Unseen colours of life

Two years ago I survived an attack on my life at Leopold Cafe. Within a span of three days I discovered the finest people in my life and an angel. Saw humanity, friendship and hope in action. It changed my whole perspective of life. I realised life is indeed beautiful if you want it to be. There is nothing in your control except your own mind. You can travel in a jam-packed train while immersed in beautiful thoughts or fight with the pushy co-passenger.

You may enjoy the small cutting chai with absolute strangers in the hackneyed by-lanes of Parel and may not like the finest liquor in the unreal atmosphere of an expensive Lower Parel restaurant. It’s all about the state of your mind. Life is kaleidoscopic with beauty lurking at every other corner. You just need to have the time and interest to observe it. Life is not fast as many say. It gives you time to understand yourself and others. It is we who run away from the wisdom and openness for what even we don’t know.

We think we compete with the world, with others. We struggle day and night for little niceties of life. The truth is we miss millions of niceties every other moment by putting ourselves under an undue pressure psychology. We must respect time and the power of the unknown, because we don’t have any control over them. But our mind is our own. Our thought process is our own. Our dreams are our own. People who love us are our own. And there is no perfect day or way to start life in the best way.

The very next moment is the best moment of ours.

After two years of the 26/11 attacks I feel wealthier for I have real friends and I can own millions of little good things in life just by smiling, writing, painting talking and listening to others.

Following is a quote I have always tried to remember after 26/11.
“We should all start to live before we get too old. Fear is stupid. So are regrets." - Marilyn Monroe

Let's pray for very innocent human being who have lost their lives and every angel who has tried to keep hopes of humanity alive across the world. Amen....

(*PICTURE: I made this acrylic-on-canvas work named "The Sorrow of Mumbai" in September 2009.
I want to portray the pain and grief of this mega-city accompanied by tranquility indicating hope and stability. The work was presented to the organisation I was working with and is presently at the Reuters News Room in Mumbai)

RAJU TEA STALL

DREAMS DO COME TRUE

When I was in school, college I would read of this man as the father of green revolution. And he was as important as Mahatma to me. And one day in July, 2006, I of all my wildest dreams, got to co-chair an event with the God himself. I was dumbfounded and not in my senses. Look at my face and that of his greatness.
(Thanks to Samrat Mukherjee for this picture)

On a spirited October Monday I reported, danced and got drenched

Today was like a good old Monday, when you plan for the week and get every story you wanted on day one. There was no blue feeling about the day. It was all bright and cheerful. Your sources call you early in the morning, when you are still in a jam packed train. You get your first quote while inside the cab and when you reach office your other source confirms. You feel that adrenalin rushing.

You stop for a while, look around, walk like James Bond on the arched corridors of your swanky office, chew the coffee stirrer in a rustic Hindustani style and sip the coffee, again with English sophistication.

You are on a roll and think you can do things the way you like. You quit a relaxed discussion on the canteen table and suddenly rush to your desk. "I have to file the story soon." Just another confirmation needed. And yeah! You get the story.

Too much on my plate, but good it’s ready to be eaten. These are happy days for a good reporter. Years of source building, meandering in the dilapidated alleys, where most of your sources lived and still do. And it’s only on days like this you get a big, breaking story at the comfort of your air-conditioned surroundings and a few phone calls.

The story that you live through the day is like a movie, where you are the chief character. Its box office success depends on the follow-ups the competitors do, the publications that carry it. When you know you are being chased. It’s a very good feeling. Very celebrity feeling.

The good day ended. Time to go through the travel travails. You come out of the palm tree planted neat multi-storied office campus to meet eyes with the revelers of a couple of Durga Puja processions through Parel village.

No taxis to be found you have to walk fifteen minutes change two trains to reach home. What you do? I joined the revelers. Danced to the tune of popular Hindi numbers like bidi jalaile, munni badnaam hui.

I drank some buttermilk supposed to be laced with bhang. I danced for a while and felt melting into the sea of people, who actively led me to the Currey Road station, which always sounds like an Oxymoron to me.

The dhol-beats, genuine excitement and prayers it seems invited the Rain Gods at a short notice and look at me I was completely drenched before reaching station. I, however, discovered I was walking properly and was in my senses. Seems the buttermilk was pure.

Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal Continues

(Continued from the Heavenly Road to Doditaal)
The illumination was complementing the rhythmical sound of hundreds of rivulets and rainy season streams flowing in the near and distant mountains. It seemed as if this is heaven or at least a utopian world. It was not a dream but a hitherto unseen reality.

The night charmed us and suddenly escaped without answering my very Utopian questions.

The dawn was fascinating again; crystal-like dew drops on a vivid landscape were enticing. I was up early and while sipping tea served in a stained tin cup, met with the unassuming kids and women folk in the village.

The trust building process was quick and the conversation was fluid despite the language barrier.

Around eight in the morning we decided to start for the eighteen kilometre stretch and a 800 metre elevation, through some steep passes to reach our destination, Doditaal.

Our guide, a twenty something young man from the hills, moved swiftly on the slippery roads and made us move as faster.

First two hours seemed easy, it rained and there were plentiful of wild and fresh shrubs that literally paved our path with flowers. At places we came across the majestic white waters of Assi Ganga flowing down the mountains.



This beautiful walk reminded me of the fascinating landscape depicted in the ‘Lord of The Rings’ movies.

The loveliness of the first five kilometres was broken by a series of guerrilla attacks by thousands of impoverished leeches, who had suddenly sprung into life after rains touched the ground.

They were literally piercing into our legs, 10-20 at a moment on each foot.
We had to stretch them and throw every five minutes, or walk for an hour and then pluck them out.

In either case our skin was cut and legs were red with blood.

But locals taught us not to mind the blood and enjoy the nature. This was bad blood that moved out and now the circulation improves with this, they said. We obliged and moved ahead, stopping twice for tea and food.

At few instances the trek path was caved-in or there was no path at all and you could see the gorges down 2,000 feet. We managed with tree branches and ingenious footwork to jump over the space that never existed.

Every time we managed to cross over, it gave us a thrill and we looked back to gauge the width and depth. It was very much like the Indian Jones movie adventures. On the way we encountered no human habitation except a small congregation of makeshift huts where herdsmen from villages at lower elevation had come grazing their cattle the abundant green grass as the monsoon season was on.

Like any hill trek on the Himalayas we come across few aggressive wild Bhotia dogs who often attack you then become your friends after licking your feet and finally follow you for small stretches as long as their territory is marked.



We discovered a small ancient Hindu temple on the path, on the walls of which the name of JJ Irani and his wife were engraved.

We wondered if this is the legendary head of Tata Steel, who steered the company into the new millennium. But obviously, our querry couldn’t have been answered and we left the thought to ourselves.
After seven long hours we finally reached a place where we had to climb down on a moss-laden rickety path and we were told that the lake is almost there.



But we could see nothing for five more minutes. And suddenly there came up a flat piece of land and a small climb. And oh my God what we see! A painting of Monet! Yes it was like that only. A placid, transparent, silent, emerald green lake, the source of Assi Ganga and our ultimate destination was reached.

We were bedazzled and tranquilised and without words. I can't write the experience of that moment but can say my imagination of a heavenly land was similar to Doditaal, thanks to the childhood Chandamama reading. Heaven was like this misty lake, falling clouds and silence....

