dil ki baat...

dil ki baat...

dil ki baat...

common WEALTH

Commonwealth games are about to begin in a few days. And even before they begin, they are already turning out to be a revelation. And why not, they have gathered enough publicity for all wrong reasons. There are so many skeletons that have been let out of the cupboard and so much more that wait in the wings to be unleashed when we least expect them to.

But then let me look at it differently. What if I had been an official in charge of handling contracts for commonwealth games? What if I had been a politician having considerable clout over the games. What if I were to manage a major chunk of funds? What if I knew there was little or no chance of me getting caught. What if I knew that I was not alone in the crime, and that I had partners known and unknown scattered all over. What if I knew that even if I was caught, it would be extremely difficult to prove me guilty? What if I were aware that even if caught red handed I could always bribe my way through the system?  What if I knew that the Commonwealth games were a lifetime opportunity to create some wealth of my own? What if I knew it and also the same idea had been reinforced by others on me time and again that if didn’t do it, someone else definitely will.

What if I knew the Commonwealth games' wealth was provided for by the common man but could be exploited by anyone who had anything in 'common' with the Games? All you needed was to play well.

What if I were the one who had paid bribes for every certificate he had to obtain. What if the only lure I had to join a govt. job was not the salary but what topped it. What if lubricating my way through the system was normal for every bolt and nut and hinge was now rusted. What if the people managing these systems had forgotten to get it serviced time and again. What if the system itself had run out its utility and was a chunk of scrap metal which was forcing to operate the way we wanted it to. It made sounds, broke down, cracked but we would not leave it; we would not repair it; and yet night and day we would curse it.

If a decision is called for, the commonwealth games build up seems like a farce and all involved in the multiple multimillion scams are guilty. But we ignore the larger picture.

Let the games begin…..

Virtual Buddha

One day I was out in the country. Away from the hustle and bustle of the city I was providing my lungs the luxury of some fresh air. I was completely at leisure and feeling calm and serene. I thought this was another world. May be somebody in good faith had put me inside a time machine and I had travelled back in time by atleast a century. I looked as far as I could see, and I spotted not a single motor driven machine. I saw the birds flying and making various shapes as their flights one after the other went over me.

 I saw the water in the pond and it was clear; clear like the morning dew and in it was reflected the light of the evening sun- reddish. I saw the old banyan tree, with its ageing branches and the roots hanging from them. It said that timelessness was a quality to be understood and preserved. I walked up to it and now it was almost dark. But darkness was nothing but the absence of light. Soon there were hundreds and thousands of fireflies around me, and everything became illuminated. I saw wise old owl perched right on my shoulder as if whispering those words of wisdom in to my ears.

 I felt enlightened like the Buddha. This was my own Bodhi tree.

But then I walked, for stagnation was as good as resignation. So I walked across the fields in the moonlit night. I saw rows of huts and wells and small granaries. As dawn approached and the eastern sky started turning crimson, I saw bare-chested men sleeping in the open wearing nothing but loin clothes after a long vigil through the night to protect their crops. As morning descended, I washed at a spring and it was the sweetest water I ever drank.  I felt blessed and thanked God for everything he had provided mankind with. My hands folded, I kneeled down under the blue sky and my lips said a silent prayer. It was heavenly and like a dream. I never wanted to wake up.

Suddenly there were bright lights and then total darkness. I felt as if I had been sleeping. Then I remembered that voice. I had been there at the start instructing me to breathe easy and relax. Now it said:

“Abhishek, your balance of Rs. 1.5 lakh has come to an end, so we have had to terminate your ‘virtual bliss’ session abruptly. Kindly recharge to avail of our services.  To know about premium offers press 8, to listen to……… blah, blah and blah”

Hell!! I thought. This was just virtual reality. How could anything like that be actually true? And I walked out on the street where vehicles were zooming past me. Some of them skidded on the street while most were up in the air zooming past apartment windows, none of which were open. There was a lot of noise and even more billboards. Even the sidewalks carried advertisements that were changing. Promotional campaign was being played in the open air (not on a screen) at all places through the similar virtual reality techniques. It was difficult to tell real from virtual. Perhaps the more perfect they looked; the further they were from reality. And then I spotted my own public carrier as the device in my ear announced its arrival. As I was vacuum-sucked in to with maximum comfort, my thoughts took me again below that Bodhi tree. I felt foolish for not realizing that something as wonderful could only be virtual.

Hardly did I know then that hordes and hordes of our ancestors were laughing at us and crying at the same time.

Breaking News

    There was a time when Doordarshan used to air news twice a day. Then came in liberalization and cable television and there were dozens of channels. Competition set in big time. So the usual strategies of marketing had to be applied. Some became generalists while others specialized.

Some channels applied STP, and even Porter and Kotler would have been proud. Hence were born the hindi news channels.

