shooting away, of abused young women left on the roads to bear more and more criminalised behaviour by the people of the same species. As a homage to these martyrs, let us open our eyes and see the larger picture. At least be a bit more caring for the world around us. As free individuals we have to pay this nominal fee at least!   

Smashed Dreams

‘Mother India’s dreams have been smashed,’ many who took out time to look at the scenario in 2012 appeared to pay the famed hypothetical concern. This concern is fuelled by the petty individual-level disappointments fathering little-little grudge-born cynicism, the latter then delivering its grandchild, the I-know-it-all attitude. There were many frogs croaking in different voices in the muddied pond. Everybody was taking pot-shots at the Congress, the grand old, wrinkled century-plus outfit, well past its prime, and getting mistreatment by the revolting grandchildren like they snatch the crown of authority from the ageing heads.  

Somewhere the retired professor was jotting down the collective fury, crowning it with his individual misery. His farewell speech indeed had ruffled a few local-level feathers. It had reached the university Vice Chancellor’s ears. As all of us know, during the present state of the affairs, this august position is a subtle, academically justified means of the state government to have its political share in managing the academic institution as per its suitability. So even though the issue had not raised any ripples in the state capital a good 200 kilometres away, the VC had deemed it fit to take it politically at his own level, feeling politically responsible, lest it created troubles for him later. So the professor’s post-retirement leisure and peace had been disturbed a great deal. A mini racket had been busted. For years most of the staff had been claiming LTA (leave travel allowance), like they do in most of the departments, without travelling, just taking a tiny short-cut, assuming it to be almost a legal right now because it gets done so easily and also all others elsewhere taking it--theses little impregnations of commonly allowed illegalities, to deliver a baby of malpractice when the situation demanded. So the last year’s case had been put under enquiry, and his pension put on hold consequently. Afraid to speak loudly, the professor was jotting in his journal:  

It is the time to rethink. Rethink at the collective level. The time is ripe. Any educated Indian will accept that the Republic has been mismanaged terribly. Overflowing wealth in Swiss accounts bears testimony to this. If we compare the wealth amassed in dubious foreign accounts in independent India with the wealth drain during the colonial regime, I am afraid there might not be much difference between the two figures. The only consolation we can draw is that instead of the White man it is the Brown man who is doing the same profiteering chores. Indian judiciary is incapable of catching these big fish, it eats up the little ones, the helpless ones.  

Do you remember the guy from the The Broken Dream who now slogged in the private sector for his bread and butter? He worked the hardest he could, looked back many a time at the prestigious position he had been deprived of by the Congress government in Haryana, again went back to work even harder, only to be stalled by rampant office politics that allows the politically smarter ones to move on, leaving the apolitical hardworkers in the position where they belong, the real hardworking, subordinate donkeys. The anti-congress political analyst in him raised tirade many times:

The question arises: Whom to blame? Even with a pinch of salt, majority of us will agree that the kind of political ruling class and culture that emerged after Independence is more or less sired by the Congress. As the juggernaut that fetched us freedom, it occupied a holy, absolute and unquestionable status. Dreamy-eyed Indians don’t question the illogical circumstances developing in their lives. They still worship their deities. Congress was a deity. Unfortunately public service rarely comes out of the bum feeling the warmth of divinity perpetually carpeting the throne. So for terms after terms the masses paid homage to Devi Congress by voting in its favour. But the religious trusts are rarely managed well by the priests.

Sukh Ram, the Hindu with a scared soul, and thus a natural supporter of the BJP, was irritated by default with whatever the Congress did. Lynched by the so called ‘Muslim-appeasement policies’ of the first political family, he was prattling about the multi-generation political business in India:

The lesser genies are just the offshoots of the same colonial hangover like the absolute power, milking the public resources for enlarging self-interests, using public authority to cut down any wind of change, family raj, etc. When non-Congress politicians amass wealth to lay a solid footing for dynasty-raj in their territories, they are just taking a logical and justified clue from the rulebook of the first political family in the country. It is tragic for the democracy. When as a legislator you lose sight of the constitutional objectives and responsibilities of public service for the masses and instead focus on establishing your lineage on the throne, then all the golden lines that were framed with dreamy eyes in the lengthy sessions of the Constituent Assembly take a backseat and become strings to a farcical puppet show of money, power and vagabondage.

The Frog Fella with his senses jolted had turned a philosopher. Very surprisingly! He could have lost his senses as well, but it happened otherwise. He was hammering his judgements with intellectual solidity and envisioning darker days for the democracy:

Indian democracy is supposedly evolving healthily. But in reality it has been a malnutritioned and unhealthy baby. Where is the political choice at the national level? Literally every Indian is using bad words for the UPA government. There are not too many praises of the BJP either. What will people do? A fractured mandate is a real possibility. The regional dynasty-rule-lorn satraps will enjoy the hotchpotch poultice brimming up in Delhi. Over-fed Congressites will belch and burp and happily welcome a break after enjoying the public resources for a decade during its latest innings at amassing wealth. The Yuvraj will go sight-seeing, relaxed and visit Dalit homes and try to find out the taste in the famed dal-roti of India. The Maharani will give more focus to her Hindi lessons. The BJP is trying to see beyond Lal Krishna Advani. Its house in disarray, how much it can cash on popular angst is still in doubt. Maulana Mulayam plays his cards well and always sees the throne in Delhi a distinctly achievable target. Mayavati is happy to rally all the historically mistreated dalits behind her and make them believe that merely voting for a dalit and showing the index finger to upper-caste candidates means the Buddha-sent justice for them.

