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??