Boisterous

Boisterous! I looked at them, and thought.

I was trying to enjoy my small meal of mushroom soup, salad, baked potato and fried chicken as they had entered the restaurant. The captain had showed them a table that was close to where I sat. Eager to occupy the closest chair, as only little girls can do, they had sat with a sense of victory and looked around. Only, they were no little girls. They were definitely on the wrong side of fifty. All four of them. If they had seen me, and they could not have missed me, they had taken no notice of me. They had slung their coats and bags over the chairs with urgency, cracked some joke, and laughed. Midway, someone among them had passed a comment, resulting in eruption of bigger laughter. And, before this fresh wave of laughter could die down, another storm of laugher had risen from the aged throats. Shaking all over, they were controlling themselves with difficulty, wiping tears from their cheeks and continuing to laugh like mad.

I munched. Looked at the wall in front. And then my eyes drifted towards them. I could not be accused of staring. After all, the world appeared to have ceased to exist for them. Only four of them existed. No one else mattered.

Their laughter subsided, and they looked at the menu in amusement. It appeared to be full of jokes. They read the entries aloud, and laughed. I looked at them carefully. Perhaps they were from the working class. Most probably, they were janitors. Their black skin was dull. Their hands were rough. They wore little, and cheap, jewellery. Their clothes were nothing extraordinary.

They passed the menu around. Only the best appeared to be acceptable to them. And they wanted to be doubly sure before ordering. The captain entered the scene again, explaining each entry in detail, while the ladies giggled and playfully slapped each-other.

The first course arrived. Colourful liquid in tall glasses, with straws of unique shapes. Each lady had offered a different drink. They looked at the drink in front of them, looked at other drinks on the table, looked around, and put their lips eagerly to the straw. Happiness oozed out of them as they drew their first, rather long, sip. Their eyes became brighter. Another sip, and some exclamation. A third sip, and the burst of laughter hit the ceiling. The talk became more animated. The decibel level rose further.

It was time to order the next course. They consulted the menu. This time, more on the right side, where the rates were printed. The tone assumed proportions of conspiratorial whisper. They agreed and disagreed. Bags were opened, wallets were retrieved, and cash was carefully counted. Some quick calculation followed, and there was agreement again. The next course was ordered.

My dinner was over. And what a fantastic dinner it had turned out to be! I had never seen a happier bunch of grown ups. I smiled, casting a last look at them. They did not bother to look at me. They were happy eating, talking, and joking. It did not matter to these women if they had a moustache, if their shoes were not shining, or if they reeked of poverty. It was their day, and they were relishing it to the full.

Boisterous? Who cares?

Two Sides of the Same Coin

When you walk out of an airport after flying continuously for more than fifteen hours; you do not exactly look forward to a bus that does not arrive at the appointed hour and promised place. Or, to a phone that fails to resuscitate. Or, to rapidly falling daylight. Or, to find other passengers finding definite means to travel, leaving you to run to every other bus and realise that it does not go to your destination.

All these occurred together as I walked out of Terminal 5 at the Chicago airport. I had been travelling for more than 39 hours! I had started from Bangalore at 1:22 PM on Saturday, to catch the 12:30 AM American Airlines flight departing from Delhi on Sunday. The intended flight got cancelled, and I was accommodated on a later flight to Delhi. At Delhi, the midnight flight got delayed by over twelve hours, and departed only in the afternoon the next day.

A typical day it was proving to be. It was already my birthday in India. It was going to be my birthday in USA in another few hours. A birthday to remember, for sure!

I stood next to the Omega bus sign, holding on to two bags and shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Omega is the last letter in the Greek alphabet. The letter for the last bus which had already gone. The sign advised calling up a certain number. I had a cell phone. I punched the code, read with glee the message, “CODE ACCEPTED”, only to realise moments later that the phone failed to catch any signal. It could as well have been a toy. My watch read seven in the evening. The place was getting deserted. And, none of the buses went to Hyde Park, sorry!

I walked to the taxi stand. It would be about $50 to the Ramada by cab, informed the burly attendant. There goes one third of my daily allowance, I sighed, and signalled the taxi. It was a well maintained vehicle, and I was happy within the security of the automobile.

“You speak like an Indian”, remarked the driver. I told him that I not only spoke like an Indian, I was actually an Indian.