The Kejriwal ignited soul--his disillusionment now healing like a wound getting the coagulated crust towards getting a political skin)--our ageing unmarried social reformer from A Fistful of Goodness was shutting up many lesser noises to raise his toot of a mini-white-revolution:

The question is: How long the educated middle class in India will continue with its famed apathy and allow the present kind of ruling establishment to thrive at the cost of the common good. The popularity of Civil Society Movement provides a glimmer of hope. But how long can a movement survive and sustain while harping from the clean pedestal of morally clean apolitical carpet? How can you fight evil politicians without jumping into the political cauldron? It is like hunting a lion with sling-shots. For an effective fight it has to be inside the political cage only: a hand to hand real fight. But the moment they try to do it, even their supporters point fingers in admonishments that they appear just lesser dirty politicians in this avatar.

Among all this hoot and holler, the red-nosed guy from Friends and Foes, his time buddy safely in his pocket, was telling his co-passenger in a noisy, rickety state transport bus plying on a pot-holed road:  

The main problem lies with the kind of political machinery that has taken the driving seat in the wagon of Indian constitutionality. So the main fight is there only. As far as the Civil Society Movement is concerned, we can do them a favour--clap when they take mud-shots at the so-called starched khadi wears by fighting with as much political force as possible. In the looming directionless scenario, I think this is the need of the time. Who knows this extra hand will come with a pleasant surprise. So Ramdev, Anna Saheb & Company, the soon-to-retire General and many others should be encouraged to draw as much politics into their movement as possible. At least politics played by educated middle class will be better than the one played by people like the buffoon from Bihar.

A Sneezy Snippet from the Buffalo Land

He comes from the Jat stock. The arms working quicker than the brain, the culture being the agriculture, the government services generally meaning the police and the military—well these are some of the fundamental traits of the Jats. Oh just forgot the Haryanvi dialect that literally sums up the Jat attitude of being on top of this world in wisdom, knowledge, strength, stamina, guts, looks, sacrifice, etc., etc. There is one more historical element that qualifies as the defining element in the proud definition of being a Jat: love for the water buffaloes. Even a historian during the time of Alexander the Great notified that ‘these (Jats) people have a special affection for water buffaloes’. The Jat does not feel the pinch when some bruised city dweller dubs him as a ‘buffalo mind’ from the ‘buffalo land’. That’s true at least literally. Now coming to the time-tested fact of these people’s love for the water buffaloes! Sometimes back his mother sold her buffalo to a tough farmer. Now this one had been brought up by his mom like it was her daughter. Pampered to the hilt I tell you. But then taking care of this pampered one, whose requirements were seriously reaching human levels, was proving to be too tiresome for her. So she was forced to sell the spoilt animal. The buyer, a rough and rowdy farmer, was famous as the number one wife-beater in the village. While handing over the rope to this work brute, his teary-eyed mother said, ‘Son, hope you won’t mistreat this gudiya of mine!' 'I never beat buffaloes.....', prompt came the reply, 'I just.....', he stopped a bit embarrassed. He just stopped himself from saying that he beat his wife only. Well that shows the Jat’s respect for the animal. You can say it is more or less equal to their womenfolk. The menfolk are male buffaloes anyway!

A Feeble Smile and a Tiny Ray

What if the roomful of miseries appear immovable at the moment? Understood that the room having thick walls is beyond your might to shift and change. You cannot push its walls to change its shape and change the interiors. You might even be incapable of removing the darkness inside having lost the light of enthusiasm, the sunrays of your will power, and the brightness of your passion. It is not necessary to be a revolutionary fighter all the time. You can very well sit in a still darker corner of the room full of your own miseries, most of them invisible to the uncaring world outside. But then sitting in a dead dark corner is being dead and we have no business to be dead before we actually die. Temporary shelter in the lap of a death-like stale corner might be of some utility, but not more than allowing the tears and anguish of self-pity and helplessness to flow out through the feeling of being a victim, an unjustified one.

This little puss out of your system; after this it has no purpose. A little bit of crying after being overpowered by the feeling of victimization helps. Crying helps in letting out salt from your injuries. It also clears the eyes. After the watery outpour you are supposed to see better and clearer. You have been on the hospital bed, taking a bit of rest for the diseased, afflicted self, now you are supposed to step down, wear your slippers and walk away to claim what you lost while you were forced to take a rest.