(The final part will be posted soon)


For the earlier part of the travel visit Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal
(Photographs: Sourav Mishra/Arshad Hussain and special thanks to Tanzeem Patankar for the Assi Ganga and Doditaal photographs)
To see more of the travel visit Tanzeem's blog at http://tazzo-dodital.blogspot.com/

Travelogue: The Heavenly Road to Doditaal

I think I am a traveller of simpler means and presumably tougher destinations. Though it is difficult to make simpler means match tougher locales I do try, nevertheless. The Himalayas remain my destination number one and in the past six years I been to the mountain range 15 times to be precise. Being in Delhi till 2006, most Himalayan hill stations or treks were an overnight journey but Mumbai increases the time without reducing the interest.



Earlier this year I already had my annual trip to Kumaon in general and Kausani in specific. Somehow I always land-up in that part of the world almost every year.



In August all of sudden I decided to take another break and I didn’t want to go home. I thought of going to Amarkantak in Chhattisgarh to experience the monsoon mud and greenery and roots of majestic rivers. But couldn’t workout at such a short notice.

I felt back on Himalayas again.



It was an unplanned and bad timed trek, but nevertheless I decided to go ahead. My journalism school batch mates and yesteryear Delhi apartment mates joined me. We have bonded as trekkers since a small trek in December 2003 to the obscure Meghaohala forests in Orissa’s Dhenkanal.



Arshad and Sumit are tough trekkers never minding the time or location. In fact the harsh conditions give them more reasons to move forward. I obliged to their decision of going to a lake at 3000 metres on the fragile Shiwalik ranges in Uttarakhand.



We chose a trek leading to Doditaal Lake, an obscure, yet one of the most beautiful treks and more so when it rains. The distance from Delhi and a treacherous road made it longer to reach Uttarkashi, the closest town ahead of the base camp. The city on the banks of Bhagirathi River is of immense religious importance for Hindus. Dotted with ancient Hindu temples and monasteries of different sects, the quaint, saffron coloured town was warm to our arrival, despite the incessant rains.




On the way our car had to stop at a number of places due to damaged roads and falling stones. The falling mist on the road was exiting as well as fearful. A single wrong turn was not affordable. After an arduous long drive, we immediately proceeded to Sangamchetti, the base for the trek to overcome some of the lost time.



After a Maggi masala noodles treat and tea we proceeded on our first phase of the trek, a five kilometre stretch between Sangamchetti and Agora, the last village on the way. We old boys have always preferred treks on our own without porter assistance and exceptional kits. We prefer it raw, though there are some terrains where one has to be with special equipments. This trek was simpler in those terms and we had a guide.



But it rained and streams of water flowed on the precariously narrow roads making it unusually slippery. We were suddenly in the midst of misty rain soaked surrounding by the time we reached the little hamlet of Agora. Generous villagers offered us to sit in their neat manicured courtyards and offered us cream tea prepared from buffalo milk. That gave us an opportunity to relish the breathtaking beauty around.

There were five mountains changing colour every moment, while intense snowy clouds were caressing them with untold passion. The path on the village had bright red and blue flowers intertwined continuously in small patches with fresh rain drops on them, giving the 270 degree view a picture perfect frame. We savoured the beauty for three hours without realising it is already dark out there. Before the unspeakable beauty slipped into the dark night’s veil, we chanced to see a rare rainbow formation.




We could not have more natural beauty for our eyes. End of the day we entered into a house-cum-hotel sort of arrangement by a local woman. It cost us about 300 rupees per person for the food and the stay. In turn we had amazing mountain vegetable, ghee paraontha and achar and everything served with abundant honesty and humility.

We were covered in thick local made cotton blankets imagining the night to be dark and cold. But it wasn’t. After a while bold, white moon soaked through the silent mountains and invited everyone to have a look at her. It was beautiful outside, blue and white like the nights in the Twilight movies. It was a young full moon night.

(Read the next part at The Heavenly Road to Doditaal Continues)
(Pictures taken by Sourav Mishra and Arshad Hussain)

Mr Roy and 'Front-page Journalist' syndrome

Mr Roy was not a journalist, he was the journalist. Mumbai media world swore by his news gathering capabilities. He was bespectacled not for an eye disorder, but to spot news from a distance, he had an extra long nose just to smell news ahead of others.

He loved the sweet, intelligent bird like chattering psychiatrist Chirpy Bose, just in order to understand how an investment banker can reveal the biggest trans-national deal by committing some Freudian slip over an extended drinking session in some exorbitant Bandra pub.

Roy had developed a punch after guzzling hundreds of glasses of alcohol and overeating chicken platters every other day in the company of investment bankers. Mumbai media didn’t consider his sagging punch as an ordinary 'beer belly' but adorably termed it as the 'Roy belly'. The belly of dedication and journalistic excellence. The hundreds of alcohol glasses produced thousands of breaking stories on the number one financial daily that Roy worked with.

Mr Roy was courted by the editors of all top media houses with lucrative offers every weekend at the quaint, overcrowded Press Club near Azad Maidan, while the management of all top corporations wooed him with fancy dinners and other recreations at the finest luxury hotels and spas in and around Mumbai.

Roy stood like a granite rock, unfazed, not corrugated by any of the temptations. His only aim was to be on the front page of the number one pink newspaper. The pretty, bubbly Chirpy Bose sensed Roy is near the last leg of ‘Front-page Journalist’ syndrome, a thesis on which she did her post doctoral research and won many accolades across the world.

As Roy was close to insanity he found solace in football and as the world cup was on, he ignored Chirpy to such an extent that Chirpy stopped loving him and called him a nikamma old rooster. Roy, the rooster became a lonely man. His only friend was the front-page of the number one newspaper he worked for. As time passed, loneliness and alcohol consumed his passion, he missed his name on front-pages.

He still was considered the king of reportage by most of the media, but his happiness lied on the front-page appearance only.

After disappearing on the front-page for a consecutive five days Roy lost it. Roy tore all the fond photographs of Chirpy and David Beckham and also the numerous front-page cutouts he had pasted on his spacious bedroom wall. Roy was defeated, dejected and all very sad.

The blank looking Roy one day discovered a poster on the first-class train compartment he was travelling. It read, “108 times Chamatkari Baba Bangali Benareswale”..Mahayogi, mahagyani sare kaam sambhale. Pyar mein dhokha, bibika bhagna, jamin ka jhagda ho ya souten, chhudel ki samasya..baba sabarega bhag tumhara... kya stock market mein maal dubaya ya padosan ko dil de dia....sare uljhan ka haal jhatpat baba dega...chamatkari baba bangali...aaj hi ao taklif se niklo. To chup kyun ho aaj hin ao ya phir call karo 022-22222XXX , 10 lines. Credit card suvidha bhi uplabdh hai, milne ki dakshina sirf 1000 rupaye.

Milne ka pata Suite No 1001, Hotel Super, Kurla (East), near Champa Original Desi Bar, Police station ke baju mein.

Roy, though hesitant about confiding his problems of insanity and frontpage syndrome with such a hindustani speaking baba, but nevertheless he managed to call and take an appointment from Monika, baba’s personal secretary.