Segmentation: Desperate housewives, Grumpy husbands, carefree teenagers, just about anybody who had time

Targeting: Catching attention when surfing channels

Positioning:  As live entertainment. Blurring boundaries between fact and fiction.

 So when there was no news, it could be created and manufactured. It became news when Dhoni sneezed. They suddenly found aliens. They rediscovered Ravan’s Lanka and his private jet 'pushpak'.

They suddenly knew about celebrity affairs even before it happened. They knew about actresses’ cat fights, their fantasies, and their diet plan, their puppy, their toilet floor tiles and even their lingerie.

They made heroes and villains at the drop of a hat. And of course make a celebrity of common women and men. As prince the child went for a toss in a trench, he came out victorious and a national celebrity. Suddenly it was a media trend. More and more children started falling in trenches to attain that elusive ‘princedom’.

Here I present some of the actual headlines ( of course collected from multiple online sources…. How I am jealous of their creative facilities) :

·      AMITABH BACHCHAN KO THAND LAGI (Big B catches cold)

·  Chajje  pe billi rani (cat on the terrace)

·    COMMISSIONER KA KUTTA MILA (commissioner’s dog found )

·      Sanjay Dutt ate only fruits in jail (as if we care)

·      Dhoni gets a new haircut. (getting a haircut seems to be more important than getting runs)

·      Junglee Chudel ne aurat ke baal khiche (wild female ghost pulls the hair of a woman....newer traits of ghosts)

·      Hatyara baap beti ke pyaar ka dushman (murderer daddy enemy of daughter’s love)

·      Aaj hogi Shivani ki shaadi (shivani marries today…. But who is she????)

·      KYA KEHTA HAI AAPKA BHAVISHYA…ABHI PHONE KIJIYE (dial to know your future…………..but they missed the terror strikes and the recession…howcum)

·        Kya prince gaddhe se nikal paayega (will prince be out of the hole)

·       World cup me jeet ke liye anushthan (religious ceremony to win the world cup)

·      They even predicted the end of ‘Kaliyug’

And there’s more to come…..

Kaliyug doomed to its end……and ..and There would be ‘Satyug’ again

And many more….Changez Khan and Timur to re-emerge from history books and attack….…….

And how a ghost steals your clothes (from where.. ...wardrobe, laundery or your body)

About secret chants and your pleas to goddesses …….Who the hell is Madan maharaj????  :)

And some more….. like they found this soul emerging from the earth…and a dwarf from the 

deep..'horror'  !!

So what is the learning……

Now after going through a couple of marketing courses last year and some niche courses this year…

You know that what you have just seen is revolutionary…

·      

• ·      It  brings forth the latent demand for useless news
• ·      Our sadist instincts and fears inside us (attacks of Timor and ‘Chudail’ stories)
• ·      Uses celebrities for free advertising (Amitabh, Dhoni) Cost cutting measures
• ·      Zero cost product (news out of nowhere)
• ·      Now-a –days has expanded to laughter shows and film music…. And yes…BABA RamDev

The result:

• ·      Happy housewives and saved marriages as TV kept them from fighting
• ·      New lease of life to religion…as the world was ending
• ·      Large revenue gain for all kinds of tantriks, bangali babas, astrologers as the culture catches up
• ·      Prospective cricketers taking good care of their mane
• ·      Any news is good news
• ·      Creativity is inversely proportional to the availability of quality news
• ·      News the best form of complete entertainment

Well that's breaking news .....

S/HE

The sun was setting. It was a red and orange sky. But soon black would take over and it would be dark. Dark for some hours before the sun returned from its sabbatical. Everyone needs a break. Well almost everyone. But not your heart, not your mind – no, they need to work all the time. Even when we are deep in slumber or dreaming wide eyed. For if they stopped, we would stop. So they work night and day without complaining for they know stopping once means stopping forever. Life would never give them a second chance. We must keep our hearts healthy and our brains sound. This was a good conclusion. But she felt she should hurry now for she was standing on the banks of Yamuna river and foul stench filled her lungs. Staying there for few more moments would anyway mean death irrespective of however hard the heart and the brain tried. Over the years the Yamuna had got reduced to a mere drain of black filth discarded by the city of Delhi. This black glowed in the red of the day’s last light. Very soon black would prevail.

She walked away from the bank. She walked to the road and hired a rickshaw.

“Where to?” – asked the driver.

“Connaught place. How much?” Better to negotiate the fair beforehand, she thought or Delhi rickshaw drivers could loot you.

“Seventy rupees and not a penny less.” 

“But I paid sixty just yesterday.” She had no idea of the fare anyway.

“I don’t deny that. You would have paid it, but it is getting dark. We don’t get customers on the return trip.” People could justify things easily.

Fair enough, she thought.

“OK just make it quick. I am in bit of a hurry.”