“Where are you coming from?”, came the next question. I replied that I had disembarked from a Delhi flight Delhi, had failed to get the bus, and so was travelling in the taxi.

It was about an hour long drive. The conversation had to continue. The driver informed that he hailed from Islamabad. He came to USA several years ago, initially drove a taxi in Alabama, and for the last four years was settled with family in Chicago.

“A very good place. There is no discrimination. Most of the people you find on the streets of Chicago are immigrants”, he informed. America began as a country of the immigrants, I thought, but did not say anything.

We talked about the Mahatma Gandhi Road in Chicago, places where one could get good Indian food, law and order, blah blah blah. The driver pointed towards Hancock towers on the skyline, McCormick Place, etc., etc., till we finally reached the hotel. The fare was $45, the tip rounded it off to $50, and thus walked I into the hotel at 8 in the evening.

Another day I walked to the taxi stand next to the hotel. The driver was an African. Not the overweight sort, not even the lean and mean types, but a rather frail looking man.

“Will you take me to the Hilton on South Michigan Avenue?”, I asked.

“Yes, I will take you to the Hilton on South Michigan Avenue”, responded the driver.

A very detailed reply, almost like one from the suspense movies!

It was a fifteen minute drive to the Hilton. I paid the fare and gave the tip, and got off the taxi.

The taxi driver on the return trip was one Mr Patel from Mumbai. A postgraduate, he claimed to have faced rather rough weather in USA..

“America ki sarkar jhoothi hai. Sirf dikhawa karti hai. Isko sirf apna matlab nikalna aata hai (The Amercian government is not straight forward. It indulges in pretensions. It only knows how to drive its selfish motives)”, a rather disgruntled Mr Patel ejaculated.

Mr Patel claimed that he was cut for a much better job, but never got the opportunity. There was a lot of discrimination in USA, he said.

“Not only foreigners – this government forgets about its own people also”, informed Mr Patel.

He went off recounting an experience.

It was a lean day. A beggar signalled Mr Patel’s taxi. Obviously, there was no possibility of the beggar being able to pay for the trip. However, it was a lean day. Mr Patel stopped the taxi. The beggar claimed that he was a war veteran, who had to go to a certain office to collect his pension cheque. He assured Mr Patel that the cheque would be encashed within five minutes, and he would have about $1200 to burn. Mr Patel, took a chance, and found the claim to be true. The taxi fare came to $40, but the war veteran paid $100, $60 being the tip! The rest of the money would go on clothes, shoes, party and prostitutes, the war veteran informed. By the end of the month, he would again return to the state of being a beggar!

“Why can’t this government take care of people who fought for it?”, wondered Mr Patel.

Well, if one is bent upon ruining oneself, what can the government do, I thought and got down.

As I walked rather lost on State Street in Chicago one day, confident that bus number 6 would never arrive, I hunted for a taxi. Here he was, with a beard but no moustache, mumbling his prayers. I gave him address, and we started. He was from Pakistan. Karachi, to be precise.

“Zindagi tough hai, lekin Pakistan se to bahut behtar hai (life here is tough, but is much better than that in Pakistan)”, he claimed.

I talked about the repeated failure of Zamhuriyat (democracy). He agreed. I talked about the famous Mr 10% of Pakistan. He said Mr 10% had now become almost Mr 100%. We both agreed that Mia Musharraff was much better than the present rulers. He felt that India was much much better. I too felt the same.

Surprisingly, I never felt any hatred towards any of the Pakistani drivers. No feeling of discomfort, either. They were as human as I was. Two sides of the same coin. I actually felt more comfortable with them than I did with the African drivers!

Lovers of Doom

Our school, sometimes, held unusual assemblies. Such assemblies were called abruptly; usually during the mid of a period. Students used to throw their books in happiness and run to the assembly area to listen to the principal. For, such assemblies were held to announce the demise of some important person and to declare the closure of the school for the rest of the day after observance of silence for two minutes in the memory of the departed soul. The delight at the sudden revelation that one could go back home early and get rid of the boring lectures was too great to be suppressed. Students giggled with happiness while observing the silence; ending the ritual with a dash to the class room to fetch their bags and run towards home.

That happened when I was a child. Death those days bore hardly any significance other than being a harbinger of the welcome news of the sudden termination of the misery of being in the school, albeit only for part of a day.