Food security mission for rats successful in India

In India only rats enjoy the luxury of food security despite inflation and perceived food shortage. It seems authorities had taken a secrete pledge decades ago to ensure food security at any cost for the billions of rodents inhabiting this country. When rains fail farmers commit suicide, consumers feel the heat, but not for the rats. They have biometric access cards issued by the authorities to enter the network of exclusive warehouses across the nation to plunder the millions of tonnes of grains stored supposedly for the poor. In a year when the supplies are scarce they get to taste the imported Russian and Australian grains. Rats expect more such years when international food is available, but that unfortunately happens only once or twice in a decade, when rains go really bad or some scam happens. In recent times they also get to taste alcoholic beverages, which are stored along side grains, or some times instead of grains by their local benefactors.

The secret pledge that the authorities had taken years ago also promises rodents the liberty of devouring the policy papers at government offices, which contains carbohydrates in a diet format and keeps the small animals in great shape and agile. It also helps the unwanted policy papers to escape ‘mysteriously’ and save the process of embarssing truth being made public.

So while there is debate whether to make access to food a fundamental right for human beings, the right is already exercised by rats successfuly.

THE BRIDGE AT NAUKUCHIATAL

Besotted with Claude Monet's impressionist art I started doing some of my own version. This one is based on Monet's 'Bridge at Giverny' but my feeling for the work is derived from a bridge at Naukuchiatal, or the nine cornered lake in Uttarakhand. The Bridge at Naukachiatal has more shades of green during early monsoon, when I visited the place. Monet's work has more shades of yellow. It's such a pleasure to learn from the master.

Mr Roy loses his love Chirpy Bose to Paul Oktopus

Mr Roy is dejected and a feeling of helplessness has taken over his luminous personality. His glowing eyes are pale; teeth needs an immediate polishing session at Dr Prashant Rao Bhatodekar, the dentist. He is no more the animated man thumping his belly whenever he comes up with some secretive news. He infact no more comes up with any secretive news except price hike plans by cement companies and fare hike plans by airlines.

What is spelling doom for the rising star of Indian financial journalism? The shameful exit of Argentina that too beaten convincingly by no team other than Germany. Yes the loss of Argentina has given him the shock of his life. After the irritation with Vuvuzela last week, Roy saw his favourite team crashing to a 4-0 defeat.

Roy’s girlfriend Chirpy, who dislikes football, had booked two seats at a posh Bandra club just to give his lover a sense of joy when the Argentine players would have taken off their shirts after thrashing Germany. But destiny and Paul, the Oktopus had other plans. Shit happened and Roy had to handle it. And the sad thing is that he is handling it alone. Why?

Well Chirpy has left Roy for the Oktopus. Not quite literally but it happened. Chirpy who is studying psychology at a Chembur institute is an avid animal lover. Her name itself was comes from an animal function. Chirping or twittering of birds. Since her childhood the cute roly-poly girl would talk incessantly in a birdy manner whether any one listens or not. And so the name Chirpy.

Roy was the only one who would listen to her like an old quiet lazy rooster and that was the point of her attraction for Mr Roy. But after Argentina lost Roy also lost his temper and the first incomplete sentence he murmured was, “kill that Paul Oktopus.”

That’s was it. Chirpy also lost it and slapped Mr Roy in front all the Argentina fans. Chirpy cried and said you and Argentina deserved it. You guys have been talking of killing and frying that poor voiceless animal throughout the match. Paul eto cute. It’s poetic justice. You all are products of shameless capitalism. You talk about ideas, wear Che Guevara t-shirts and hail Argentina. May I know the reason?

Do you have any idea of what is happening to the globe? Climate change, greenhouse gas emission, endangered tigers only 1411 left in India and not to speak of shrinking marine animal pool. Poor Paul may not be there tomorrow because of you men. You all are the same always think of war, killing etc. This chirpy is not your game Mr Roy, you crouching tiger in the disguise of a rooster. I abhor you and declare my relationship with you null and void from this very moment.

I have added Paul Oktopus to my Facebook friends list and he has accepted it. I will rather romance an intelligent creature like him. We will play FarmVille, we will build barns and houses that will adopt cute little animals and not dirty old roosters like you. Chirpy ended her twittering while Roy was yawning and wiping his (-10) powered thick glasses.

Now Roy realized Chirpy Bose has made enough of a scene and the whole Argentina fan club has forgotten the loss of their team and is making fun of him in hushed tones.

Roy in his inimitable style stood up put his hands on his t-shirt just over the eyes of Che Guevara printed on it and said. “See I stand for what I think and don’t bring Che into your Octopus love. And as much biology I remember let me tell you, ‘These Octopuses are invertebrates, shapeless, boneless.’ They are just the kind of men you hate the most.”

Roy despite his immediate disaster management speech actually lost two things in life. His love for football and Chirpy, his cute little bird.

Roy hates everyone these days and doesn’t catch anyone on Gmail chat. He doesn’t have a status message anymore after he removed, ‘Waka waka tis time for Argentina’ last Saturday.

I have been trying to help him coping with the disaster. I found a nervous Roy checking Chirpy's profile everyday on Facebook to find out if she has changed her relationship status from single to be with Paul Oktopus.

I asked Roy what is the future plan action. Roy said, "I will create a group in Facebook called - If 1 million people join this Facebook will remove Paul Oktopus's profile."

I just checked and found one group with the bizarre name of '101 Ways to kill Oktopus Paul / 101 Reasons We hate Oktopus Paul'
What's happening? Who's playing the ball those men or the Octopus?
Photo courtesy: Google image search and funnylifeblog

A Vuvuzela for Mr Roy

He is the most popular creature in Mumbai’s media world. He’s like the superhero of journalism roaming incognito in the streets of India’s financial capital. He’s got that extra long nose for news. He pokes into everyone’s affair. When everything seems alright he spots an inconspicuous anomaly and probes deeper.

When Mumbai sleeps he stays awake and files the biggest breaking stories that shake the Sensex the next morning.

Corporates respect him, peers envy him and women love him. He is for you the inimitable MITH*****. Sorry for the unexpected five stars after MITH. It’s his towering personality that has forced me settle for the stars. Let’s call him Mr Roy (name intentionally changed to protect identity).

Mr Roy, besides news sniffing has two interests in life – football and travelling from Vashi to Andheri in Mumbai’s suburban trains on Sundays -- which invariably fits into his chock-a-bloc schedule.

For football lover Roy, FIFA world cup is like the best time in his life and he makes it a point to watch every match live. Roy comes home early in the evening and jogs around in his three-by-three feet balcony overlooking a mosquito breeding pond and a proposed mango orchard, where the mango trees are yet to be planted.

Roy claims the run between kitchen and balcony melts his extra kilos.

Well, enough of jogging. Now Mr Roy switches on his television to watch the match between Uruguay and France.

All excited, tea sipping Mr Roy jumps, laughs and bites his nail in excitement whenever the ball reached near the goal post on either side. Roy says he doesn’t support any team and every team which plays world cup football is worth supporting.

The excitement increases further in the match but Roy suddenly looks silent. Vuuun…vuuunn..vuuun..vuun..vun..vun the sound continues. Roy know there is something missing here.

No one of his neighbors, mostly nuclear scientists, would be playing something so stupid that too during a football match. But the sound continued vuun …vuun..un..un…He went to the balcony and found no movement outside. Children in the newly built shanties at the proposed mango orchard were playing cricket, while their parents were playing cards.

He then thought may be the mosquitoes in the adjacent pond which is being filled for building a new luxury tower, are to be blamed but his intelligence told mosquitoes do not have such a strong voice and to create such audible sound you need all the mosquitoes in Mumbai jamming in a studio.