Delhi was as busy as always - lights and billboards and people. The air smelt better gradually and soon the stench was gone. Delhi air had definitely become better in recent years. They now used compressed natural gas or CNG as fuel. Every mode of public and private transport was running of CNG. There were more trees too. But today the stench remains in her nostrils. The streets, shops and landmarks zoomed past her as the scene got blurred and mixed. The auto rickshaw driver was playing a hit and groovy Bollywood number. At times the only emotion you feel is numbness and a strong desire to throw up.

Cool fresh air is what doctors always recommend. It does a lot good to you. She felt better when she got out of the rickshaw. Seventy rupees were paid in haste. She definitely looked as if in a great hurry. Showrooms zoomed past one after another. It was this apparel store and that one. Garments were picked up at random and then put down. Thus she walked and kept walking. There was the Mercedes showroom by which she stopped and watched for a minute or two, and then shifted her gaze away. Her cell phone was ringing but she cared the least about it. The message beeps interspersed with phone calls created some kind of stupid music and made fellow pedestrians stare, but oblivious to the accompanying cacophony she walked. The multiplex was showing five movies all at the same time. Movies changed as often as we changed sheets or at times relationships.

With time the streets got less crowded, then lonelier and then deserted. A girl walking alone at night attracts attention and much less of the good kind. And the state in which she was, attention was inevitable. The sound of metal catches her attention. She looks up to see a shutter coming down. She looks around to find fewer humans than were enough to get lost in; fewer shops to walk in and walk out. She could also spot the only rickshaw, enough to carry her away. The cold night air gushed past her. It moistened her eyes and then dried them too. She wasn’t wearing any warm clothes and didn’t even carry her stole, but felt nothing as the shivered. Outside one dark shape merged with another with steaks of light in between. Everything got mixed up. In gushes of cold air she could hardly find enough breath. Outside was like vacuum. Inside too was a vacuum.

The keys lay under the doormat safe as ever. The apartment looked exactly the same as she had left it. A bottle of vodka, uncapped and half empty waited in silence, as the air smelt of it. The cushions lay on the floor and there was a colony of ants all around it. She had spilled coke on them. Rest of the scene looked usual.

One could be happy in love, one could feel nice but they in love were hilarious. She was a happy-go-lucky kind of a girl who found the city apt for her exploits. She had been in to relationships, one too many. None lasted even for a month and she was fed up of jerks, all landing in her way but none suiting her palate. He was usually quiet and unusually talented. They had known each other for as long as they had known Delhi. They had occupied apartments opposite each other. She studied literature while he pursued fine arts. Your subjects always reflect in your persona. She was effervescent, moody and quirky with a clumsy sense of humor, while he was calm, patient and stable. What started as a few occasional good mornings gradually ended up in bewitching mornings after some steamy nights. You place or mine didn’t matter. It was like perfection and they set about improving it. Someone did develop a sense of humor and someone got responsible. He left her notes all over the place with funny clues which invariably revealed her either in charcoal or oil on canvas or water color. It looked as if he would fill the whole apartment with her only. She adored the walls in all her versatile moods. It was poetry sans words.

She discovered she could sleep sound and get up before it was ten. And that all men were not jerks, though vice-versa still remained true. It was all very nice. They went to movies like every couple but they also went to exhibitions and poetry readings. None understood the other’s craft much but none the less appreciated it. She had never felt so secure in anybody’s arms. And for him, she was his world.

It became better still with each passing day. They worried about nothing- not the future, not their families, nothing that could interrupt. It was fun and very enchanting, almost intoxicating. But for her, she seemed to start getting lost. She could not stand this perfection. Somehow it started getting boring for her. How could someone bind flowing water? A lioness in the city remained just that- a lioness, sedated for a while but intrinsically wild. She could feel it all fading away for no reason she could explain, but deep within she knew it would not last. He on the other hand was making the most of everything. Life for him had changed for better in so many ways. A loner had a girlfriend and the image of her beautiful face hardly let his feet fall on the ground. He was very happy oblivious of all that was churning in the mind of his beloved. He thought he could read her eyes, but the eyes that revealed could also conceal.

That was a wonderful evening. Wonderful for it was Friday, and the cushions seemed extra soft. In the dim light of the candles and the mild and sweet smelling flowers, the apartment looked pleasantly different. He looked at her in charcoal, oil on canvas and water color. She smiled at him in color and in the rich black of charcoal. He could feel her around him. In a few moments she would arrive. He waited in silence with her on the walls, in his heart. The dials moved with care and caution for the coming moments required vigil as time could sense what awaited it.