Matured people are expected to react differently to death. Or, to any failure, for that matter. But we don’t. We rejoice at the failure of others. We take pride in predicting failures. “Take my word -- India will never win this tournament!”, is an oft heard declaration. When a rocket launched by India fails, the ‘Mr Know It Alls’ are fast to comment, “What else did you expect from India?” Near misses of aeroplanes over the Indian sky are reported with great enthusiasm, the agency never forgetting to add how many people would have died in case the collision had not been averted.

Today’s newspaper carries the picture of a young girl sentenced to life imprisonment. Just behind the girl walks a happy man, eager to have his face captured in the frame. We are happy when others fail or perish. We are very reluctant to acknowledge the success of others. For example, the same newspaper which never fails to report incidents of murder and rape, never reported the extraordinary achievement of Dr Tathagat Avatar Tulsi.

Tulsi did his high school at 9, BSc at 10, and MSc at 12. Jealously raised its ugly head, and Tulsi was accused on an international forum of memorising heavy sounding scientific terms and vomiting them out without understanding a single word. The boy went into a shell temporarily. In 2003, the prestigious Time magazine named him among the world's seven most gifted youngsters. Tulsi, when 21, completed his doctorate in Quantum Computing from the Indian Institute of Science. He turned down offers from Waterloo University in Canada and the Indian Institute of Science Education & Research (IISER), Bhopal, to become the youngest faculty member of the Indian Institute of Technology at Powai in Mumbai at the age of 22. He is set to join as an assistant professor in the Department of Physics from next week.

The story of Tulsi did not appear on the front page. Not on the back page. Nowhere. News of Tulsi does not sell. News of death and failure sells.

Are we the lovers of doom only?

The Mixed Mandate

About two hundred persons perished in the rail sabotage yesterday at West Midnapore. Earlier this month, several innocents died in violence at Dantewada. Last month 75 CRPF men succumbed to an attack in the same region. The government admits its inability to do much because of the “mixed mandate”.
One wonders if one would ever have a stronger mandate to take effective action. The government comprises of representatives who win elections on the basis of votes supposedly cast by citizens under their free will. Several people don’t exercise their franchise. Those, who do, may not always act under the so called “free will”. Money power, muscle power, caste considerations, peer pressure, and several other factors influence the “will” of the voters. Candidates spend a fortune and toil hard before elections. If the purpose were only to serve people, it could be achieved more effectively and without bearing so many hardships. The purpose of getting elected is evidently entirely different. The rewards of the office are so attractive, that people try to get elected every time the elections are held.
Under such circumstances, how can elected representatives speak against their own electorate? And why should they allow anyone to take action against their electorate? Doing that would mean bidding a permanent goodbye to their goldmine. So, whether it is a ‘khap’ or a ‘dalit’ or a ‘marathi manus’ or a ‘maoist’ cause, the policy makers of our nation continue to wag their tails, bowing before selfish sectarian interests, and making lame excuses before the rest.
The common man is accused of inertness. It is said that one gets the government one deserves. The reality is different. Common man is so occupied to make both ends meet, arrange education for children, run around doctors, and stand in different queues, that he cannot even dream of contesting an election. All that he dreams of is about leading a peaceful life. Life, that includes happy reunions with relatives and friends. Life that involves getting down peacefully from a bus or a second class train compartment, and hugging the dear ones waiting to receive him.
Unfortunately, all that the dear ones receive today are severed body parts, coffins, and empty promises. But they should not complain. They should understand that the mandate before the government is mixed. And wait for their turn to die in a similar fashion.

We Don’t Care Two Hoots

A man joined a Mahatma Gandhi organisation. One day Mahatma Gandhi visited the organisation and the man found himself standing face to face with Bapu. Mahatma Gandhi was a world famous personality. This man was just an ordinary person. Nervous, he tried to introduce himself. Gandhi patted his shoulder and said with warmth, “Yes, I know you. You are such-and-such person’s son!”

The man stood stunned. It was true that he, along with his father, had met Mahatma Gandhi earlier; but that happened only once, and that too years ago. It was remarkable that Gandhi not only recognised the man even after the lapse of so many years, but also remembered his father’s name.

Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore once saw two children walking with their hands on each-other’s shoulder. He found it overwhelming, and tears started flowing from his eyes.