The picture outside was serene. But the voice grew louder and the pattern more frequent. In his detective style he walked silently and put his large ears near the television. Suddenly there was loud vuuu which almost damaged his ear drum. Now he knows it. The poor five year old television has lost it. It’s sick now and is expressing with cough and coarse voice during the football match.

Roy suffered the match and got up early in the morning. Before even brushing his teeth, he called Atif Aslam, the namesake of the Pakistani pop singer and the plumber-cum-electrician-cum watchman and much more to the housing society. At one call Aslam was at his tenth floor apartment.

He opened the television and claimed there was some problem with internal speakers. Roy shelled five hundred rupees and went with his daily schedule. Today is an important match. Argentine vs Nigeria. Roy though claims all teams are equal, has actually secretly been endorsing the Latin American country by making his permanent Gmail status as Waka waka tis time for Argentina and has already been beaten by two English and Brazilian fans in his office for such brazen support.

Anyways now on day two Roy switches the TV set no noise. Match starts noise starts. He loses his patience and calls Aslam immediately, who cuts his call five times. Roy is furious. Bugger is this time to cut calls the real match is on and this TV is shouting. Disappointed he mutes the TV and watches. Aslam in the meantime messages back in Hindi saying, “boss samjha karo ek din to chhuti milti hai Bandstand pe baitha hun baad mein baat karte hain.”

Roy fumes in anger and decides to buy a new television the other day. Unable to sleep he watches Ram Gopal Varma directed James movie, his all time favourite, on his Acer laptop. Whenever Roy fails in life he draws inspiration from the hero in James who beats all odds to achieve his target. Others however don’t understand the inspiration part; anyways most have not seen the movie.

While watching James for the third time nonstop, the newspaper boy throws the Times of India newspaper into his balcony. He runs to get the paper while thinking about the hawker. “This is the problem with this country… everyone can throw it like a cricketer but no one can bend it like Beckham.” “How can people breathe so easily without playing football in this country?

Then in his mind he blamed it on Neheruvian socialism which destroyed teamwork and promoted a individualistic game like Cricket. Suddenly he stops and what he reads. "People want to ban irritating noise at world cup soccer." He read the noisy instrument is called Vuvuzela. He sighs and laughs at him and falls asleep while James was still playing on his laptop.

(Mr Roy thought of keeping this secret to himself till he had two small pegs of whiskey. This story is fictional and doesn’t resemble to any character except Mr Roy in real life.)

Indian soccer in tennis ball and flip-flops

The football fever is on across the world. Like many Indians I feel and act confused by the utter ignorance about the game, the trends, the players and the buzz around. I am well present on the social networking arena, read as widely as possible for a journalist, yet I miss everything on this game. Sometimes the genuine passion and knowledge people around me display I feel threatened about my indifference. I simply can’t communicate on this subject except a confessional script like this.

The social and cultural environment I was brought up in had Cricket and Gilli-danda as the most dominating games, in primary school and neighborhood playgrounds. So football was out of question till I reached high school. Mine was a large class with more than 400 students, while the school had more than 2,000 students and we had two playgrounds. We had to play everything in the same space and time, the one hour recess in the afternoon. If you stand on the top-arch of the school building you can see upto five teams playing football in two playgrounds, while upto ten teams sharing space in between to play cricket, handball or Gilli-danda.

As everyone wants to be a batsman in cricket, everyone wanted to be forward in the kind of football we were playing. Though I was kind of a leader in my batch after running for class monitor elections twice and losing by a margin of two and five votes, I had little say in the football team selection. Like the national game and sports associations ruled by certain people, our school football team was designed, choreographed and even decimated by a small group of people who never wore the jersey but played bets on it in multiples of ten rupees.

I was interested in the game for the sheer fun of running and hitting the ball. But I was rather chosen for the event-less goalie’s position, where I failed miserably because of the ball’s size. After all we were playing soccer with a lemon yellow coloured tennis ball on green grass and mud (The school had few balls which were out only during annual sports). Almost no goalkeeper of an international repute could have stopped such a tiny ball.

One day out of frustration I ran ahead and tried my legs at snatching the ball from the opposition player who was just about to hit the tiny lemon into our side of the post. You must have watched the scene. The opponent fell flat with my one stroke. I couldn’t understand why? Later the big boys who were putting money on our teams told me that I have the strongest legs in the school.

I was asked to play as a forward from the next day. It was thrilling! I realized I was no great player with techniques; I couldn’t even roll the ball between my legs or hit it in the desired direction. But as I told earlier, the kind of football we were playing in our flip-flops was mostly mud wrestling with the objective to keep the tiny ball at your legs.

When it rained, as it did for a large part of the year we loved the game. I was called the ‘danger man’, a local coinage for the ferocious one on field. If I had the ball people avoided body contact and stayed clearly away from the legs. I had those unusually powerful, green muscles showing legs thanks to the 16 kilometers of cycling I had to do besides some early morning Yoga aasanas with dad helped.

I became the bully on the field, though I rarely scored. Drenched in rain I remember many conflicts on the mud, putting fear into the eyes of the smaller looking opponents. But every hero or tyrant has a final day. So did come my day on the field. One of the newer entrants recruited by the non playing gamblers had a spiked shoe. One with sharp spikes that can peel flesh of your succulent legs and tear your ligaments. It happened to me though I didn’t let the pain show on the face but decided to hang-up my flip-flops forever.

I briefly played football at University again mostly to track the most powerful opponent and offer fierce resistance. But nowhere did I fell in love with the game or get to learn anything.

It was an unfortunate thing that I missed the game the world loves. It seems despite the entire hullabaloo, it still has not caught my attention or fancy. It is like mathematics. If it doesn’t interest you it doesn’t click. So I give a miss to the Jabulanis, Vuvujelas, Messis a miss. But I still very much connect with the gorgeous Shakira doing waka waka.
this time for Afrika.
(Photograph Kids playing mud-football Photograph)

The quaint city of Allahabad

(Magh mela Dec-Jan, Circa 1888 (Courtesy Allahabad University Library)
Quaint...the only word that comes to my mind whenever I think about the city of Allahabad. The city is populous yet silent; the city is charming yet queer. It's so political that eighty percent of our prime ministers come from here, yet most don't understand double dealing here.


It is so dramatic that Amitabh Bachhan comes from here. Yet the city looks sepia toned, fragile and historical to me. It belongs to another age.

The age of our favourite past time. The time leisurely spent on the branches of guava trees, the time spent of the banks of Yamuna, the time spent at the narrow lanes of Rambagh and wide corridors of the University; the time spent at Alfred Park imagining the sacrifice of Chandrsekhar Azad, , the time spent at the book shops in Katra. The time has freezed! The time was good. It still lives in the nostalgia but never brightens up to its maximum colours.
The video below is a nice portrayal of the Saher Illahabad..
Saher hai khoob kya hai yeh saher amrud ka hai yeh..Saher hai yeh Illahabad

Computer in Allahabad

My first brush with computers was in Allahabad, during the first year of my graduation in the late 90s. The exposure to a giant, greasy pale yellow machine at that time seemed to be a delight.
At the agriculture university where most classes discussed lifecycle of crops, primary constituents of milk or best practices of feeding piglets, computer classes were like a picnic.
The powerful moving visuals, air-conditioned ambience and the excitement of checking your Yahoo mail in the lone desktop powered by mostly dysfunctional dial-up connection, it was fun.
Most of us never got more than a few minutes to touch the black, almost broken key boards, but it was pleasure anyways. The computer session also saw the unlikely pairing of people who were desperate to share a computer overcoming all earthly distinctness.
Like the always fighting conservative Malayali Christian boy and equally conservative Bihari Brahmin, the sophisticated chiffon clad Lucknowi girl and the rustic paan chewing Jaunpuri boy.
Years of differentiation, cultural egos and heartfelt irritation melted for a short while every Saturday at 12 P.M Indian Standard Time, when the computer classes began. The vivid memories of the computer classes come back as I discover more of my graduation tribe on the Facebook or Twitter.