The door opened with the usual little creak. A pair of sandals walked in carrying in them weary legs; weary not of work but of contemplation. The eyes that tried hard to see reason in thought and action looked around at the dimly lit ambience as it met another gaze; a gaze of love and welcome and hands that prepared her drink – vodka with coke. One hand extended the drink while the other took it – one that was warm and the one that was cold. A pair of eyes that were once deep enough for him to sneak a peek in to her heart seemed frozen. He could sense it now. The smiles in charcoal, oil on canvas and watercolor looked different. He could  now feel what the dials knew. He felt betrayed and was mad at them, but realized that they were only adhering to her will. Now only a verbal sentence was awaited. He could feel the noose tightening, his feet struggling, eyes popping out and his tongue wriggling. The smiles in charcoal, oil on canvas and water color now looked evil and deathly. He felt cornered and helpless.

There was no reason, no complaints, nothing. There was no explanation and very few words. He knew it was over. How could someone walk out just like that? She did not love him anymore. He stood there like stone not knowing what to do. Those crowding around them with the vicious smiles offered no help. The black of charcoal as if darkened their souls and the love got colored in a way that it no longer remained love; just colorful moments of the past. Years down the line he would tell about her to his grandchildren - tales of a girl of unsurpassed beauty who stole his heart only to murder it later; false hopes of a life that was never to be. In her eyes he saw nothing; no sign of love that should have lasted years, rather forever. After standing there for what seemed like millennia, he finally left. A lifetime had just been cut short, a story terminated abruptly.

She sat in the dimly lit apartment soaking in someone’s love surrounded by her in charcoal, oil on canvas and water color as if she felt nothing. The glass kept getting filled and refilled till the wee hours of the morning. Then she walked out to merge with the crowd to forget herself, as if long ago she knew someone and now he was gone. 

Pappu passed

India as you know it wasn’t as it is forever. It wasn’t always a land of computer professionals and outsourcing. It was neither so competitive nor so fast. Everything went on at a mundane pace. There was time for that afternoon siesta and enough moments to stand and stare. Mobiles did not exist and telephones were rare. In fact you got a telephone ten years after you booked one. There was only one TV channel and it showed programs in slots like we now have water coming three times a day in cities. We loved our Sunday movies and the prime time serials. We also loved to stop our bicycles at the roadside and chat. We viewed those with automobiles in awe. One with a Bajaj scooter was a man of dignity. Watches were worth their jewels and had to be wound up to show the correct time. A majority of us loved our radios more than our books. We had helped India win few and lose many a cricket match on our radios. I still don’t understand why the newer and sleeker radios were called transistors. But one thing is still common. Even then we were die hard cricket fans. And we never lost hope.

It so happened as it happens with every kid, that after enjoying the blissful and carefree journey of my childhood, I suddenly grew up. Though growing up was not as sudden as its actual realization. I had spent my childhood watching movies of Amitabh Bachchan. His persona of an angry young man had taken over my mind. It was my belief that like my amusingly ever angry idol, I would be able to fight every difficulty with ease. Initially I would do it with some chic dialogues and if it didn’t work then some neat punches and well directed kicks would definitely do. It worked for even the lesser mortals like Jeetendra and Dharmendra. In case you are wondering who these guys are? Well then my dear reader you surely need to update. Jeetendra, Dharmendra, Rishi, Shashi and the man himself- Amitabh Bachchan are the purest and the bravest of men ever known. They have prevented many a crime, saved the honor of many a women, and arrived at crime scenes well before the police time and again. My faith in them strengthened with every movie they acted in. In fact these were the masters who taught me about dignity of labour, self respect, mother’s love, the value of sister’s ‘rakhi’ and so many other lessons. They gave me the firm belief that a hero never fails.

So life would be like a Bollywood movie. But wait. Wasn’t there something that was missing? Something kept this frame from being picture perfect or what we call - ‘perfect shot Bachchan Saab’. Yes I know what I was missing in this frame- ‘the leading lady’. I, being the hero of my film deserved the best lady, because heroes always got the best girls. It was another matter whether they deserved them or not. But the girls seemed to like everything about these ‘heroes’. If he was smart, she loved it. If he was foolish, it was his simplicity. These ladies would throw away their riches and ditch their family to be with the ‘hero’ in his modest hut while he earned only a meager salary. All heroes were ladies’ men to the hilt. Even the crooked girls with the villains were crazy about them. Yes the same girls who bared their legs and danced around poles. The villains thought the girls adored him, while the girls loved nothing but their poles. The affinity still shows in the videos. Anyways the crux of the matter is, I didn’t have my lady love and I still had to find her.

Now finding a girl for yourself and the one that fits your kind of a frame is not an easy task. Very few fitted the bill and hardly anyone in my knowledge was willing. I am admitting this fact now, but in those days the very thoughts of denial and rejection never crossed my mind. For ‘heroes’ got what they wanted and moreover I was a Bachchan fan. It was these very important thoughts that kept my mind occupied in that chilly winter, when one fine day the results of my graduation were declared. No there were no surprises. There were only bomb shells that waited with baited breath to burst on me. You would be thinking that I had failed or something and now life would change. You are partially right. Life did change.