An interpreter sat beside Mrs Indira Gandhi during a long discussion. As the discussion was over and everybody started departing, Mrs Gandhi turned and said, “The interpreter did not have anything to eat. Please ensure that she is served well.”

Mohammed Rafi used to thank every accompanist after a recording, while most other singers just walked out in a hurry to catch their next recording.

A young lady employee stood alone at night in front of the Tata Centre in Mumbai. She was waiting for her husband. To her amazement, she found JRD Tata walk up to her. JRD gave her company till her husband arrived. He did not want the lady to stand alone in the night.

These people were perhaps more busy than we are. They perhaps had many more important issues to tackle than we have. Time was perhaps more in short supply for them than it is for us. Yet, they behaved far better than an average person does.

What makes us ignore the sentiments of others? Why is it a matter of pride for us to snub those who have less money, yield less power, or are physically less attractive? Why does a minister not think twice before ordering his bodyguards to open fire on citizens trying to air their grievance? Why does a boss fail to notice that his subordinate has wished him? Why does a man find nothing wrong to call his younger siblings or wife names?

The situation changes dramatically the moment the so-far-weakling acquires a position of power. Voice becomes laced with honey. Nothing but respect oozes out of the body language. An ear-to-ear smile is flashed at the slightest opportunity. People who were nasty lose count of your good qualities.

Man, how can you change so much? Neither your hatred, nor your love is true. You don’t care two hoots for anyone! I never forget these lines from a decades old Sahir nazm:

Har Ik Jism Ghayal, Har Ik Rooh Pyasi,
Nigahon Mein Uljhan, Dilon Mein Udasi,
Yeh Duniya Hai? Ya Alam-e-badhawasi?

Jahan Ik Khilona Hai Insan Ki Hasti,
Yeh Basti Hai Murdaparaston Ki Basti,
Yahan Par Ke Jeevan Se Hai Maut Sasti!

Jawani Bhatakti Hain Badkar Ban Kar,
Jawan Jism Sajte Hain Bazar Ban Kar,
Yahan Pyar Hota Hai Vyapar Ban Kar!

Yeh Duniya Jahan Admi Kuchh Nahin Hai,
Wafa Kuchh Nahin, Dosti Kuchh Nahin Hai,
Yahan Pyar Ki Kadra Hi Kuchh Nahin Hai!

The Beast within Us

Mirza Ghalib wrote, “Dil Hi To Hai, Na Sangokhisht, Dard Se Bhar Na Aaye Kyon?” Ghalib felt that the human heart was full of pathos, unlike an insensitive stone brick structure.

I wonder whether Ghalib was right.

Two days ago Times Now repeatedly ran a news clip. A man was being beaten mercilessly at the Vadodara station. The man, a ticket checker, was bleeding profusely, crying for help and trying to protect himself with his bare arms. Cut to the shot of another man, who was very happily running towards the ticket checker for another assault. Cut to the shot of the ticket checker being hit on the head with a boulder, streams of blood turning his white shirt to a deep crimson. Cut to the shot of onlookers who appeared to be enjoying the agony of the hapless ticket checker.

Few years ago, I noticed a crowd of about fifty people curiously looking in a particular direction at the Kanpur railway junction. The centre of attraction was a lunatic walking on the roof of a railway bogie. The naked man was precariously close to the high tension wires that power the electric locomotives. After striding confidently for a few minutes, the man stopped and stretched his limbs. His hands touched the wire, there was a deep thud, and the man collapsed. If the man was not dead, he was surely unconscious with the near lethal dose of high voltage electric current. Worse, he had started sliding down from the curved roof. By this time some police jawans had arrived. They waited for the body to fall from a height of four metres. And it did fall eventually. The naked man soon lay sprawled between two railway tracks. The two jawans swung into action. Holding a hand each of the dying man, they made him stand, climbed over the platform, and made him walk, perhaps right up to the thana. The crowd found the spectacle of a naked man walking between two uniformed policemen funny, breaking into laughter, hooting and clapping.

I am still unable to forget the footage of an injured man being lifted through his broken arm during the Mandal agitation about twenty years ago. The man died within minutes.

Why does man treat man in such a despicable way? What makes us relish the discomfort of others? It it true that under the garb of civilisation hides a beast within us, waiting to be released at the slightest opportunity?