Bhuvan Yadav's case against Barkha Rani

Monsoon rain is the key word today. Not only the farmers for whom it is the lifeline, but almost every individual across villages, cities, chawls, skyscrapers, schools and Parliament talk about it, after experiencing the worst monsoon in four decades, last year. They now know it for being responsible for a good harvest, lower price regime, better rural income, faster growing economy and absence of hunger. This understanding has brought it into popular culture within no time. Yesterday I was watching this creative sarcastic drama ‘Bhuvan Yadav’s case against Barkha Rani’.

The case begins with appearance of frail and visibly shaken Bhuvan Yadav, a poor farmer from some arid region in India, whose crops have failed due to the complete absence monsoon or ‘Barkha Rani’ as we call her from now onwards. Bhuvan has filed a case against ‘Barkha Rani’ for being directly responsible for crop washout and driving him and other farmers into utter poverty, indebtedness and to the verge of hunger death. Bhuvan represents the case for half of India’s population.
The judge then calls for ‘Barkha Rani’ who originally lives in the hilly Cherrapunji in the northeastern India and visits other hills, mountains and beaches whenever she feels like. She however is rarely seen in the vast stretches of arid lands passing through the length and breadth of the interiors of the country.

Now ‘Barkha Rani’ comes to the court all dressed in glitzy white saree and holding a large empty bowl. When questioned why Barkha Rani was absent last year and how it has affected not only Bhuvans of Indian villages but also Dr Manmohan of the Delhi.

Barkha Rani says she has not enough water in her bowl to fulfill the needs everywhere. To which Bhuvan’s lawyer says if she has not enough water why she disburses so much water in the Himalayas. Barkha says that’s because that’s from where water flows across the country through her first cousins like the Ganges, but faulty irrigation schemes and absence of river linking wastes all her purpose.

Barkha further said it’s her husband Badal like most extravagant men lives a high carbon footprint creating lifestyle and uses very large fuel-inefficient vehicles like Hummer which wastes a lot of the water in the process of transportation before reaching the desired destinations.

Also her cousins like Laila and Aila waste a lot of water in a pub called Cyclone every year, before Barkha could do her annual tour of the country. “I am left with very little to sprinkle in the fields of people like Bhuvan, though I really want to.” Barkha further blamed every human being for emission driven global warming which is resulting higher-than-normal temperature and parched farmlands, needing more water than ever.

The judge in the case reaslises the situation, human folly involved and feels sorry for Bhuvan and millions other who bear the brunt. He orders for rectification of all the human created errors and assurance of farm water to Bhuvans of India.
(The storyline in the drama is suitably twisted as per the writer’s imagination)
(The painting above is a reproduction of the famous Vincent Van Gogh 1889 oil painting 'Wheat Field in Rain')

Banyan Treaty: The story of 'Yes' and 'Think'

Once upon a time there were two individuals one named Yes, and the other named Think. They both lived in a place called a Village, but had little in common. Yes was disciplined, almost cultish and was governed by an esoteric group of people about whom the village knew little.

Yes never sat at the village banyan tree, rather he was always seen in another small settlement away from the village called Walled Street. Here everything was walled and mysterious people shaked hands with each other, without smile.
Yes was not popular as you can understand from his exclusivity and seclusion from the mass, yet he owned the biggest house in the village and brought the first bullock cart. Yes dealt in some paper thing called Money, while the whole village lived on barter system.

When people reaslised Yes has more objects, bigger house and visibly more material than anyone else they asked what is it that makes him different, Yes said it’s the paper thing that gets him the best stuff and explained the inefficiencies in the self-sufficient barter system that has kept the villagers without material gains. The villagers felt very small when Yes used numerous exotic words like ‘streamline’, ‘topline,’ ‘bottomline,’ ‘operating margin’ etc with a peculiar ease which indicated his superiority over the villagers in the art of material acquisition.

Here comes the role of Think in this story, Think was the only villager who didn’t agree with Yes. The village council was convinced with Yes’s view that the closed economy and self sufficiency is restricting the entry of newer, bigger and better things in their life. So the village decided to sell their huge rice stock stored in mud bunkers to outsiders in return of money, which they later used to build large houses, getting bullock carts and every other luxury they could think of. They were paying a charge to all the sad looking, supposedly intelligent and polyglots at the Walled Street settlement.

Walled Street people never cultivated anything in the recent history but knew where to buy and sell things and they build a wall to prevent the outside villages to know about them.

In the mean time Think, dejected by the disapproval from the villagers started staying to himself. He was the only one who saved his share of rice for three years and stayed in the smallest hut. Everyone else had a bigger existence than him in the village. Yes became the richest and bought a boat which he rowed in the lake near the village. Villagers also wanted to board the boat, where Yes started charging them and made more money.

Yes by now owned more exotic things and would charge everyone to use it. The villagers adapted to the culture of being charged for earning the new source of pleasure that Yes brought into the village.

Everyone pitied Think for his foolishness of not selling the grains and living a small and undignified life. But they had little time and interest to sit and talk with Think, by now treated as the Village lunatic.

The villagers were interested in having more paper money than anything else and Yes was their guide. Yes found out all the grains are finished in the village and tilling the land, waiting for rains will take another year. He proposed the villagers to sell their land completely or enter into a ‘strategic alliance’ with people of the Walled Street to ‘reinvent’ opportunities in their farmland which till then was only meant for rice cultivation.

The Walled Street people now pay an annual fee to the villagers and use it for cultivating Opium, considered as the pleasure flowers, using labour services from another village with who they also had strategic alliance.

Money flowed for another few years. Think was the only one who tilled his ahre of rice land and also collected forest produce to save enough food in his mud bunker, yet he remained the ‘poorest’, as Yes defined him in technical terms.

Around this time the Walled street people stopped paying a fee to the villagers and proposed a forced acquisition using army of people from another village with whom they too had strategic alliance. The people of Yes and Think’s village had no option but to lose their lands to the Walled Street people, who till few years living on alms from the village people.

Every villager sold his house and later sold themselves as bonded labours for assisting in Walled Street people in opium cultivation in the fields which used to be their own few days ago.

The only person who survived the entire crisis was Think, who had enough food that he managed to get some money and bought his own securitymen and protected his farm land and even acquired some more in the uncultivated forest area. The Walled Street was keenly watching him but didn’t touch him for they knew Think has the sense of what they are upto and will never be conned.

Now you would want to know what happened to Yes. He was caught and held captive by a group of villagers who now live in the forests nearby after being evicted of their farm by Walled Street owners and are organizing themselves to fight back and cultivate their land once again.

Over a period of time the lands were back to the original villagers after non violent protests in-front of Walled Street and agreeing to the proposal that only Yes will be considered guilty of any in appropriate behavior they think that Walled Street might have done to them.