Pappu Prasad, yes that is me, had become the only person from his family ever to obtain a graduation degree. I know you are wondering how this could be my name. I know this name is not hero like but you can only blame my parents for that. They were born in the era of Ashok Kumar and may be talkies were just coming of age in their times. What else could you expect? But we are not discussing my name right now, because I had just landed in the eye of a tornado. This again would surprise you. You would say that to be the first and only graduate from one’s family is an honor or something and that I should be proud of it. Yes I should have been proud, but anyone would have cried had he been in my situation. At least I held back tears.

But like everything else this too would warrant an explanation. You see I was the son of the proprietor of a famous sweetmeat shop. The shop was called ‘Dilkhush sweets’ or sweets that kept your heart happy. I had planned to fail in the exam and then daydream like I always did with nothing to worry about. I helped my father manage the shop cum restaurant, if you could call it one, during my spare hours when I wasn’t building castles in the air. In college there were hardly any classes as half the time one student group or the other called for a strike. The other half was occupied by the teaching staff’s strike for higher wages. Some years we had examinations, some years we didn’t have them. The results took and unusually long time to be declared as compared to today’s times.

Our results had been declared more than a year after the exams. Meanwhile I had even forgotten that a result was awaited. There were reasons for it. By hook and crook I had been able to scale the intermediate exams. During those exams twice I had been seriously warned by the invigilators as they suspected me copying. It was sheer luck that they never got hold of the multiple paper chits that I carried in my socks and under the cuffs of my shirt. But graduation was a different ballgame altogether. It was beyond me, and I had given up. I hardly wrote anything in my answer sheets. I had decided what my course of life was going to be. It would be nothing spectacular. Like all brats of the town my years would be spent in the front rows of the cinema, chatting on the corner of the road and cycling through the lanes of the town. Occasionally a new girl would be spotted and we would follow her and stare at her. No we weren’t bad guys as you might be thinking. The girls never knew we did this. And which guy doesn’t stare at a good looking girl? And of course I would help my father with his business and gradually years later when it was time to take up responsibilities, I would take it up all. I would also be married to a girl of my community and life would continue.  

You would say that I should be happy that I passed. It would open up so many opportunities. My father thought the same. I knew if it was academics I had to pursue, I had already lost it. I was dead sure that the result was a mistake. It was not very common. But it happened. Because of some clerical error, now I was doomed to leave behind my childhood friends, my beloved front rows, the dusty roads of the town and the hopes of finding the love of my life in my neighborhood. My father was confident that I would land up a government job. I could already hear the telephone ringing in his ears and his eyes glowed with a pride only seen in the eyes of Bajaj scooter owners. Yes I was being dispatched to the city.

I tried to reason with my overjoyed, over the moon father. My mother supported me meekly. You know how mothers are. She wanted me to stay. But it was futile. My father would not let go this wonderful opportunity to boast around and the rich dowry that a government job commanded slip away so easily. You would ask me what this hullaballoo about a government job is. So let me tell you that in those times all these multinationals had not yet come knocking at our doors outsourcing jobs because India offered cheap labour and good services. The private sector’s role in the generation of employment was negligible. So the only well paid and respectable jobs were the government jobs. Unlike today, even the word ‘babu’ or a clerk commanded some respect in those days.

The story now had taken a sharp turn. From being smooth the road was now bumpy and uncertain. The last few days in the town were spent cycling in the old lanes and catching up with all mates. I tried to capture the faces of all the beautiful lasses we had stared at since we were kids. By the time I returned they would probably be all married and gone. I watched a couple of movies in the front rows and whistled and hooted with my buddies. They were happy for me and still wondered how I cracked the exam when none of them could. The pass percentages had been one of the lowest this time. I never knew anything myself any better.

And so this was how I was packed off to the city with high hopes of my father. My mother too had high hopes but more than that it were her tears that were evident. And yes she had also sent me with the last home cooked meal that I would have on the train and had prepared for me some sweets that would last me a couple of weeks. As the train left I could feel the corners of my eyes getting wet. Gradually it started picking up speed and my parents and friends moved away from me as though a video cassette player was rewinding while the scene was being played on the TV.

Pebbles from the riverside

She was panting and panting heavily. Her clothes were soiled and she was all covered with dust. But that didn’t seem to worry her at all. She tugged at Michelle’s skirt.

“Hurry or they will kill her.”

“What? Whom?”

“They will kill the baby. The milk is already boiling.”