The ‘Interest’

It was the ‘haldi’ ceremony of Anupam. I wore a yellow dhoti and a kurta with a shawl draped over my left shoulder. Rani and I sat next to the priest. The priest was young. An MA in Sanskrit, he had resigned as lecturer in a college to don the role of a priest. His children did not like the small town where he lived during his stint as a lecturer. The low salary was another turn off, he said.

Talkative, the priest explained why certain things were performed during the puja, and also clarified the correct manner of doing them to gain desired results. A pleasant person, the priest cracked harmless jokes at appropriate moments.

An important ritual in the ceremony involved recalling dead relatives. The priest explained the process, and then said something funny. He said, “Man is more interested in his grandchildren, than in his own children. His own children are the principal amount, while the grandchildren are the interest accrued! The lender is always interested more in the interest than in the principal amount.”

The simile sounded absurd to me. I smiled, but rejected it almost instantaneously. My paternal grandfather met me only on two or three occasions, that too for very brief periods of time, and never displayed affection. He never took me around, played with me, or even talked to me beyond the one-liner, “Do you recognise me?”

My maternal grandfather saw me a little more, but he, too, was more interested in my younger cousins and my elder sister. Perhaps we never talked, though I remember touching his feet and he saying “thak, thak” every time we visited Nanaji’s place.

Daddy, that way, was better. I was aware of some correspondence between him and Anupam. Anupam met him last about eight years ago. Daddy enquired about Anupam whenever we spoke over the telephone. However, he forthrightly rejected the idea of attending Anupam’s wedding, citing his poor health! About 80 years of age, he suffers from arthritis. Walking on uneven ground causes pain to him. His knees hurt. He is content lying down on a sofa and watching television most of the time. When he stands, his back bends within seconds. He has partial vision in one eye. And, he appears to be hard of hearing. He lives thousands of kilometres away from all his children, in a house that my mother and he built together in a suburb of Patna. Mummy stayed in that house only on the ‘grihapravesha’ night. Her premature death (read blog 'Strange but True'), daddy’s premature retirement, and his movement to his own house were over in a matter of about two years. Daddy lives there away from his real children, running his mission of transforming the lives of the underprivileged. He appears to be content meeting their requirements, and has so far refused all invitations to live with us.

Rani’s father, Papa, is no more. I do not remember any exchange of affection between him and my son. Papa’s communication with Anupam revolved around securing the main gate at night, shutting down the water pump, operating the valve on the water pipe, and bringing something from the market. If the two of them ever laughed together, I missed that totally.

So, all that proclamation about grandchildren being more sought after than own children was nothing but humbug for me.

A day after the wedding we travelled to daddy’s place to seek his blessings. The train started late by about ten hours, and by the time it reached the destination it was about twelve hours behind schedule. Rather than arriving at dawn, we stood in front of the house in the evening! Daddy and the children had gathered together to welcome the new bride. A colourful ‘alpana’ greeted us at the main entrance. The children performed her ‘aarti’, gave her some sweet to eat, and entered the house behind her. The drawing room was decorated with shiny papers, flowers, and a small poster congratulating Nitasha and Anupam.

Refreshments were promptly served in brand new crockery under the supervision of Daddy. I ignored the gulab jamun, which had sugar stuck over it. The dahiwada was better. So were four or five other delicacies. I was tired, and also a little uncomfortable wondering how the city-dwelling Nitasha would appreciate such rustic fare. Daddy kept on asking whether we liked the food, and I kept nodding my head in mock approval. Frankly, there was nothing extraordinary about it. I am a little apprehensive about food bought from shops, especially if they happen to be located in backward suburbs.

Finally, one of the children broke the news. Daddy had cooked the gulab jamun, the dahiwada, and most of the other delicacies himself! Since he cannot stand for more than a few minutes, he had got the stove placed on the floor, and cooked the food for hours. It was he who had made the poster. Sheepishly, daddy added that he had also stitched new sofa covers for the occasion.

I was shocked! The entire scenario changed. The sofa cover, the decoration, the poster, the food – everything stood transformed! I saw Daddy in a new light. He did not betray any sign of suffering due to sitting for hours cooking, drawing the poster, or stitching the covers. He was happy, eager to know whether we were happy.

My eyes clouded with tears. I thought of the priest’s statement about the bond between grandparents and grandchildren, and took a gulab jamun. It was well made, so what if it had sugar stuck over it!