The villagers agreed under the leadership of Think. Yes was hanged under the Banyan tree and peace and confidence building treaty was signed with Walled Street later taught in history books as the ‘Banayan Treaty.’

The End of Romantics: The promise keeper

The End of Romantics: The promise keeper

The promise keeper

Indian Idol has been one of my favourite shows and I’m sure many of us like the format, where chances of bias till the final stages are least. It’s also our favourite because it brings the human emotions into real play.

Sometimes humiliating, some times jubilating and sometimes heartbreaking, but always genuine.

Last evening the show for this season began with auditioning across India for the final Mumbai competition.

As every year, the sets of audition this time also brought the varieties of people. The arrogant tailor from Aligarh, who sang exactly like Anu Mulllick, but to his dismay was disqualified, the over confident uber-chic girl from Delhi who sang effortlessly yet found no takers, the 19-year-old sweet, nervous girl who sells insurance policies to fund her education and needed a hug from the gorgeous Sunidhi Chauhan before making the judges spell-bound with her melodious voice, the almost blind boy whose voice is a gift and so on.

After the end of IPL cricket, this well suited to my dose of entertainment, despite the moral nagging from inside to stay away from watching the harassment of simple lads from small towns and villages, I was glued to the show, laughing uncontrollably, when colorful people with their idiosyncrasies pestered the judges Anu, Sunidhi and Salim Merchant.

But one moment in the show forced me, the judges and I believe everyone with a heart into tears, for two minutes at least. There came this thin, cool eyed, Armyman Manoj with his simplistic demeanour, characteristic of people from the hills of Uttarakhand, where he came from.

As he entered Manoj touched the podium where he was to sing and said something which was very painful and stays today when I am writing.

He said he after long efforts of getting leave from Army has managed to come to this audition in Delhi where 12,000 others were also present, and he thinks himself lucky for reaching the podium not because he wants to become the Indian Idol, but because he made a promise to someone which will be fulfilled today.

His sister, who would have turned 23 by now, lost the battle to cancer a year ago, but took a promise from Manoj that he must go to Indian Idol audition, in her death bed.

An Army personnel, who spends most of his time protecting the motherland, also turned a good brother and appeared at the audition. He and the judges believed his sister must be watching him as he sang, ‘phoolon ka taron ka sbka kehna hai, lakhon hazaron mein meri behna hai...saari umer humein sang rehna hai....”

I cried, the judges cried and you can understand there was no tempo in the voice when someone is managing such a tough emotional moment. He was chocked all the while he sang but delivered the greatest promise he ever made to his sister. I’m in tears as I write this. It must have been very tough for him. I wish he feels very good after the auditions and may his sister rest in peace. Amen...

Midnight thoughts: social networking is good

I had always hated to become a writer by night, except some educational writing, compelled by the desire to earn a degree. But the last few days have brought the writer in me to wake only after midnight.

The IPL is surely to be blamed for this. I read my daily dose of book after the night IPL match ends around 1130 pm and after midnight your body and mind gets diluted and flows in the ether.

If you listen to equally airy thin music from the collection of ‘Guns and Roses’, Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan, the heart pounds like a unstable volcanic mass and thoughts erupt and spread like clouds that can burst as the right temperament touches them.

One such thought burst yesterday, technically this morning as I write. The thought is about being eternally happy and innocent. Do we ever manage to stay innocent in all our thoughts and actions? I think we don’t.

The ability to hide sorrow with the faint smile and happiness with the dumbfounded awkwardness is familiar to all of us in workplaces.

Those who are lucky have a family and friend network to be innocent and real whenever they want to. I think for millions of others the gift of social networking is doing miracle.

It’s like the village chowpal or you, where you have your small society that gathers, drinks chai, hookah or whatever they want. They talk about all sorts of issues -- sensitive, insensitive, political, social – and that too in small groups of likeminded ones.

Here you have the option to share your mundane views without being rebuked. You share your best moments through pictures, which can be enhanced with the gift of technology and spares you the time and effort of actually looking good.

You can share your disillusioned state of mind by sharing Bob Dylan‘s Knocking on Heaven’s Door video through YouTube, despite actually being a hope less singer yourself.

It’s good for your self esteem, your heart and mind too. You learn the slangs and management case studies here before anywhere else. I dare to disagree with whoever did the study inferring social networking sites reduce productivity. I claim they boost in more than one ways the individual’s moral, ego and power her/him even to stay on the top of her/ his professional developments.

Even in personal relationships it helps you find some and also protects you from losing some. It helps you with regular birthday wishes, which all men now can’t blame they forgot.

It also gives you opportunities to wish at personal and professional developments thereby cutting on actual travels. Lot of carbon foot prints reduced. Besides you chat and save millions of trees every year, it’s another thing you destroy them as toilet papers and on Pizza delivery.

The verdict is social networking makes your life better. As I am writing the last line, I can say it took me about 25 minutes to compose this prose and I’m still listening to Knocking on Heaven’s Door on the background.

Note: By the I posted this story I had switched to Lady Gaga's hit number' Bad Romance' so that my romance with midnight writing ends and I could catch some sleep.

PHOTOGRAPH: By Samrat Mukherjee. We all social networking aficionados, like the thirsty little boy pumping and getting his water, do our tweets, FB messages and meet our thirst of virtual society.

When I was young and innocent

When I was young and innocent. Discovered this photograph yesterday. The ease, interest and innocence I used to have a decade ago inspired me. Devoting a complete post to my photograph is a narcissistic idea, but I am compelled to post it for the sheer happiness it brought to me. Behind me in this photograph is a coniferous plant, which was my idea of a Jurassic era plant. Thousand metres on right was the large orchard, two-hundred metres on right was the girl's hostel, a road I usually avoided for the fear of being ragged. Thousand metres on the north was Yamuna river. The month was December and the photographer was Junwa, a friend from Burma, who went into oblivion after graduation.

The Lonely White Horse

The Lonely White Horse, my latest acrylic-on-canvas work is a portrayal of the peaceful Indian security personnel. He may be from any section of the Indian security apparatus, always smiling, judicious with power and protector of the sovereignty of the large sub-continent. But almost complete absence of political leadership has converted him into a sitting duck. The enemy of the country like the blood thirsty red horse is engulfing him from all the sides – north, west, east, south - and even within the country. Salute to the bravery and spirit of such a white horse. But will he find a good leader who is as concerned about the country’s security and autonomy as him?
(Disclaimer: I have learnt my horse patterns from MF Hussain's horse paintings.)

'The Rosewood' restaurant on Varuna lake road

Neelima Bhat was a reluctant restaurateur, forced into the profession by the untimely demise of her husband. Thirty years after taking reins of ‘The Rosewood’, she still had not accepted the fact of her, a woman, managing an eatery. Married as early as 16, Neelima knew that her husband’s family owns one of the best restaurants in this small hill station, but managing it for rest of her life never crossed her mind. Bhats are among the most respected and wealthy families in the town and reside on the lake road, the exclusive address which had unobstructed view of the grand Varuna lake. Not even tourists had an easy way to this part of the Himalayan hill town. Everyone had a private balcony that overlooked flowing clouds that fell over Varuna changing colour every few hours.