Michelle knew she had lost it. The Mission establishment was two kilometers from the village. But she had to go. She asked Ram Singh to take out the car. The milk was boiling. It would take some twenty minutes for the rituals and then the baby would be put inside a boiling pot of milk. It would then take only half a minute to die. The car would take about five minutes. She should be able to reach there. As she pondered over all this, she had actually reached there. Hastily they moved out of the car, the three of them- Michelle, Ram Singh and Radha. Radha was the girl who brought the news.

They rushed towards the ‘chabutara’, the platform built around the peepal tree. Peepal or the banyan fig, also called the sacred fig. The baby must have been brought here. They were right. There was a procession getting ready. Women were sobbing in their eyes. The men looked triumphant, their chests puffed with pride. The whole village had gathered. Ashes and half burnt logs were lurking in a corner. It looked like someone had poured water over the fire. There was still smoke rising from it.  It was a ceremony. The whole crowd had gathered. Women made a small gathering and were watching proceedings. The men as if got ready for war. Every man looked inspired enough to win a gallantry medal. And then they saw it. A small pitcher carried by a middle aged man. He shot a glance towards the women. For a moment a fleeting shadow of remorse passed across his face. But he was jubilant again.

Michelle had rightly calculated that they would take about twenty minutes for the rituals while she would reach there only in five minutes. What she forgot was that it took Radha twenty minutes to reach her. She was right initially to think that she had lost it. But  that did not matter anymore.

The villagers had been successful as they mostly were. She lost it as she mostly did.

She asked them to stop. They laughed at her. They nearly always did.

“The baby was stillborn.” One of the village headmen shouted.

“Sure it was. But why is it that only girls are stillborn?” Michelle would not give in today.

“Memsaab these are all writings of fate?” - said one.

Added another-“What has to happen will happen.”

This was the most usual explanation. Fate meant the word of God. Challenging the writings of fate meant going against His will.

“I demand an autopsy.” She retorted. “We will do an FIR.”

FIR or the ‘First information report’ that is filed at a police station to report that a crime has occurred. Without this the police don’t take action. Its another matter that usually in India the police doesn’t admit FIRs easily. It means added workload and who wants to work in a free country.

“Go ahead and do whatever you want to memsaab.  Do you really think they will file a report?”

The village headman had come near and now stood facing her. Some more men joined in, most of them were headmen or the ‘panch’.

“You think you will file the report and we will let you do it.”

“Police asks for proof and you have none. The current ‘thanedaar’ is from our ‘biradari’ and our village too.”

‘Thanedaar’ referred to the officer in charge at the police station. ‘Biradari’ referred to one’s clan. In most of India caste was the divisive factor but not in this village. The whole village belonged to one caste. They differentiated between themselves with their clans. What if a village had only one clan? What would they have done then?

So there was no question of a police case. The woman could now be shown glimpses of chauvinistic pride. After all the ‘thanedaar’ being from their clan meant he would never register an FIR.

“So madam, go ahead. Go to the police.”

They now surrounded her. She looked around. Ram Singh was still with her but very afraid. These were villages where the panchayat reigned supreme. Panchayat was the council elected by the people. But elections were held just because they had to be held. Members were elected unopposed. Never ever had a single vote been polled against them. Some had shown courage seeking to oppose them in elections. They lost and later each one of them had been lynched to death. Their bodies had been found hanging on trees, stuck in drains or rotting in fields.

“Don’t get in the way of a holy task. The sacrifice has been carried out. Now the Goddess will be satiated and I will have a son.”

This was Nameswar. It was his child that had been sacrificed today. The Goddess or the ‘kuldevi’ was the divine protector of his clan. There was no sadness in his eyes; eyes blinded by superstition.  

“This pitcher contains the offering to the Gods. It must be floated in the river. All must be done to please the kuldevi.”

Michelle could bear no more. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was pushed aside by someone. Somebody threatened Ram Singh. Somebody cursed. She lay on the ground bruised. Radha came running towards her. The procession marched on with the beating of drums. The crowd formed by women was mute. Michelle knew their hearts wept. Which mother could bear the murder of her own child in front of her eyes and that too by her own people? But the women of this village had come to terms with their destiny. More than two young girls were rare in a household, but Nameswar’s wife had borne her three daughters one after another. This was the fourth. The whole village thought Nameswar had sinned by not offering the girls to ‘kuldevi’. The birth of sons was auspicious but not daughters. How ironical it was- on one hand the villagers worshipped God in the female form, on the other they drowned their own newborn girls in boiling milk. It was not worship. It was savagery.

The pitcher contained the dead child. It would be put in the river after the village priest had offered prayers. All believed that it would please the ‘kuldevi’ and such sacrifices would keep the natural forces and disasters at bay. Who was to blame for such superstition and ignorance? The answer lay in finding who benefitted from it.