Looking beyond your dark corner in the dark room with immoveable walls, you can at least open the windows that either you or the situational winds have banged shut. Do not move walls, do not even try to bang against the locked door, just open the openable window to allow a bit of light, to expose yourself to the fine traces of light that will surely burn the fire in you again, that will definitely ignite your passion, enthusiasm and will power lying dormant. If you cannot lift your roomful of miseries on your head and throw it miles away, you can surely lift little-little signs of your worth and capabilities lying around your feet in the dark and look at these against the light from the just-opened little window. These are the imperishable seeds, these cannot die, and will surely grow into luxuriant harvest, provided you give them the moisture of you feeble self during the re-germination.

You might not be able to laugh to the content of your full self, but you can smile at the little world outside your tiny peeping window. Even the slightest semblance of smile will do. These are the flower buds that will surely blossom into full laughing flowers. Your hands might not be still ready to go agog and start breaking the mightiest boulders around. But you can raise your hands and wave gently at the world outside, it will wave back with grace and acknowledgement, giving back its share with kindest interest. You might not be still ready for the marathon, but you can shuffle your feet and count your steps and listen to your slow pace between the walls. It will prepare you for the longest journey that you might take. It will be a prelude to your first step on the winnable journey that you will definitely take.

Close your eyes and with an open heart accept your share in making things dark in the room. Nobody is perfect and we just have the bigger or smaller share in our miseries. We cannot change the universe, but we can definitely bring about a little reformation in the self. You might not be able to overhaul your personal self, but you can definitely change tiny bits of life in general. It will blow up the wrong shades, leaving you a totally different person. Close your eyes again and think of your positives, your advantages, your good qualities. There will be many I’m sure. Look around with gentle look, these must be somewhere around. You will surely spot them. Smile at the little basketful of your qualities. These are your weapons to help you win through the battles and wars. A mere acknowledgement of their existence will do at this stage. Just caress your qualities and look at these with a proud smile. These and many little things will help you. Forget about bigger things. These little seeds will grow into a bigger harvest. Just gather these seeds, hold them, they will take you back to the bigger world of baleful of roles, responsibilities, praise and achievements.    

The Shooting Pangs of the Hunger Missile in Her Stomach

 

April heat was building up in Delhi. The year 2012 was hesitatingly moving towards the peak of summers in June, the hot cauldron boiling with its hot ingredients of political posturing and civil society movement. But then Indians do have some achievements to their credit. The missile had lit up the sky with a blinding blizzard of hope. Its terrible glint and glitter made everybody momentarily blind and oblivious to the dark miseries sprawled around. The missile had blazoned off yesterday, creating much of acclaim and war-time capabilities against Pakistan and now with this missile against China, the distant targets reaching well to the threshold of Beijing. The smaller targets were but distinctly visible this next day.

She is homeless and as dirty as can be imagined for a human being. Her old figure is busy picking things from the newspaper in front of her. She is eating like a monkey picks things in front of it, with a peculiar unconcerned intent. This is afternoon and the morning newspaper’s glory and utility is already gone. She picked it up from the sidewalk. The glorious front page, sprawled in front of her and now doing its second phase of duty like it does in India, first as a news-carrier and second as almost a utensil. The catchy headline seems to have fetched her extra luck. There are many eatables and coins in front of her, the newspapered glory being almost covered. She is sorting things out, putting things in her raggish cloth bag, soiled beyond imagination. She is eating in between as well. She is now done with her sorting and cleaning of the offerings made to her as the witchy Goddesses of hunger. She sees the missile with a fiery blaze in tow, rising high to the skies. There are still more beggarly offering around the picture on the paper. These are the things that even a homeless beggar cannot take. So with irritation she just crumples up the missile and the remnants in a bunch and gets up to walk to a tiny hovel that she has grabbed to spend the nights. 

Douse First the Agni in Hungry Abdomens   

Missiles are good. They might never be used. But their deterrence factor is acceptable. So all the best for the launch of Agni-V! But before we think of confidently hitting targets beyond 5000 kilometres, it is better if we spot the targets tugging at our shirts from all directions. This is the country where millions go hungry every day. Tragically, the FCI godowns are yearlong overfed with millions of surplus wheat. This wheat rots in rain under the open skies. The governmental machinery finds it impossible even to distribute it. Damn it, what type of economy is this! Or the government finds even the weather elements and invisible bacteria as equal citizens of this country and keeps so much of wheat to be destroyed by these. It is fine to shoot majestic rockets to make your presence felt across the globe, but it is also human to be true to your citizens by at least ensuring two meals a day to them. Moving ahead onto the next stage of the ICBM technology will require billions of dollars and technical expertise. But simply distributing the rottening grains in the FCI shelters does not require the inputs of that order. It is a simple act driven by genuine concern for your fellow human beings. This extra farm produce can be made a productive part of our campaign against hunger and poverty. If the government cannot do even that, it is better to throw it to stray cows and pigs. It will serve some purpose of dousing the fire in some abdomen. Animal or human does not matter, because millions of humans in this great country enjoy the same status as the stray cattle. They lie, walk, feed, defecate, procreate and die on the roadsides.