The Bhats converted a part of their bungalow into ‘The Rosewood’, way back in 1920s. ‘The Rosewood’ remained the only comprehensive and easy access for the tourist to the lake view. No wonder it was never out of business whether it snows or rains, Neelima always had visitors. The Rosewood was styled in colonial architecture and always charmed the foreigners, babus from Delhi, writers and romantic urbanites who always looked for the last best symbols of the Raj on a Himalayan journey. And undoubtedly the lake view offered a lot more in addition.

Neelima was always charmed by the beauty of the lake when she came into “The Rosewood” nonchalantly in her late teens, on a quiet evening to have some romantic moments with her husband away from the gaze of the in-laws. Prakash, her husband would often show her the lonely moonlight dinner suite in the restaurant.

Even today, Neelima sits alone in the moonlight dinner suite on days of full moon remembering the beautiful moments she shared Prakash in the that corner. Ram Parwesh, the sixty year old manager and Prakash’s old friend managed everything such days and closed the moonlight suite from tourists.

Neelima’s young daughter is now back at home after spending six long years in a boarding school in Dehradoon. She wanted more of her mom and was not quite comfortable with her being in the restaurant all the day. Neelima also wanted to bridge the distance with her daughter by making surprise intermittent visits to the house during the day. But Nidhi, her daughter was not amused.

(The picture here is taken by Samrat Mukherjee, one of the best photographers of our time at Har-ki-Dhun in the Himalayas)

Jesus, Allah, Ram and Gods of all religion please protect South Asia from terror

Six nations – India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Nepal and Afghanistan -- that make most of South Asian geography are infected with an incurable disease or obnoxious commodity. Terror it’s name. Home grown, imported, exported but transmitted or traded freely within the boundaries of these five countries. Religion, tribe, caste, class or economic disparity, terror finds its reason with almost everything. It doesn’t talk, negotiate. It just strikes and whom? The innocent the most.
It can’t be stopped or at least it seems so with the democratic governments in the five countries are yet to find a solution.
No hopes from anyone now. May Jesus, Allah, Ram and all Gods of all religion including Scientology protect South Asia from terror.... Amen.
(Wish the serendipity visible in the picture of the Himalayas prevail over South Asia)

Sarju, the stone breaker of Badagaon

Sarju loved this town anyday. Despite a population of little less than 50,000, it was the biggest centre in the whole district. The moffusil town had four telephone booths, one health centre, one police chowki and one primary school. The entire infrastructure, concrete and stable, was an amusement to the 200-odd hilly villages that surrounded this valley. Like Paris to France, Badagaon was macroscopic for the people Jangalia district.

Sarju’s village at 32 kilometre away, was the farthest in terms of distance from the district headquarters, yet Sarju made no hesitation in choosing a job there. “Tough to travel everyday,” he thought. "But never mind there are growth opportunities and a life larger than it ought to be in a forest village, like his own."

He made 12 kilometres by walking through the dense forest before getting on to some town bound truck of the local bauxite miner. After a two-hour travel Sarju would break stones at one iron ore processor.

At the age of 14, the boy had the strong and stout built of a gym going city lad. He was much adored for his extraordinary physique in his 20 hamlet tiny village. And perhaps that was the reason why the labour thekadar chose him to become a stone breaker. Stone breaking was the toughest job around tougher than ploughing, wood cutting and even working at the brick kiln.

In a month's time money flowed to his modest home. Small enough to be described but enough to make his hut look the best in the settlement.
He became the 'stone breaker' for the villagers. At a young age the money and the enviable physique made him the most celebrated man in the village.
Every boy in the village now dreamt of being a 'stone breaker'.

The picture is of a print of Gustave Courbet's 1849 painting -'The Stone Breakers. It depicts two ordinary stone breakers in average French life.

Batak Mian's story must be told

Batak Mian’s story must be told to every Indian. Despite the unfamiliarity of the name, the absence of his story in India’s history, Batak Mian cannot be ignored. One Indian mainstream news paper recently took the pain to digging out and publishing the story of this extra-ordinary Indian, without whom India’s independence might not have been possible.

The story goes back to 1917 British India. Mahatma Gandhi was visiting Bihar’s Champaran district where he started his career India’s politics, supporting the cause of the local indigo planters.

Batak Mian was serving as a cook with a British indigo plantation manager who apparently instructed him to offer Mahatma poisoned milk. Mian disclosed the plot in front of Mahatma and Rajendra Prasad, who became the first President of an independent India later. Result Mahtma’s life saved and the rest is history as we all know.

I understand the story sounds loose and slightly heroic. Even as an objective writer I find despite the folklore involved in glorifying Batak Mia’s role, it’s worth remembering. And at least his grand children shouldn’t earn their wages as daily labourers.
Here is a link to the original story http://www.hindustantimes.com/Family-of-Mahatma-s-saviour-in-dire-straits/H1-Article1-500334.aspx

What went wrong: another life lost

As I reached office today, the colleague next to my cubicle informed me about the sad demise of an ex-colleague.

Shocked we remembered her. She was one of the sweet young women full of life and attitude. One who always puts a smile on her face, genial, helpful and gorgeous.

Her love for life was personified in her blog which was titled She loves life. What went so wrong that she let go the very life she was so passionate about. Prayers her soul rests in peace. Amen....

Why good people suffer?

Last week I was asking myself a question. A question that has stayed with me since my childhood but rises to my conscience on certain occasions leaving me bewildered.
The question is –“Why good people suffer?”
And I know no one has a satisfying answer.
It’s both difficult and dangerous to be good. Being good gives us simplistic happiness, honesty of purpose etc. But it needs courage to remain good.
I have seen people who practice good going to jail, losing in relationship at workplace, money and health wise. Though not all of them, but many of the good suffer. So do many of the bad.
But the problem is both good and bad exist. And the fine things in life come to both of them irrespective of their purpose in life.
Picture this: A teenager like Ruchika who lost her mother as a kid was harassed by a senior police officer and saw her family being harassed for years. While the police officer who has got everything in life does this act and has woman, his wife, to protect him all the way.
How could one justify this situation? Nothing asking from the government or judiciary....asking God if such a situation exists. Then why?
Ruchika never had the option to enjoy life while this old man has lived his life to the fullest. Even if the case progresses against the alleged culprit and he’s convicted punished. How much harm will it do to him?

Ruchika’s story is just a case point there are many such instances where injustice is inflicted upon the good. And we have never found an answer why?

You know you are from Delhi when...

This stuff is sourced from a forward mail.
It's very apt while describing the cultural practices in Delhi. There are few descriptions we may not like but they are mostly true.


You know you are from Delhi when...
1. You drink only on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday to Sunday evenings. And try
not drinking on Tuesday.

2. Treating a friend means - Daaru Shaaru te kabbab shabaab.

3. Even in the most posh colonies, you hear, "Aaloo lelo !!!, Bhindi le lo !!!!
Pyaaz le lo !!!!, Tamatar le lo......"

4. And you hear women asking the vegetable vendor "Bhaiyaa dhaniya hari mirchi
nahi diya!" [Even with Half a kilo Carrot - Dhania & Hari Mirch is expected free
] ;-)

5. A place to meet is Mocha, (CCD), Barista, Hookah.

6. You use the word "setting" or "jugaad" at-least once a day.

7. You have not visited either of - Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Lotus Temple. It is
only for tourists, so Delhiites say.

8. You ride on the cycle rickshaw in NOIDA (more popularly known as NEODA) -
haggle over the price, but still pity rickshaw walla's condition and give him
what he asked.