It was almost dark when Michelle opened her eyes. She had become unconscious in the village. Her forehead was bruised, but more than that it was her utter helplessness which made her sick. She was back in her small room and surrounded by some women, Radha and Ram Singh. Everyone looked sad. One woman was placing a wet cloth on her forehead. Other sat in muted silence. She slowly looked around and then sat up. Someone supported her on to a pillow. Radha looked at each one of them. They diverted their gaze to the floor. No one spoke. Not a word for what seemed like ages. The air became glum. The darkness of the moment was seeping inside their hearts and making it heavy. It choked their lungs. There was no light, and no one had prepared food. Then it was heard- a faint sob. The women looked up at each other in to one another’s eyes. They were all red and swollen. There was a sound or two more. Some more sobs and it started. The women wailed and cried helplessly. Away from the gaze of their husbands and village heads and priests they cried their hearts out; for what else could they do. They cried for all that was lost and that would be lost. They cried for their daughters whom they could never press against their bosom, could never feed them or play with them. Hardly any meals were cooked in the village that evening and there was hardly any light. After the public display of chauvinism and celebrations, the villagers were mourning in person.

Nameswar sat at the riverside – lost and quiet. His wife Bindiya, sick after labor was inconsolable. Radha their eldest daughter was sitting in a corner with her two little sisters. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp the three girls played with pebbles they had collected from the riverside.

Of silverscreen, an exam and the 'sentence'

     I had the pleasure of a few passive interactions with Mr Vishal Bharadwaj a number of times during my school days. He used to come to Mussooorie with a Bollywood team of cricketers which along with him included Tom Alter (captain), Robin Bhatt - a notable script writer and many other faces whose names I don't even remember. They came to Mussoorie to play matches with school teams of the various prestigious schools located there and the comprehensive list included Oak Grove (my alma-mater), Wynberg Allen, Woodstock and St. Georges. One of the reasons why they came here at that time and stopped coming later was that the son of their team's captain- Jimmy Alter was a student of Woodstock. He was in the same batch as I but in a different school. 


The schools of Mussoorie- its a whole different world out there.

     These celebrities coming on the school campus served a lot of good purpose. First of all we always had some exciting cricket to watch out for. The guys in the school team waited for this as this was one of the few matches watched by the girls' wing of the school. We had three wings situated on two hills. The co-ed junior wing and the senior boys' wing on one hill and the girls' hill on the other. You became senior once you reached class six. we also has splendid infrastructure that included a few tennis and basket ball courts, a squash court, volleyball grounds, some multipurpose grounds for hockey, cricket and football; apart from that a huge chunk of flat land covered with imported Australian grass (it was done in pre-independence days) which was use  for the annual sports' meet, annual day ( Founders' day) celebrations, inter school cricket and the fete(Fancy fair). All this in a sprawling, lush green 256 acre campus full of prehistorically grand oak trees and hence the name. In fact our news letter was called 'acorn'. It is the fruit of Oak tree.

     Now in our time we could never win against this Bollywood unit. Tom was a very good all rounder and a real utility player. but the strength of this team was Vishal. The music maestro and now a celebrated director and showman was an exceptional batsman. He had such a good temperament, knowing when to attack and when to defend. Till date he is credited with hitting the highest six that we ever saw on the grounds. Not only that, he was also a very good bowler, a spinner. i am not sure what kind, but from his action he looked like more of a wrist spinner. Not being a member of the school team, I had the luxury  of not worrying about results. This was one match we didn't mind losing. I remember having written in 'Acorn'( I was the editor) - " The amateurs succumb to the veterans yet again. May be next time...". But yes we guys were a pack of cheerleaders( the term has acquired an entirely new meaning with the advent of T-20 cricket). We just lead the way when cheering. The comments that we made and when we applauded a decent hit or an elegant piece of fielding definitely added to the atmosphere, which was nevertheless electric. This was one of the matches in which we did not take sides; I mean at least we applauded both teams.

      Vishal was very calm, and on more than one occasion won it for his team. At that time his single claim to fame was 'Maachis'- a film based on the terrorism in Punjab. I found him to be very soft spoken. I may have talked to him just once or twice about how I loved his music, or may have wished him good morning. But conversation was limited to that. I remember him being the 'guest of honour' at our annual hockey showpiece- 'the D.M.Swing memorial interschool hockey. He distributed the prizes and gave a very short speech, but it contained everything that ought to be there. Today when I see his films, I can never imagine that such a soft spoken person could carry in him such turbulence. It is like his movies give a vent to his real self. He is the epitome of adaptive excellence. Starting from his trilogy of Shakespearian adaptations, all of which were well disguised and Indianised to be as good as anything ever seen before in Indian cinema. Then there was 'Kameene' and now 'Ishqiya'. I am sure Vishal is a big fan of Tarantino. His movie have so much of Tarantino. But more than that it is the earthly appeal of his work and the way he sees crime and adultery. It may be that I like him because his movies show a lot of what goes on in eastern India esp. UP and Bihar. 