9. You glare at people who call Gol Guppas as Pani Puri!

10. You always ask the vendor "Bhaiya yeh Gol-Guppe Aate ki hai ya Sooji ke?"
11. Schooling is best is Delhi not because of CBSE, but because you've had
school cancelled thrice due to cold in winters & summer vacations preponed due
to sudden increase heat in Summers and at least two Rainy Day off during
Monsoon.

12. You have been to a wedding at a Mehrauli farmhouse at least once.

13. You understand all important words in Punjabi & punjabi "helping
verbs" like teri m*******, teri b&&&&&&&... oye etc etc. Almost every Delhiite
understands Punjabi to an extent. PUNJABI unites everyone.

14. You call the waiter in the restaurant "boss" or "Pappey" & tack on "yaar"
"bhai" to almost every sentence.

15. You know that Pappay Da Dhaba or Kake Da Hotel has better butter chicken
than Taj. You've at least tried it once! And you see a BMW, a Porsche OR a
Mercedes parked outside it!

16. You describe practically every other person on the planet as "Vella".
('Idle' or Nikamma in Punjabi).

17. You see middle-aged Aunties wearing Gucci shades and holding LV bags having
Gol-Gappas in GK or Bhelpuri in South Ex along with Diet Coke !

18. You call every stranger 'Bhaiyya'.

19. You refer to East Delhi as 'Jamuna Paar'. Recite Nanak dukhiya sab sansar
par sabse dukiya Jamuna Paar.

20. You refer to AIIMS as Medical.

21. Pretty girls as Totta, Maal or Bamb (Punjabi for Bomb).

22. Aashiq mizaz boys as Majnu di Aulad !

23. You dont buy tickets for a music concert or cricket match, but try to use
political contacts... of the deputy secretary of the chief secretary of the
Minister of State for Khadi.

24. You overtake everyone from the wrong side and stare into his/her eyes while
doing so.

25. You have at least two cars and a motorbike at home.

26. And you have fought at least once every month with neighbors over parking...

27. You park your Car and take a Auto-rickshaw to Lajpat Nagar / Rajouri/ Kamla
Nagar/ Karol Bagh. But CP, you don't get parking space easily, yet you go always
in your own vehicle.

28. And then you say apni Kanvense (conveyance) howe na ta badi Kanvinyance
(convenience) hondi hai ji !!!!

29. You've hit 120 kmph at Nelson Mandela Marg and waited for midnight to do it.

30. You have bribed a traffic cop (Mama) at least once, every month.

31. You know that a farmhouse has nothing to do with cattle or farming. It is
luxurious hangout for whole night.

32. You use "contacts" (jugaad) for everything, from getting movie tickets to
restaurant bookings to play-school admissions.

33. You have had Anda parantha outside Vikram hotel and Bun Omlette at Dhaula
Kuan, Kulfi at Karol Bagh, Gol Gappe at India Gate, Dosa at Madras Hotel,
Chana/Kulcha at Scindia House and Chaat at UPSC.

34. Metro rail is your Pride but you travel in your Car.

36. You think EVERY South Indian comes from ' Madras ' and is a Madrasi.

37. You feel indicating which way you are going to turn your vehicle is an
information security leak.

38. You are a good driver coz you are correct in your guess of what the driver
in the front vehicle will do.

39. The only time you went to the Chidiya Ghar (Zoo) was on a school picnic.

40. You expect around 10 FM STATIONS in every city! Woho.!

41. DESPITE all the good and bad........You still Love Delhi...

42. You keep singing ..... Dilli hai Dil Walon ki..... Oye Balle Balle !!!

Noble piracy or guilty pleasure: The case of Ram and Bhagwanji

This morning a friend of mine asked me if I have watched 3 Idiots, the Hindi movie. I said yes on my computer using a pirated DVD borrowed from someone. She was aghast to discover this part of me. “Not you.” Never expected something like this from you, she said. I was rather confused realising how I was unknowingly acknowledging something so unlawful, almost criminal! I’m supposed to be the sensitive, morally responsible, law abiding, patriotic individual. Someone, who’s not even travelled a single day without ticket in the local trains, someone who has never dared to disrupt the discipline in his workplace, school or college, even if no one is watching.

Yet someone like me buys roadside cheap novels photocopied from the licensed book and pirated DVDs without any signs of doing anything wrong.

Is it a systemic problem in India that discounts piracy as something criminal though the law says so? May be? Am I embarrassed? Don’t know, but I have a logical reasoning why piracy is thriving without people noticing the criminal side as if it’s a genetic disorder.

Picture this: Ram Chander Tiwari, the sixth son of landless Pujari somewhere in eastern Uttar Pradesh. Ram is the most brilliant student in the local school but rarely goes to school thanks to the poverty that has forced him to work at the local Halwai, (sweet-meat maker). The sixteen-year-old manages to borrow some book or the other from the Halwai’s lousy son and manages to appear in class ten examinations. Comes out as a topper and easily gets admitted in the best college in Allahabad city. He toils hard even to pay his fees and travel expenses, which is less than 10 US dollars annually. In the meantime Ram’s father dies and three brothers leave for brick kilns and live on their own.

Now Ram has to earn for his family while helping her mother to get her two elder sisters married. Ram does very well again, joins medical and gets a scholarship, most of which he sends home while eating one time and not joining the hostel mess. Ram works as a salesman with a bookshop as well.

Now medical books are expensive. Ram with no money to spend on his food and clothes, goes to the book shop owner Bhagwanji, a generous man. Bhagwanji gets him photocopies of most expensive books and even provides coloured copies whenever they are needed to explain a medical case. So the books which would have cost 20,000 rupees come at 400 rupees, even that is bought by Ram’s friends who share it with him.

Ram struggles for almost a decade becomes a surgeon and later a civil servant. Even now he visits Bhagwanji, who also helped him in providing access to pirated IAS study material.

One morning Bhagwanji gets a heart stroke. Someone informs Ram, then the collector of the district. When Ram reaches the small local hospital he was greeted by the chief secretary of the state. “Sir, How come you are here?” The chief said guy I would not have been what I’m today had Bhagwanji not been there. Slowly in the crowd Ram discovered hoards of civil servants, doctors and scientists making a cue to show their presence to an ailing Bhagwanji.

Bhagwanji did piracy work for a righteous cause. He did the work of Bharat Nirman, which may be rated as good as the total contribution of India’s education ministry.

No doubt he cheated the authors, publishers and breached the law, but he made an underprivileged India reach the power corridors and write policy for the country.
May be we can call it ‘noble piracy’.

Everyone must not have solved the same dignified purpose with their piracy skills in India, but they did their bit to feed, enlighten and entertain an impoverished India.

Millions of Indians with whom money has not been kind also dream to study, wear, eat and entertain themselves. They can't pay the monopolistic giants of food, water, education and entertainment a fee for this.

The stale Dabeli infront of a MacDonald, contaminated flavoured water, pirated books and DVD keeps them abreast of a changing India. The one which they want to become a part of. May this bit of piracy keep help India to tick the unreachable 10 percent plus GDP growth?

This is an age where information is power and facilitator of equality the faster it spreads the better its for the country.

May be I can afford the spend 250 rupees for a three hour show of 3 Idiots, but not many like Ram Chander Tiwari. For me piracy is ‘guilty pleasure,’ for them it’s ‘Bhagwanji’s treasure.’