     I saw 'Isqiya' yesterday. Crime makes us laugh. Either we are indifferent to it or it becomes comical. That is the effect of the movie. I have read no reviews, but as usual 'typically Vishal' the music is good. Vidya Balan once agin establishes herself as a talent powerhouse. Nasir..ah! I love him. Nasir is immaculate and 'circuit' gives his best performance post 'circuit'. Vishal hasn't directed the movie but his signature is omnipresent. He always played a long innings. If he didn't bat you out, he would definitely bowl you out. You earned whatever you scored against him. Getting Vishal out 'mattered'. He was always his usual excellent self; others had to rise to match him. The same can be said of his movies. Unlike others, he expects the audience to rise to his level. And he has been so successful at doing this time and again.

      But there is more to life than just movies. Agreed 'dil to baccha hai ji...' is the current anthem, but there is life beyond 'Ishqiya'. A big slice of my life is my MBA, which I pursue with lesser indifference as compared to my B.E. in chemical engineering. Now in these courses 'profile' matters. It is  what appears on our CV; the cumulative sum of whatever we have achieved till date, more so professionally. Having never worked, my profile compared poorly to others. This made me apprehensive about my odds of landing myself with a plump job offer like most MBAs hope for. One day I decided to do something about it, and applied for the CFA (chartered financial analyst) exam. A lot of other batchmates applied too. It cost me a fortune applying but I was convinced of manifold returns. This exam is supposed to be a test to gauge your understanding of financial matters. Clearing all the three levels and having an experience of four years in a financial decision making role enables you to obtain a CFA charter which is a benchmark of professional excellence, and a gateway to 'all an MBA dreams of '. All this sounds so materialistic and cheap. 


Dreams crashed when success eluded me in the very first exam. 

       For quite some time I was in a state of shock. Because we make plans assuming everything would turn out as expected. So I suddenly was in a fix. We have a common syllabus for all students in the first year. But in 2nd year we are free to choose whatever we want to study from amongst an exhaustive range of choices. Earlier I had decided to take subjects in the financial domain but this setback has compelled me to do a rethink. Finance domain by large has the maximum number of job offers during the recruitment  season, but it is also considered to be difficult. Also somehow now I don't want to constrain myself because of the market forces. There are some subjects which I had left just because they were not what recruiters usually look for(supposedly). But one good that has come out of failing is that I have expanded my vision. Now choices would be made on the basis of affinity. There have been some downsides too but I have become less ambitious. Though many would not agree but it seems to be a good thing. We can never agree upon what success is even when considering only materialistic aspects.


        A professor said in class today- "If we choose a job we love, there would never be any work." God knows from where he picked it.


      Not that life around here is only about studies, exams and daydreaming. We do some real work too. Real work like organizing a mini-marathon which has over six thousand participants and over four lakh rupees as prize money.  Also when P.T. Usha along with her athletic school associate themselves with it, its bound be something significant. There were private sponsors too and some other Government agencies as well as non-Govt. organizations too joined in. No, I am not saying I was instrumental in making all this happen. But being a part of this institution I just feel happy sharing it. 


But  I did something else. I ran .... 


Before the actual race could begin, I was already running between the horns of a dilemma. It so happened that there were two races. One was the actual race meant for the brave-hearts who could bear the toil of a ten km run under the sun. There was also a three km showpiece for those having the desire but not the power. 
What followed was a keen battle between the heart and mind.


" You have run it before." said the heart, pumping more blood in to the brain so as to entice it to respond.


"When? I don't remember." The grey matter feigned ignorance.


"Come on! You did complete the race in Chandigarh; It was also ten kilometers."


"But I was very fit then." contested my brain.


The heart had a 'hearty' laugh.


"OK relatively fit. But that's not the point." Grey matter was ready to argue.


"Then what is the point? Tell me. Is it not that like every other day you want to stay awake till dawn doing nothing, and then miss breakfast before you rush to class?"


The mind was speechless, suddenly it couldn't 'think' of anything to say. The heart was now pumping ferociously and in this tussle I was the loser. The 'pressure' was increasing. Somehow my already 'blank' mind managed a feeble reply- "I don't do nothing. I watch really good movies. That time you too love it."


The heart wasn't ready  to relent. Pumping became ferocious. The brain, though it directed so much of me, had traditionally put the heart on auto-control mode. Who would have imagined that things would come to such a pass.


It was time for higher powers to intervene. Or else this write up wouldn't have been possible. How thankful I am to my sub-conscience. When matters had gone beyond control, my sub-conscience which more often than not remains dormant suddenly sprang in to action. By some secret protocol it gathered the viewpoints of both sides and delivered its sentence; but not before reprimanding both my vital organs.


A 'sentence'!!
What else do we call a ten km mini-marathon??